Content warning: human being hunted, no on page sex, characters are 18+

Subscribe now

^{Broke? Hit the no pledge button if asked for money. I'd rather you were enjoying my stories than worrying about money.}

End of part 1 recap

CHODIE'S POV

“Chew it for me, bunnikins.” Encouragement wrapped in sin

I try. My tongue has very little room to manoeuvre. Warm skin, thick bone, a feint taste of raw meat, probably dragon dinner residue from under his finger nails, mingle together. As I moisten and chew around fingers enough to swallow, the flavour reminds me of blood sausages and family. Bunnikins said with intent, reminds me of my loneliness.

I dribble. Crumb filled bubbles sit on my chin.

Heat flashes in his eyes, amber and violent, when I hollow my cheeks around his fingers trying to suck the crumbs from them.

“Good boy,” he says, scooping the dribble from my face and pushing it back into my mouth. This time his fingers move in and out for no reason except to be sucked. I wrap my tongue around them and give him a tongue tunnel to finger.

Next up, a piece of cheese. Same ritual. Along my lips, in and out, pressed on to the tongue with fingers staying for the chewing. And the sucking.

My thighs press together the moment I notice the Lord's own erection tenting his fine cloth. Precum stains my trousers into a cold, wet patch and he hasn't even lit the candle yet.

I keep my eyes on his so I don’t look down at the line of his cock. Jaysonne is three days downriver and I still need the money. That’s what I came here for. Only my mind is playing Mars mischief with me, and finding Jaysonne to declare my love for him has less appeal than it did an hour ago. I don't know what to do with that information.

End of part 1

Horny Horoscope Stories Scorpio parts 2 and 3

AERION'S POV

The lantern waits on the well wall like a sentry waiting for a change of watch. It lights first time when I cup my hand round the flame to protect it from the sea breeze. Next to it the sandglass is small. Ten minutes maximum. I turn it over and watch the first grains fall.

Then I straighten and watch him go.

White hair against the dusk, white against the dark line of the hedgerow, white against the sky when he clears the low rise and disappears into the woods on legs that already hurt and an empty belly bar the morsels I fed him.

Out in the open he knows how to run. Quick in his body in the way that some men are, shoulders back, natural gait. This evening he's hampered by the lead pole in his breeches and the ache in his core that's occupying his mind. A cruel smile hints at my mouth. I shouldn't feel smug about it, I should have ignored his aura and his ice blue eyes. But the pull was instant. One look and I wanted him, still want him, even if he wins the hunt, I'm going to want him. This could be a problem for me.

He's at full sprint, thinking it’ll give him a head start. It doesn't. He follows the lane like he knew where he was going, finding the woods from my instructions.

Around me the land readies for the night, yawning from the bustle of the day into the wind whipped silence of darkness. An owl hoots from the oak tree behind the manor house, bats flit from the Great Hall belfry, moths play around the lantern. The bell for Sext rang, it seems, a lifetime ago, and Vespers is already done as I watch the fading light and the pale shape of him getting lost in the trees. He looks ethereal, a ghost in a forest, a target by day and night. He'll know this. Like he knows I want him. Alas, tis good they take a bit of knowledge into the run. Sharpens their decision making.

I watch until the pines take him, then I turn and go back inside.

The hall is warmer with the doors shut. Old Boreus blows mean after dusk, brings too many storms when angered and not enough rain when he's happy. The land suffers with rot and the commoners starve because of it. Farming and fishing, all pointless. Death by wasted labour or death by shipwreck. I do what I can to supply the village but few will help me. Superstition and fear keeps them away. Only the desperate come for the hunt, and their losses taste much sweeter.

Runt has flown up in the rafters, done with the meat, one red eye half-open watching as I walk by. Sometimes I regret rescuing him. Been hand feeding him for nigh on a year and he's still not ready to kill for himself. And the size of him! He's young enough to break for riding, but he's having problems leaving the tit, so to speak. Cinder hasn’t moved from the grotesque. At least her tail is down. The Hare-walker spooked her. Like he did me.

The old word comes easy to my brain. We're not supposed to speak it aloud so it sits in my mouth and I leave it there. Hare-walker. Never had one of those on my land before. Will it change anything? Who knows? I'm not a superstitious man but he could be an omen. Marked humans often are.

Neither of them make a sound as I pass.

°°°°°°°°°

The small chapel is my changing room. What I have on is perfect for running, but I don't run. I don't need to. I know these lands as well as I know the prayers. The land learned through the seasons and the words by rote and repetition. Neither one asked permission. Both have given me a reason to rise at dawn every day. But only one of them has never lied to me.

I take the Dreadrobe from the chest and hold it up to the skull and antlers. This is deliberate. While the hall is quiet and outside somewhere in the fields the quarry is running and making decisions about furrows and locked gates, I want my God to see a garment the church would call vanity at best and would call something far worse if it understood what it means to me.

The hunt is the only place where my desires fit. A man running my ground, knowing he could be part of the wanting tonight if he's caught. That's not how a desire gets named. They wouldn't dare admit to losing. No one has to confess or forgive anything. Only rumour will reach the Church.

Thank the stars today is Friday. The priests are quieter today because it's market day. No pulpit banging or witch hunting. Just another fish supper—if the village has been blessed—and early to bed. For me though, folk belief hails Friday as Dies Veneris, sacred to Venus—the goddess of love and desire, which, is rather fitting for tonight's hunt.

But Sundays, they're for the other God. The one they say performs miracles. The one that says my desire is contrary to the natural order. The one where god-sanctioned wars have built a kingdom on blood and a market in guilt, where bodies have been sacrificed for empty causes long before they began worrying where a man put his cock. And Sundays are for confession. All these years and no one has confessed to seeing the robe.

I think that's because the priest here taught the scripture well when I was a boy, and he continues to do so. He made sure I knew I would be a man who would never be allowed to want what I want. But the wanting has never left and his words turned sour when I learned what happens in the rooms behind the altar, when boys are called to ‘service’ and priests lift their alb.

It taught me that the sin is not in the act, being the wrong man is. Now I have my own vestments. My own hour. My own dark. The robe is my protection from a God that hates me and service to one that never looks away.

A small scorpion inside the skull crawls out of one eye socket and returns to its nest through the other. A sure sign the pagan gods are approving this evening’s sport. I know I risk the flog and the damnation both. The truth of it bites.

The black and red robe is thick and elaborate. Heavy to handle, red silk lined. It takes a few minutes to dress. I don’t bother with any braies, set the chains upon my chest, still not concerned by the ten minute sandglass that may have run dry. I could have given him a thirty minute sandglass and beat him to the kissing post before he would have cleared the first field.

The robe fastens easily and I stand in the dark until the habit of the hunt feels normal, then I walk back out into the night.

°°°°°°°°°°

Boreas greets me with his usual cold kiss to the face and icy fingers dragging through the robe. The sandglass has done its turn and the moon is starting to rise. I leave the lantern behind.

While I walk I let myself think about the boy properly. The Hare-walker. The stories about what moves between one world and the next, between the earth and moon, between death and the heavens. His legend doesn't belong cleanly to any. I have run these hunts for many years. Men come, I catch them or I don’t, I pay what is owed, they leave. I have never seen one wearing the old mark. I don’t know what it means. I only know that my cock is still hard under the robe from the way he sucked the crumbs off my fingers like he couldn’t help it.

The lane I take at a hedge-checking pace, that is to say, a normal stroll. There is nothing to see, yet. I knew he'd be long over the rise and through the woods, more than likely finding the river and following it, looking for a bridge in the dark. But I wasn’t walking to see. My pace is slow because this is how the hunt begins. The patience is the whole of it. Any man can want. But want without the rush to the finish line is like having a lump of slow burning peat stuck in your core. There's heat and anticipation and an inner awareness that the fire must not go out.

For a hunt this takes knowledge, takes knowing the ground by every soft spot and pebble, every field and furrow, every fallen tree and boken fence, until the certainty of a win fuses your balls to your spine and the only thing left to do is let the ache guide you.

At the rise I lengthen my stride. The first field opens below, freshly cut and showing pale stubble in the light from the waxing gibbous Moon. The wind picks at the chaff spinning it in micro whirlwinds, sending it into hair and eyes. I see him on the bridge, a lonely silhouette caped in aura, and heat spirals through my ribcage like a stairway to heaven.

He’s moving fast enough, though there's a tension in his body that seems to understand his goal might be further from the post than he thought. And he’s limping, taken an injury already. My ears fill with the sound of my own blood pumping.

I start leaking before I reach the bottom of the rise.

End of part 2

Part 3

CHODIE'S POV

The wood is easy to find and the trees close up faster than I thought they would. Moon’s rising but it’s doing fuck all once I’m under the pines. Every trunk and sod of earth blur into sameness and strange noises. Black rats scuttle about, the wind bends boughs until they creak like old bones, a badger crosses my path and lumbers into the bracken complaining about my presence. I walk circles, I swear. Frustration sweats my brow and fear nips at my heels. The sandglass must be half empty by now and I'm literally still at the edge of the manor house gardens.

I shiver.

The wind is cold, my stomach is still empty, and the wet patch on my breeches refuses to dry. To top it off I know I can't hide. People have told me the dark is my enemy. The white of my hair is enough of a beacon without the paleness of my skin, and in this woodland I must look like a lost revenant searching for his graveyard home.

I kick a fallen tree when it nearly trips me up.

Just as I'm about to sit down and cry like a baby, a moonbeam shines through the trees and reveals a path, one used by horse and cart judging by the deep tracks. A hare runs it, white underside of its tail flashing in the dark as good as the fire beacons. It stops, waiting for me to follow. I know it. Like I know they call me the Hare-walker when they think I'm out of earshot. Haven't seen it since I was small and frightened of everything and it would sit with me until I calmed.

I follow the white furry dot through the dark, stumbling over rocks and twisted tree roots, until the trees clear. A field of wheat spreads out before me, pale, like me, a never ending blanket of shorn stubble and busy field mice. So this then, is my next obstacle to cross.

The hare disappears thinking I won’t need help for the rest of the run. I should be reassured by it's optimism. I don't. Looking behind me, I don’t see any human shaped movement, and head for the fence. I let the stars guide me.

The rise hides the true size of the field. The first of three, I believe. My feet are blistered and I’m not even half way along this one when a feint pull in my side starts. I try to ignore it.

Away from the woods I’m easier to spot. Moonbeams on my back are lighting me up like I might as well be carrying a lantern. I stop. Just once. Listen for the flap of leathery wings and the tick of a freak sized scorpion. Nothing. That’s worse. My chest tightens. He could be anywhere on this land right now and still be able to see me.

A brook comes out of nowhere and I hit the bank wrong, foot goes in to the knee, boot fills with cold shit-water and silt. I come up plastered in it. Mud on my hands, my chest, my face. I think about painting myself in the stuff, like a mud disguise. But it smells like death and dog’s breath, and while the prize money would give me a comfy life, the idea of dying from poisoned mud before I could enjoy it makes me forget the idea.

I grab a tree root to haul me up and my breeches catch on something that feels like a rock. I don’t stop to look and the cloth up the side of my thigh rips. I’m so cold I don’t feel the gash at first, then blood gushes down my leg warm and viscous. A sharp stab of pain follows like an afterthought. Fuck. Jaysonne’s name tries to fight its way through the agony but it disappears into the fog Lord Aerion’s fingers have made of my mind. A fog I know I can't outrun. I try anyway. I get up, wipe the tears and mud from my face and limp on the best I can.

Every stride after that pulls at it. I can feel the wound opening and closing like I feel my own lips opening to fill my aching lungs. Blood runs thick and fast each time. I’m leaving a fucking trail that any animal can track.

Suddenly a cloud covers the moon and I feel utterly lost. I know I’ve found a brook he didn’t mention. He said a river, I’m sure. My brain keeps repeating what to do, what to do, instead of trying to find the answers. I think of the field and the other two he said I had to run. Would he have lied to me? Possibly. I press my palm to the gash like that’ll help and it just comes away red.

Red. The word sits in my head, a constant companion to determination. I start moving again, deciding to follow the brook rather than stay in the field. The reeds and bush growth could be useful. Limping now, bleeding and muddy and beginning to doubt myself, when the brook widens into something I can actually call a river. There’s a low bridge, wooden, half-rotted in places, not suitable for horse and cart but I take it anyway because the water looks deeper here and I already have one boot full of silt. Planks complain under me. Mud and blood drip through the gaps. Halfway across the hair on my neck lifts.

I feel him.

From somewhere behind me, I know he’s watching me hobble over the water. My stomach drops. At the same time my cock gives an excited kick. The perverseness of my body doesn't go unnoticed. I ask Woden to guide me, to protect me from this weakness.

Woden laughs at me. The wind lulls, the clouds vanish. I have gone from silhouette to white beacon in a matter of moments. Lord Aerion will notice the injury slowing me down and immediately think he's won.

I don’t turn around. I stand up straighter, breathe deeply, lengthen what’s left of my stride, and get off the bridge and into the nearest bunch of reeds as fast as the leg will let me.

His eyes stay on me the whole way.

Underneath the mud, blood and fear, I still feel his fingers in my mouth, taste the bread and cheese and whatever was under his nails. I opened my mouth for him like he owned me, and I liked it. My ears echo with his words: Bunnikins, and little white rabbit. My vision still sees the way he watched my mouth, and the shape of him in those black trousers. I was hard for him then and I’m hard for him now.

Knowing all of this hasn't changed my reasons for being here: Jaysonne. Money. Small holding. Boat fare. I say the names in my head like a mantra. They matter.

But the taste of his skin on my tongue won't leave my mouth.

Continued in part 4

Subscribe now

Note from Polli: Thanks for reading. This story is Human written. Unlike AI written fiction, hours of dedication goes into planning and writing a story like this. At the moment my work is FREE to read. The only payment I would like is if you could take the time to press the restack button at the bottom of this page. This helps me reach a wider audience and tells the algorithm I am worthy of attention. Thanks in advance. Polli 🫶

© polli@izonme 2026. All rights reserved.

Wishing all the Scorpios around the world a very happy birthday season! May your year be full of love, success, and unforgettable moments.🥳

Subscribe now

^{If you get asked to pledge remember you can hit the no thanks button. I want you here, not worrying about money. Pay me in restacks.🫶}

Horny Horoscopes 🔞🏳️‍🌈

Scorpio part 1

CHODIE’S POV

The road from Dreadmouth is a hill. An old stone road built by civilisations before us, built to carry soldiers and carts and equipment to pointless wars and certain deaths. My shoes, hand-me-downs from older siblings lost to the pox, aren’t enough to keep the cold from my toes or the uneven stones from my soles. My legs ache from the travelling and my stomach complains bitterly about its lack of sustenance in the last twenty-four hours. Vomiting the little food I did have inside me overboard hasn’t helped the situation. I can only hope that the Lord has enough grace to offer bread and wine before the hunt begins.

Once the river falls behind me and I can no longer hear the hum of the harbour, or the squawk of crows fighting over rotten scraps, the road narrows.

I listened to three different stories today, all before I disembarked the sad excuse for a passenger boat that brought me here. None of them agree. One says the promise of enough money for a small homestead is a false one, that no one has ever lived to claim it. Another regaled stories of naked rituals and moon magick, tombstone sacrifices and lunar orgies. The third man spoke sense. He said the coins come only if a man is taken and that the lord does not always speak once the candle is lit.

I hope the third man is true. My pockets are light. Scratch that, my pockets are empty. The passage I need is still three days downriver if I can pay for it. This is the only reason I keep walking.

The silver gates of the estate are polished enough to mirror pieces of the gloomy landscape around the manor: wizened trees desperately holding on to bits of foliage, hedgerows full of rotting berries, earth scraped bare by what looks like giant claws.

In the late afternoon sun the strange, ornate magnificence beyond the gate looks like a mirage. Healthy fruit trees line my path, vegetable patches bursting with seasonal crops bulge in the earth waiting to be harvested, green herbs sit prettily in black pots near sweet smelling lavender bushes.

Lord Aerion’s land might well be the same dead ilk as the villagers, but somehow his land is blessed with productivity. I wonder who tends the land, who gets to benefit from so much food. In Dreadmouth town, the food carts were sparsely laden and over priced.

The Manor is huge, regal, dark wood framed, no different to others I've seen on my travels, except standing further down the track is the most ostentatious stone building I have ever seen. Cathedral tall, stones carved with the labours of the months, serpents and dragons and scorpions decorate the weathered windowless walls, random zodiac signs sit under gargoyle feet. A giant green man smiles a blessing over the entrance. It's both beautiful and nightmarish at once.

Something large shifts on the roof and takes flight. Its shadow descends at the far end of the Great Hall. I don’t look up for long and quicken my step, eyes focused on the massive, arched oak doors that are unlatched and ajar.

Inside the air changes. Cooler, more oppressive. Musty, damp stone and rat’s piss. Sconces burn and wax candles placed on ledges are the only source of lighting. Vaults run the length of the hall. Columns stand at intervals, some along the walls, others provide support for the roof. Some of the columns are plain, some carved into grotesque shapes. The place is enormous.

The ceiling is just as strange as the ground level. Carved stone and rafters, probably home to bats and birds and huge spiders, continue the theme from outside. More zodiac signs, corn knots, moons and spirals are hard to make out clearly in the dim light, but the basic shapes can be seen by squinting.

Twenty paces away a man feeds a black dragon. By hand. Raw meat by the sounds of the disgusting noises the scaly beast is making. He holds a red, grisly lump out to the creature who snatches it away like it's starving.

“Runt,” the man says, firmly. “Enough.”

The dragon’s head lowers. One red eye catches the light and directs itself at me. It doesn’t blink. I wonder if it's evaluating how many meals I’d make. The man sets the bucket down and turns.

He’s bare to the waist, brown skin shining like polished leather. It could be sweat but it's too even, too all over his body. Oil? Possibly. Why? I've no idea, nor do I know how the nobility spend their money, or the reasons they would want beauty treatments in the first place. Us commoners don't have enough coin for bread to worry about vanity.

He's broad through the chest and shoulders, the sort of toned that comes from hard work. Movement ripples on him, gazelle like and graceful.

Large brown eyes, with, I might add, some long and sexy eyelashes, stare at me like I’m a suprise, or something worth studying. Which I am. Both.

His fine boned face doesn't give anything away. But he's curious. Of course he is. Not many albinos in Dreadmouth. Not many albinos in our world. Fact.

“So you're here for a hunt?” He wipes the blood from his hands with a rag. Exotic features relaxing now he's got over the shock of me.

And handsome? That he is. Not like a moor. Like a Mayan prince, but I don't think they owned dragons.

“Yes, sure. I'd heard you would exchange coin for a lad who could win your challenge.”

He moves closer. Well-cut black trousers hug a perfect rounded ass and cling to what looks like firm thighs. A sword is belted to his waist, dripping blood through the scabbard onto the stone floor. With movement I can make out a tattoo on his lower back—a scorpion with a raised tail, done by a precise hand.

To my right something makes a clicking noise. One of the grotesques has a ledge where the stone was left unfinished. On it sits a giant scorpion, body the colour of fresh tar, tail raised. At a guess I'd say it’s as long as my arm. I want to run but can't afford to.

Dreadmere Hall couldn't have anything ordinary could it? I mean, a black dragon the size of a shire horse and a giant scorpion. Who'd have thought?

The scorpion shifts. The sound is a dry drag and more little clicks. I step back automatically on alert. I'm trying hard to pretend I don't care about the animals no one mentioned, but, by the love of Christ, that scorpion must have enough venom in it to kill the entire village. I check how many steps it will be to the door and my escape.

“Cinder.” He orders. “Down.”

The scorpion takes her time, slowly lowering her tail while she decides to obey. Relief floods me. I sigh and remain where I am. I'm hungry and thirsty and broke. Three good reasons to pretend I'm brave.

She settles.

He doesn’t look at her again.

“I presume you heard the terms from others,” he says. Same bored tone he might use when tending his livestock, “A small sandglass. One turn only. Then you’re my…prey. The kissing post is at the far north fence.”

I give him a blank look. How the fuck would I know where that is. He reads me loud and clear.

“The one six furlongs up the lane then left through the woods until you find the brook. Follow the fields along the coastal cliffs until you find it.”

I nod like I understand, but I don't

The dragon helps itself to more meat from the bucket. It chomps and chams, slurps and spits.

“Hand on it before I can take you and you leave with the money promised. If I catch you short, only two pennies are yours after I have the rest of the night. One word stops it all. Red.”

Red,” I repeat.

“A simple word. Easy to remember.”

I nod. He doesn’t say what ‘the rest of the night entails’ but something stirs in my gut and my cock thickens. There are rumours, though none solid, that the Lord has an appetite that goes against the norm. An appetite that is frowned on by church and gentry alike. The three from earlier never mentioned it. That was polite conversation on a crowded boat. In the taverns and bawdy houses beyond Dreadmouth the people tell a different tale.

The dragon burps. Cinder is still on her ledge. The tattoo is visible again when he half-turns to set his dirty rag on a table. No coin is offered now. Nothing is placed in my hand.

I should ask but I don't. I look at the trestle tables. No food or wine, not even fruit from the orchard.

“Jaysonne,” I sigh, and the name is out before I know why. He's in my thoughts. I'm doing this because I need money, but also because I want to find Jaysonne. He stole my virginity and kept my heart. There hasn't been a day since where he's not in my head.

My stomach rumbles. Loud enough the dragon stops chewing. Lord Aerion grins. My supposedly stolen heart flip flops. The blood thickening me inside my breeches moves faster and a wicked blush heats my face.

You're hungry.” It's a statement. An obvious one. I don't offer a reply. Another gurgling grumble echoes in the vast space and Lord Aerion reaches for a leather bag half hidden under one of the trestle tables. Inside is some slices of bread and a chunk of cheese. He doesn't offer it to me, instead he steps close, breaks a piece of bread from a slice and pushes against my mouth.

“Open up, little white rabbit.”

Now understand this. I'm starving hungry. I'm about to do a God knows how long run with only moonlight as a guide. I need sustenance. Besides, when else will I get the chance for a hot Lord to feed me. The little white rabbit? Albino boy being hunted. Yeah, I can understand the equation. And I know I shouldn't and I know exactly what this is. Does he want to fuck me? Possibly, I am a curiosity after all. But right now he's made me hard and I'm pretty sure he knows this, knows it's going to slow me down.

I open anyway.

He rubs the soft bread over my bottom lip, then pushes it into my mouth, pulling it back out when I go to bite.

“Uh, uh, slowly. Stay your hunger. It will be sated. But you don't want cramps when you're running, do you?”

The bread teases my lip again. This time I don't move. Only when he's happy I'm not going to snatch like the dragon, he places the bread on my tongue, two long fingers pressing it down. Dark eyes watch my face, stare at my mouth, see the saliva pooling.

The fingers stay.

“Chew it for me, bunnikins.” Encouragement wrapped in sin

I try. My tongue has very little room to manoeuvre. Warm skin, thick bone, a feint taste of raw meat, probably dragon dinner residue from under his finger nails, mingle together. As I moisten and chew around fingers enough to swallow, the flavour reminds me of blood sausages and family. Bunnikins said with intent, reminds me of my loneliness.

I dribble. Crumb filled bubbles sit on my chin.

Heat flashes in his eyes, amber and violent, when I hollow my cheeks around his fingers trying to suck the crumbs from them.

“Good boy,” he says, scooping the dribble from my face and pushing it back into my mouth. This time his fingers move in and out for no reason except to be sucked. I wrap my tongue around them and give him a tongue tunnel to finger.

Next up, a piece of cheese. Same ritual. Along my lips, in and out, pressed on to the tongue with fingers staying for the chewing. And the sucking.

My thighs press together the moment I notice the Lord's own erection tenting his fine cloth. Precum stains my trousers into a cold, wet patch and he hasn't even lit the lantern yet.

I keep my eyes on his so I don’t look down at the line of his cock. Jaysonne is three days downriver and I still need the money. That’s what I came here for. Only my mind is playing Mars mischief with me, and finding Jaysonne to declare my love for him has less appeal than it did an hour ago. I don't know what to do with that information.

End of part 1

Part 2 available Tuesday 3rd November

Subscribe now

Share Polli 🏳️‍🌈👁️🏳️‍🌈

Note from Polli: Thanks for reading. This story is Human written. Unlike AI written fiction, hours of dedication goes into planning and writing a story like this. At the moment my work is FREE to read. The only payment I would like is if you could take the time to press the restack button at the bottom of this page. This helps me reach a wider audience and tells the algorithm I am worthy of attention. Thanks in advance. Polli 🫶

© polli@izonme 2026. All rights reserve

Content warning 🏳️‍🌈🔞 NSFW MMM Romance Erotica Adult Fiction

Halloween Special part 2 of 2

Read part one here

End of Part 1 recap

Later,” he says.

One word. I understand it. The whole night is in it. Cumming in Paul’s mum’s kitchen is not on the cards right now. The buzz and the ache are mine to bear until they see fit to change it.

Behind me Paul is a zip and a belt, buckle clinking closed, footsteps that return to pick up the box of fixings

Paul puts a bottle of water in my hand. When I look up he’s almost ordinary again. Almost. His eyes drop, once, to where I’m still hard.

He picks up his drill.

I pull up the useless sweatpants and tie the waistband as tight as I can. My knees hurt. My hole aches. Every time I shift, I feel where Paul was.

Outside, the late autumn sun keeps pushing through the kitchen window promising a dry evening for the Halloween festivities. We haven’t finalised what we’re doing yet. I know it’s a pint and some food at the local pub. After I’ve no idea, but whatever it is I get the feeling Rick has already decided for us.

I watch him pick up his level.

I pick up my screwdriver and poke my head back in the cupboard.

Over Time Halloween Special 🔞🏳️‍🌈

Over Sensitive Part 2 of 2

PAUL POV

Tyler has been wound up since our little ‘tea break.’ Edging Tyler is like blowing up a balloon, you have to keep him at the right tension or he’ll just pop. He’s close to popping today.

He doesn’t know I know how bad it is. He thinks he’s hiding it by staying quiet. But when he’s carrying something unresolved, his body language changes. Albeit it a problem with his brother, Ren, or when Rick and I cage him. His whole frame now looks like he’s wearing a rusty suit of armour. He’s stiff in the shoulders and wary in his stride. Nothing like the usual relaxed lad who’s quick to share a joke or happy to sprawl on a sofa.

I’ve been watching him all evening. The way he can’t sit still while watching the telly. The way he does those deep sighs every now and then, and that nervous bouncing leg he does when he’s sitting down.

Rick, who’s buttoning his freshly ironed shirt, catches my eye over Tyler’s head and says nothing. He doesn’t have to

Later, Rick had said.

Later is now.

---

We don’t plan a Halloween night out, but we need a beer or two after our day working hard. Halloween hits us in the face the minute we open the door—Kemptown doing what Kemptown does on any Saturday night, but with decoration. The street is heaving. Witches, zombies, sexy kittens, vampire wait staff. I even spy a massive inflatable pumpkin wrapped around some guy who has to waddle to move. Music blasts out of every open door. Laughter and squeals, and the smell of street food fights the sea air for space

Tyler stops on the step and looks at the festivities like he’s just seen Father Christmas delivering presents on a random Thursday in July, and he finds it genuinely wonderful.

Six weeks and I’m still swallowing the three little words I want to say to him. I think they were there from day one, but the boy’s young and Rick and I are his firsts. He needs time to grow into himself so he can decide where his life is destined, and who should share it with him. We’ve made it our mission to help him.

Rick puts a hand briefly at the back of his neck. Tyler tips his head back slightly without thinking. That small lean in says everything.

The local pub is a ten minute walk away, past carefully carved pumpkins, kids trick or treating, and shops with windows filled with fake spiders and monsters and bloodstained posters. Kemptown sure knows how to celebrate.

I buy the first round.

---

We get swept up by a parade somewhere around nine. No costumes, no plan, just three men in jackets, a few pints in on a pub crawl, being absorbed into something loud that bustles along damp streets like a giant black and orange centipede. We’ve no idea where we're being ushered to, but the beer has made us mellow and the party vibe is fun.

Tyler’s clutching a plastic pint of lager laughing at something Rick said, and in the orange Halloween hue he looks like a teenager. Though the man he was six weeks ago hasn't really gone. There's a difference between a man who's accepted what he is, and a man who knows what he wants. Tyler's nailed the first one. The second one is going to take longer. Hopefully not too long after tonight.

Rick is watching him laugh with a look that bursts with affection. He's old enough to be Tyler's dad and fearless enough to give no fucks about what people think. He's got it bad for our boy, that's for sure. But like me the words are unspoken. We want him to live a little first.

I see the next pub, could be a club, when we turn into the side street.

Small. No sign above the doors worth reading. Just a red neon and a gathering of men which the doorman is trying to get into an orderly queue. You know what sort of place I mean, right? Yeah, the sort that doesn't advertise, that charges you fifty quid to get in and waters the beer down so you can't get pissed even if you wanted to. It also doesn't have an opinion on what takes place inside. Judging by the amount of guys waiting outside my guess would be on, private rooms, secluded booths, a live sex lounge, maybe a small dancefloor for waiting or baiting.

I don't say anything.

The the doors swing open just as the crowd pushes us past it. I slow my pace enough for Rick to know I'm up to something. He checks his pace to match mine. Tyler, caught up in the excitement, takes a few more steps before he realises we've stopped.

"What?" Tyler asks.

"Drink," I say, and nod toward the door.

°°°°°°°°

Inside it's just a bar. Mirrored backdrop, long, dark wood bar top, optics and spirit bottles reflecting the intimate lighting. It's nothing garish or as big as I expected. Still cost a small fortune to get in though. It's low key, almost insignificant. A few men stand at the bar talking quietly or just drinking alone. Background music isn't loud, nor is it anything remarkable. And, thank God, not the eighties, which Rick will listen non stop. If you didn't already know what sort of place this was, you'd be happy having a couple of drinks and moving on unaware of it's secrets.

Tyler hasn't figured it out yet.

Rick orders a round. I pick up my pint and watch Tyler over my glass. He's looking around with that open curiosity he has, clocking his surroundings, face scrunching up when he's thinking about things. I see the moment his brain starts to put two and two together. The ratio. The shy unease among some of the drinkers. Men not quite touching but thinking about it. He looks at the bar, looks at the men, looks at the large black door at the back with the reddish light and slight thumping promise of loud music behind it. Notes the difference between here and there and thinks about what it could mean.

He looks at me.

I look back and don't give him anything.

He looks at Rick.

Rick takes a drink.

Tyler turns back to the door and eventually works it out on his own, which is exactly how I wanted it. His face does several things in the space of about four seconds. Surprise. Recalibration. Understanding. All ending in a teeth showing smile.

He picks up his glass. Takes a drink. Puts it down.

Doesn't say anything.

That's my boy.

°°°°°°°°°°

He goes through the door because he wants to. I want that said clearly. Nobody suggests it. And it's certainly not forced. He knows what goes down between Rick and I is open and honest. He's part of us now in the same way Rick and I are part of each other. Yes, we want something more permanent with the boy, but it won't stop us finding enjoyment in other moments. Sex will never be the glue that binds us when we have love and desire on our side. And as long as it's practiced safely and consensually where's the harm in enjoying it. He's had six weeks to learn this about us. He's not run away yet.

I finish my drink and Rick finishes his. I move toward the back and Rick follows and Tyler is a half-step behind because Tyler follows Rick the way night follows day.

The Darkroom is red. What lighting exists is whore-house red, dark enough to disguise features and skin tone, light enough to show shadows and shapes. In one corner it pulses. There's enough information in the first glimpse inside that you can't mistake what's going on. Bodies, half undressed and naked, moving around the group or waiting on the outskirts to find someone. Others already busy are caught in the shadows like something from a pornographic flickbook. And the smell. Always the same. Sweat and heat, the flavours of lube, old disinfectant. Music, always loud, always reminding me of the age gap between me and modernity.

We look woefully over dressed compared to some. But Rick doesn't trust the venue, so he refused their offer. Besides it wasn't like you were getting a proper locker like in some venues. Tyler and I agreed with him, and now we're standing here looking a bit out of place, but at least our wallets and phones are safe.

Tyler stops with us just inside the door. I can feel him taking in the scene, expression not dissimilar to opening Suki’s front door and looking in wonder at the Halloween festivities. This is good. At least he's not panicking.

Rick's hand goes briefly to the small of his back. Just for a reassuring second. He relaxes. Understanding lights his eyes, a filthy smile curves his lips.

I relax.

The man who approaches Tyler first is older than him by at least fifteen years. He’s a bit of a bear. Facially, hair neatly trimmed, but his naked chest is hairy, hairier than Rick by miles. A thick leather harness decorates him with meaning. Confident, fashionable, open to play. Yeah, he looks like a regular. He doesn't grab. He just touches Tyler's arm and looks at him.

Tyler turns and finds me in the dark. There's a million questions written all over his face that he wants me to answer.

I give him nothing. Just look at him. Steady.

Your call, Ty.

He turns back.

He says yes to the man with his body before he says anything else. Just a small shift of weight and slight nod of his head is all it takes for me to feel something settle in my chest that surprises me. Pride? Perhaps. But it feels bigger than that, and quieter. I look at Rick. He's staring into the room pretending not to notice.

Rick's hand drops. He's spotted someone he wants to play with.

Tyler and the bear are already moving to a quieter corner.

I let them go excited that I have two of them to feed my compersion tonight. I'll need a willing mouth while I watch. A lonely looking twink catches my eye.

°°°°°°°°

TYLER POV

I'm fine. I need to say that out loud. I'm fine and I'm going to do this because I want to. Earlier Rick had said “Later” like he had already planned this, or at the very least, something like this. Never expected a Darkroom though. And if I had I’d never have thought I'd attract someone so quickly.

He's handsome. Older than me. That shouldn't surprise anyone. A big guy, broader than Rick, but with less beard. Yeah, the facial hair is close shaved, as is his head. Buzz cut, army vibes. But the rest of him is a mass of dark fur, more in some places than others. Muscles that must cost a fortune to maintain, but I'm not complaining. His chest is like Ricks, a mat, but unlike Rick he has dark hair up his arms and over his shoulders, giving him a bear like quality.

Like others in here he's wearing a leather harness. Like everyone in here I'm hard. The edging from the kitchen episode, and right now witnessing the live sex show this room is has sent my hormones on a one way hunt for release. The zip in the guy's jeans is undone. He's cut and hard and an acceptable size. More dark hair curls out from the zip, poodle pom pom style.

My cock rubs against my zipper as he guides me to a quieter space, his hand stays on my arm a second longer than necessary before sliding to my waist. I'm sure this isn't usual etiquette, maybe he can sense this is a first for me, I don't know, but he's definitely a man with manners. He looks at me, checking in that I'm still in agreement. I gravitate toward him, not moving in for a kiss, no, I know I wouldn't want that. I smile and lean my head to one side like I'm asking a question.

He waits until I understand his silence. I smile almost coquettishly. I don't usually flirt but, fuck, this place is bringing the wild out of me. That, it seems, is enough. He pushes me against the wall and opens my jeans with one hand. Again he stops and waits a couple of seconds for me to protest.

I don't.

Read more

*Content warning - this is erotica. NSFW ADULT FICTION There will be extended scenes of on page celestial sex between 2 consentin…

Read more

*Content warning - this is erotica. NSFW ADULT FICTION There will be extended scenes of on page celestial sex between 2 consenting adult males. Please do not read if sex or anything celestial this offends you.😂

Want to catch up with the series? Subscribe for free

Subscribe now

Horny Horoscope ADULT Stories

Libra Final Part 5

Recap end of Libra part 4

When I finally let him breathe I keep my forehead pressed to his, both of us aware of our naked bodies pressing together, cocks kissing, thighs rubbing, the desire twisting up our spines like Lantern vine.

“Hands on the marble,” I pant, taking him by the shoulders and turning him back to face the stars. He finds the nearest pillar, arms automatically lifting into position.

“That’s right. Above your head.”

I trail one finger over his pulsing shoulder blades and tap his feet to spread his legs. The fine muscles on his back ripple and glow in the ethereal light like a sand-duned desert at dawn. I've never wanted to play in an oasis as much as I do right now.

“Keep your hands and feet where I've put them. If anything is too much you say stop and I stop.

“Fuck… Roxy… there's no way I'm going to say stop.”

“You still get to.”

I bite the scrape on his collarbone, then again under his ear. I lick one scar, taste the copper and sugar, swallow the burnt flavour like the life-saving drink it is. He whimpers, like he's moaning morse code, sending the message loud and clear to Hevanna.

“Now do as you’re damn well told.”

Libra Final Part 5

The whimper becomes a full blown moan, a feral noise anguished enough to be competition for Zephyr’s guilty cries. He starts to twist, expecting me to give him my mouth. But I have a other ideas. I catch his hip with one hand and turn him back to the marble, stinging his ass with one well-aimed flick of my hand.

He stills. The sting blooms pink across one pale cheek. I leave my hand there, soothing the bite of it, then slide both palms up the long muscles of his back until my thumbs are on the bumpy skin.

The scars are, as usual, warmer than the rest of him. I’ve read the Concordance of Hevanna and the Book of Wings, both claim residual flight-tissue can stay sensitive. The old lectures called it Wingwake. In most fallen angels the loss fades into a lifetime of ache and surface-level arousal. This is what I hoped for Cav, and, at first, I thought that's what he had—that little extra. For him it would be a bit like wearing a never ending stash of bottled Marsmist poppers to enhance his sex life.

But Cav has to be different.

His body, groomed and practiced in the ways of the flesh, had, it seems, achieved what no angel was meant to survive. It has taken those twin architectures of light and bone and turned the remnants of latticed muscle and nerves inward. The sockets of his vanes denied the sky, are now learning how not to die. They're actually redirecting their magic elsewhere.

I test the theory. I touch them and they answer immediately, in the way a wing once answered the sky, unfurling, ready for action.

His back arches.

I do it again, pressing my thumb deep into the ridges. The feather nerves I've awakened translate that same thumb pressure into the instinct that once drove him upward. His hips buck into air. His head rolls. He wants more, and, as with flight, he wants to go higher. More importantly, he’ll want to repeat it time and again.

His body tries to twist out of my hold. Sweat forms on his collarbone not far from the scrape I’ve made worse with a bite.

Fuck, Roxy… damn… fuck, sir… yes.”

I let him curse me, let him take the moment as his. By the way his cock puddles the marble I know he's not in pain.

By the Gods, I think I'm right. The feather nerves I've awakened translate that same thumb pressure into the instinct that once drove him upward. His hips buck into air. His head rolls. He wants more, and, as with flight, he wants to go higher. More importantly, he’ll want to repeat it time and again.

I’d go so far as to say, the sensation doesn’t stay local either. It unspools down his spine like unmanned space debris, smoke and fire thickening his cock, pretending the main tool is a mere afterthought. The real demand throbs a ragged tune on his shoulder blades, living off of celestial sorcery and anger and feeding it back to his cock. Seems I was right after all, the ruined flesh is tormented because it has no way left to lift him.

So here’s what needs updating in the Concordance. The rush he once got from flight has been transmuted into something far more carnal than before. It’s learning new survival skills by reversing into the body, seeking other forms of pleasure and treating the scars as the true seat of wanting.

By the rings of Saturn! This boy won't be carrying poppers on his back, he'll be carrying a lifetime’s worth of mind blowing Siriuscaine.

I marvel at my initial stupidity. Then I lean in and put my mouth on the gnarled flesh. When I lick the length of it he arches so hard his chest leaves the stone and the curve of his back catches the fading aurora rainbow. For a tick in time he's a kaleidoscope, a cascade of colour so bold it will be imprinted on my mind forever.

I lick my lips. Metal and bitter caramel flood my tongue. The heady mix hits my groin like a whiff of Marsmist, and the control I’m so proud of evaporates. The boy has no idea of what he's unleashing in me. I'm not certain either.

I bite, not hard, and the ridge jumps under my teeth. He yelps and gasps and shakes so violently one hand slips.

“Put it back, boy.”

“Fuck… Don’t…” He tries to breathe. “Don’t stop.”

I don’t. The hand returns above his head, his back continues to arch, his ass pushes into me. My cock nestles in his crack like a Moonbug finding a home in a meteorite pearl. Each small rock of his hips draws me along the length of him like a continuous gliding promise.

I work both scars with my mouth and fingers until I'm in danger of disgracing myself from the rhythm of hips desperate to get the friction he hasn’t been given. His ass gets another slap. Harder than the first. Movement stops instantly. The corruption has trained him well.

Then I reach under his arms and find his chest. His nipples are already tight buds. I roll one between finger and thumb and he cries out, the sound cracking through the planets like the reins of Helios’s chariot.

“Yes, sweet boy. These too.” I pinch, then soothe with the flat of my hand, then pinch again, deciding to tease both of them at once, while my mouth stays on the scar. “Tell me how good it feels.”

His head falls back.

Blonde curls tickle my nose.

“By the stars… fuck… Roxy, it… I feel so much.”

I relentlessly tease scars and nipples feeling them stay raised under every pass. The response is extraordinary. His moans and whimpers more so. His body becomes languid, hypnotised by need.

“Please sir…”

My body freezes. Those words, not said as an afterthought, run ice and fire through me. My own fluid greases his crack, provides lubrication for my enjoyment.

“I need to fuck… Roxy… please.”

“Not yet, not yet.” I say it wrapped in a whisper, sealed with a kiss and run along the ruined skin with the edge of my tongue.

And because I now know how much he likes nipple play I drag nails across the little bullets until he’s crying out for a Dusk-eater to rescue him from my wicked ways. I laugh at him. Not nastily. Never like that. But because I know it won't ever happen. The Devil's Dusk-eater is a mother's invention from the history of time. It's a parental tool of control that’s supposed to be gentler than a whipped backside. Psychologically it's far more damaging than believing in an invisible bogeyman.

Cav knows this as well as I.

He smiles, filthily in his unholy cherubicness as he invokes the request: eyes hooded, breathing out of control, sweat beading on his forehead like Cometglass pebbles, his cock jerking every time I switch from soft to sharp. He drips his angel juice like an Elarawood tree drips sap. And when I bite a swollen ridge and pinch a fistful of tender nipple at the same time, he nearly cums from that alone. A wet pulse of him flicks against his belly, catching gold starshine now the aurora has finally left us.

Part of me, the part that has read every lecture on mutated flight-tissue, and has discovered something rare in this boy, is already wondering what the heck they’ll do when he finally cums. The rest of me is too busy tasting the throb to care.

“Hold it for me… until I say.” I lick and bite and squeeze, get high on his treacly scent, rub my cock between his ass cheeks. I’m as desperate as he is, but I cling to the tiny bit of control I have left like a Moonmelon clings to a its vine. “Keep your hands on the marble... Now let me have the rest of you at my pace.”

“Yes, Roxy… please hurry… I need it.”

I fetch oil from the weighing-table meant for the hinges, used now for better machinery. I warm it in my hands and silently thank the Pyxis pear—a fruit grown by the Pyxari in the Celestial Orchards—for its oil. You'd think with a fruit called a pear it would smell sweet. Not in Hevanna. This fruit has a fragrance of musk and herbs which makes it popular, not just for everyday use in greasing heaven’s machinery, but as a rather luxurious lube for oiling desperate holes.

He takes two fingers with a grunted, finally and another slap to his backside. Three fingers in and he’s using swear words even I haven’t heard before. Then he sighs like the whore they made him and slow-squats onto my fingers as if he’s auditioning for the Olympics.

I talk while I do it. Small instructions, lots of praise.

That’s it. You take it so well. You were made to be seen like this. Deeper? My pleasure. Fuck, you’re beautiful in your need. Yes, take the stretch. You’re so good for me.

He drops his head between his arms and laughs, totally wrecked. “Stop with the compliments. You don’t know if they’re all true.”

“I’ll compliment you if I like. You’re on my terrace.”

When he is open enough that I won’t hurt him, I line up behind him, both hands gripping his hips. I kiss the side of his neck, nibble the scrape he arrived with. I let him feel the head of my cock gently pressing at his entrance and wait.

“Roxy”

“Yes.”

“Now.

I push in slow enough that he feels the size of the decision. The sound he makes is like the wail of an abandoned space station careening off course. I swear all the stars look our way and blink in unison.

I add more oil. He’s unexpectedly tight, but relaxed with the give of a body that wants the intrusion. I watch myself bottom out and hold still, forehead against his spine, because if I move right now, I’ll be only an animal and I’ve promised him a magistrate who knows what he is doing.

“Tell me.”

“By the Gods… full,” he manages. “So… good. Don’t… don’t be careful with me.”

I’m not careful. But I am precise. I fuck him in long strokes that drag his walls, that make the visual twice as filthy and last twice as long. Which is how I like it. I watch the muscles in his back twitch and jump, see the starshine glitter in the sweat that’s pooled in his back dimples. I spread my hand over his stomach so I can feel myself moving in him. When he tries to drop forward I pull him back up by the chest and keep him flush to my body, kissing and nipping at his wing scars until he’s squeezing my cock with his gifted channel.

The back of his head finds my shoulder. Mismatched eyes meet mine. “Please, Roxy… Sir… I’m going to…”

“No, sweet boy, not yet… when I say.”

A groan that’s not a no.

“Soon.”

Another groan. “Yes.”

I find his length and hold him like he’s getting a privilege. Then I refuse to stroke him in time with my hips. I make him wait inside the rhythm. He protests, too impaled to stamp his feet, too amusing to ignore. So I increase the speed of my hips, the wet sound of it a symphony for the planets.

One hand finds his throat. The grip is light. I’m more interested in keeping him steady under my onslaught than introducing any form of breath play. My other hand squeezes his shaft letting my body propel him into my fist.

“Like it rough… like this… do you?”

I have to check in with him. I don’t want to scare him off or hurt him.

“Fucking… love it…”

“Good.”

Every time he clenches I praise him for it. Every time he says my name I give him more weight, more depth, a nipple tweak or two. He becomes languid, his body leaning more on mine, taking me to the root. He soon forgets what he was complaining about.

When he starts to shake I put my mouth to his ear.

“Okay, my filthy angel… On my cock… Let me feel it.”

He cums with a sound that would turn every packet of Vela Viagra to dust. I feel it in the clutch of him, in the sticky wet heat over my fist, in the aftershocks that spasm around me. I see it in the way his shoulder blades lock, the surrounding scar tissue shimmers. The raised ridges tremble and pulse faint rings of purple under his skin, like someone has dropped a pebble in a pool of blood inside him.

The mystical orgasm wouldn’t be obvious to another, but I’ve been curious and alert waiting for this moment. And by Cherub, am I rewarded. The want growing in his old wing cavities achieved release, not in the sense of ejaculation, but in their private and enchanted way. That does it for me. I follow him over, buried to the hilt, thanking the Gods for sparing him, and moaning at the heavens like a trapped Tallow Bear.

We stay like that until the shaking turns into breathing. The Observatory silent. Justice pretending not to watch from her ledge.

In the distance a Crux whale calls to her mate.

I ease out and turn him to face me. I kiss him properly. He looks ruined and pleased, fallen and found, and like he won’t be ready for round two for a while. Shame.

I push his hair off his forehead with a shaky hand, plant another kiss there.

“Still here,” I say.

“Still here.” His smile is a tilted, filthy thing.

°°°°°°°°
Epilogue

*CAV’S POV

A cloud of Pleiadian bats circle us, night hunting insects that are dumb enough to leave phosphorescent trails like breadcrumbs.

I follow him through the side arch because he wants me to see the rest of what he has been keeping from me. An Aether current tracks across my back finding the places where I wear his marks and his saliva. I shiver and wish we hadn't left our clothes behind.

The shock of my orgasm walks with me. There’s not a star in the universe that could have prepared me for what just happened. Or one that didn't witness it. The wing scars answered like they used to answer the wind—same rush, different direction. I came harder than I have in years and I already want it again.

I miss the flying, who wouldn’t? But the whole body rapture orgasm? That was euphoria beyond the cosmic realms of any other experience. Hormones still pump, the old power still wants. My sex life is the beneficiary. Who would have thought?

They taught me how to fuck before I was old enough to know I could refuse. I learned to like it. Love it sometimes, when they were kind. Now I’m still owned, though with Roxy it’s different. There’s an emotional bond growing between us, one stronger than I had with the mortal. He knows I’m trained for sex. To his delight he’s just discovered that sex is now training me.

The sanctuary is a lot smaller than the court and much more warmer. Moonlight and starshine are left at the entrance. The room is impressive. An ornate dungeon, no less. Lit by burning sconces that give the room an essence of hedonistic romance that has Roxy written all over it.

A waist-high marble sarcophagus table takes centre stage, already set with gold chains and silk lined cuffs, the ancient gold marked from use. Metal rings, embellished with planetary symbols, hang, not just from the marble slab, but around the room on walls at various heights, on the floor to anchor feet. My scars twitch.

I stop at the bench, pick up a chain and turn the cuff in my fingers. The hinge opens with ease. I test it in my hand and appreciate how lightweight it is, think how kind it would be when used in long sessions. The chain, cut to the exact length for use, on and near the bench has been strengthened with Hevanna ore.

I toss the cuff up in the air and catch it. Roxy watches me like an Octansian Owl. A hungry one at that.

Memories pop into my head unbidden.

I know the feel of cuffs, I’ve worn many different pairs, in many different rooms. Always with a hard cock and my heart in my mouth lest the owner should decide to lose the key. I have watched other boys wear the same metal while someone else decided the positions, the pace and the punishments. Some begging for more, others hiding their tears.

I've never worn cuffs like these though.

And, this is the first time the metal has been allowed in my hand unsupervised.

My cock kicks.

“Where’s the key kept?” I'm trying hard with the nonchalance. The amateur Wingmatics would be impressed I'm sure.

His smile is sly and seductive. By the stars, he's a handsome man. The Gods have been kind to my lonely rebellion.

“On me, usually.” He looks delighted with himself as he surveys his den, naked and vulnerable, like I am.

Dressed in firelight and shadow he looks like a lost God, one who's achieved many things but has decided, like me, that the rules aren't always the ones you should abide by.

He moves closer to me.

He’s still loose from the fuck, blue eyes still blown, sweat glossing his skin.

“Tonight, I left the key in my chambers.”

I don't ask for reasons.

“Does the Court know this room exists?”

“They know I have a place I don’t put on the plan.”

I nod. The questions are flat because I don't want to raise suspicion. I move to face the door. Have to admit, old habits die hard.

From where I stand I have a perfect view of Justice in the distance. She’s feigning sleep. I can see her, as she can see us if she turns her head. No wonder she has enough stories to fill a book. She has every door and window within her gaze. It's obvious Roxy has never minded—the voyeur and the exhibitionist sit in the same magisterial skin.

Conveniently, the move gets me even closer to him.

My shoulders thrum.

I see Justice move. She has lifted her head and radars it towards the sanctuary. The empty pan ticks once. She’s picked up on something. Thinks I’m looking for a way out. I thought she might. She’s wrong. Tonight the unleashed devil in me wants to see what happens when the magistrate is the one who can't reach the key.

Roxy steps in. One hand on my jaw, his mouth finding mine demanding a response. The other hand settles over my heartbeat. Perfect. He’s smiling, relaxed, mine for the taking.

The cuff closes on the wrist resting on my chest. So easy.

The sound is small, a quantum click.

He laughs, surprised, and looks down. His free hand goes straight to the metal, thumb hunting the release. Curses run out if his mouth like Astro rats from a celestial sewer.

While that hand is busy I take the other wrist and shut the second cuff. He looks panicked and pulls once at the chains, even though he knows better than anyone how futile it is.

“Cav.” His voice is a question and a threat. Lightning shoots up my spine.

I don’t answer at once. I put my own hand over his.

“I’m not running,” I say, clear enough for the words to reach Justice's ears. “Give me this Roxy. Please. You can say stop anytime you want.”

The pan goes quiet. The dragon's head settles. She has heard the truth of it and returns to stillness.

He is magnificently hard again. I see it before he agrees, before I step back half a pace so the chain can draw him forward. He goes. Looking back at me every few paces incase I change my mind. I won't.

The chain is long enough for his chest to meet the stone and short enough that his hands stay above his head. I come around behind him and admire the view.

My scars throb. My cock leaks. The electrical storm in my spine bursts free. Thunderbolts zap from brain to balls and back again. My scars absorb the lightning until I’m a throbbing circuit of sin watching Roxy, proud magistrate Roxphenial 111, lay bare-assed and spread open over the stone.

I slap his thigh. Hard.

“Hips to the bench.”

He complies.

I spread his ass cheeks open and line up the head of me. I’m an unlubed threat against him.

My mouth is close to his ear when I speak.

“The key stays where it is, until you ask for it… Sir.”

The end.

^{Thank you for staying with Libra. This is my first foray into writing fantasy, let alone erotic fantasy. It was an experiment that has given me an amazing amount of fun while writing it. Therefore I’m going to continue with the other 11 horoscopes throughout the year. Each one will be paranormal romance style and I'm going to try and involve as many dragons as I can. Oh yes, there will be gorgeous men as well, silly me. Hope you stick around to read my stories.}

^{It appears I can write a range of mm romance and erotica, and I'm more than willing to try any of it. Please don't expect a niche here. If you subscribe you will get a chocolate box of hot and sexy stories. Each one will have a different flavor and each one will aim to excite and maybe educate you. I hope that you enjoy them and I hope that you comment and restack all of them to show your appreciation for my work. If you have any particular requests that you'd like me to write just let me know. x Polli}

Subscribe now

^{Subscribe for FREE if you want more like this. At least one new episode of the Over series every 2 weeks and a new fantasy from the Horny Horoscope series each month, as well as random poems and short stories. Thank you x}

^{© polli@izonme 2026. All rights reserved.}

Share Polli 🏳️‍🌈👁️🏳️‍🌈

Subscribe now

^{Support my work by becoming a FREE subscriber. Subscribing let's the algorithm know I exist. 🙏}

Horny Horoscope ADULT Stories

Libra part 4

Find parts 1 - 3 here

Recap the end of part 3

The marble is cold at my back. Everything else is burning, caught in the pull of him and I think this is born from his corruption, and then I think, thank fuck. My hand stays in his hair. I shower him in praise because praise is part of how I fuck and because he goes wrecked and hungry when I do.

It’s nearly the whole thing. Clumsy and carefree, Cav's nose in my pubes, his spit dripping off my balls, fire and stars exploding in my nervous system like planetary popcorn.

I stop him.

I don't want to but Justice has raised a foot indicating she's thinking of leaving. She's warning me I might have gone too far this time.

6. The Weighing

Dusk is darker than usual. Returning balance to the Hevanna universe requires solemnity, not to be dressed in lunar glory and star shine.

As is the case in a sitting this small and this embarrassing, the Court isn’t present in body. Presence would mean they had to look at his mouth and my open robe and admit they sent a hedonistic boy to a hungry man on purpose. Instead they watch from the temple's Observatory. That’s enough.

It took us a few minutes to cool down and several wardrobe adjustments had to be made before we could stand here. Wet spots had to hide behind pleats, creases smoothed flat against my thighs until the shape of me was only a suggestion. He wiped his lower lip with the back of his hand, ran his fingers through his mop of curls and stood still while I straightened his new tunic. Presentation is key in Court. Neither of us spoke. I rolled my shoulders once, set my face, and nodded towards Justice.

°°°°°°°°°°

The empty pans wait for us. Cav stands beside me. Justice has both feet on the marble, silver scales shimmering like a beacon, unblinking eyes staring at nothing. I know damn well she's monitored the pause we took on the way here, probably catalogued every move and moan in her little black book of sins.

“Name.” I look Cav in his soul bruised heterochromic eyes.

“Cavum.” No Archivist. No Domino. Nothing about having an erotic IQ that would shame King Solomon. Just the given name of a fallen angel.

I take the stylus and write CAVUM on the empty pan. The metal accepts it like a coin dropped in a well.

The charge,” I say, “is refusal to atone for your desire for a mortal. That you, Cavum, spoke the human’s name instead of the Prayer of Repentance.”

Then I turn towards the Observatory and bow, fingers itching to flip the Seraphic Justiciar the bird. They are the lawmakers, divine by birth, rotten to the core. They have his wings on display, a feathered mockery of his previous choices. Will this one be yet another mistake? I hope not.

“The offered sentence is a choice of three.”

They know all this, but ceremony is ceremony.

“The first offering is death… through erasure… from the records, from the gold. But more importantly, from every living memory until you are nothing more than a gap in history.”

I let it land. Watch for movement. None.

“Or… exile, to a sub planet of the Court's choosing… where the rule of law has not been written, will never be written. Where crops can't grow, snakes thrive and passage home doesn't exist.”

My fist finds my mouth and taps my lips a couple of times. I run my hand over my jaw. The final offering is the best one. The favoured choice by every accused I have tried. I want to look deadly serious and troubled when I deliver it. Because it’s a lust trap, a Hevanna snuff movie in the making.

“Alternatively, there's service…Indenture to a lesser court… where you file, fetch and become a fuck toy to everyone, surf or lord, magistrate or Seraphim or Throne. Where the word ‘no’ doesn't exist, where your body can be used day in, day out, by as many people as possible and as many times as they need until the day you die.”

Which, as it happens, isn't usually too long after offenders have been sent into service. The idea has appeal until it's put into practice.

The air freezes. Time stops. This part is special.

As in death or birth, there’s a moment when the world waits to see whether the lungs will draw breath. This is that moment. I do the dramatics with hand gestures and robe-flounces because this part is for me. I soak it in, daring them to breathe their tainted air into my theatrics.

Not a cough or a whisper. I spin on my heels and slow walk back to the scale completely aware I'm behaving like Cav.

I write Roxphenial 111 underneath his name in the same cursive handwriting.

The hinge complains. The pans search their memories for a story they recognise. Find nothing they can match it to. The gold dulls, angry and confused.

“I, Roxphenial 111, Magistrate of Hevanna.” I speak the words I've been thinking about for days now. “Reject all three options put forward by the Court.”

Cav’s fingers find the back of my wrist. There. Reassuring. Definitely nervous.

“I declare a Bond.” I say it loud enough to wake the Gods. The hinge continues to screech like it's swallowing a spiky orb, the gold moves like it wants to melt.

“If that unbalances the Court, the Court was already lying about what a scale is for.”

A cheeky comet trails the dark, a distant fire bomb, indifferent to Hevanna's judicial process.

I point at Justice. “May the Divine Dragon decide.”

Justice, who's now become a scaly tin foil queen, blinding us with her silver light, climbs into her pan, tail flicking like an angry cat.

She settles. There's enough ancient law in her cold blood to re-write every lost text from the Library of Alexandria. As we watch, the enchantment throbbing through her flows into the metal. The beam finds level, the pans no longer sway, the hinge stops screaming.

For one long second there's nothing.

Then the gold rings once, the way it does when a verdict will hold, even if every clerk in Hevanna and beyond objects. Cav and I are a long way from innocent, but the two names created one desire. That's all that counts. The gold shines on us.

Bond.

The watching presence recedes like a muddy puddle drying in the midnight wind. The stain they leave behind will be noted and discussed for centuries. They will, of course, send letters of complaint, most definitely send a colder judge, maybe as early as next month. They will call me compromised, which is accurate. Compromised by a grounded angel who kept a name and stamped his foot at me on a colonnade, and by a Court who will always keep one pan unfairly weighted.

Three shooting stars whistle past the temple, popping like celestial firecrackers. Three planetary sisters signalling that the heavens can return to normal. Moonbeams stretch, stars shake off their misty shrouds, planets breathe colour. Dusk turns indigo and sparkles.

Cavum looks at the level beam, then at me.

“That’s it?”

“Yes, darling boy, that’s the law we just made.”

I take his jaw in my hand. My thumb is on his lower lip. He knows what comes next. I’m still hard from his mouth and I let him feel it when I step in.

“The rest is you, me and the fact that I’ve been reasonable for ten years and I’m finished.”

I want to shout it into the void and dance with every cloud serpent I disturb. I don't. Such joy is unseemly for a magistrate. I hold it all inside and look at the young man who's going to help rid me of my pent up emotions in the only way I know how.

Towards the north a pale green light advances, fast flowing, luminous - a chameleon sky plankton. A second visitation from the aurora in one night is rare.

Cav runs his tongue over my thumb. I press it into his mouth, opening it enough and holding his jaw down. I kiss him like this. Tongue to tonsils, pressing our bodies together as Justice ambles back to her perch, side-eyeing us with amusement.

°°°°°°°°°°

7. The Night.

The Observatory isn't completely empty, though, thank Eleos, the wings have gone. Up there, in the gilded tower, more Cavs will be getting ‘introduced’ to ambition with their holes stretched around some drunk’s cock as they read Latin from their school books. Their future decided by how many times they say yes and thank you and more.

Justice has taken herself to the far side of the ledge and become a shadow. Win or lose, there’s always a private ‘after’ party. She has watched the same performance for centuries: children poured full of wine they can't refuse, robes loosened before any letters are written. She knows favours are traded in silk sheets and silent tears, and is an expert in the difference between a sin and a habit declared as custom. She doesn’t mistake one for the other. Tonight she’ll ignore the revelry and be no cleaner than the rest of us. She settles, turns her head, and leaves them to it.

Cav knows how this night goes. The look on his face tells me his joy at the Bond is waning. The relief of the verdict has not erased the older knowledge. But he remains hard under the new tunic and is keeping it quiet, the way every good boy should. He’s glad to be kept, I think. He’s not fool enough to think the Observatory has suddenly become kind.

Will it be better than the three Court offerings? Well, he's too significant to erase and too pretty to starve to death. But the third option stands a chance of coming true. I have an appetite and obsession for him that just might kill both of us.

I take Cav back to the terrace because I told him I would. Ten years will be wasted years if a man can't keep his word about small things. The hope is that the marble still holds enough of the day’s heat to be acceptable on bare skin.

As we walk my robe feels like a joke. I’m part of the same problem that perpetuates the corruptions, and like Justice I turn a blind eye. Perhaps worse, I saved one for myself.

°°°°°°°°°°

He’s been watching me the way any Erotologist watches a potential fuck. Body language first, clothes next. He's quickly become excellent at deducing the things my eyes say without words. He can see, when the silk moves, that I haven’t softened. No expertise needed there. Hunger gnaws at my sex with sharp teeth, each tiny bite testing my resolve.

He knows what this is. So do I. We were both trained to read want and to use it. The difference is that I still have the authority to decide what happens next - I used it to keep him and I'll keep it to use him. He’s hard under his new tunic because he wants this. That doesn’t make the keeping clean. It only means he’s not unwilling. I’m pretty sure the distinction won't matter to either of us once our clothes have gone.

Mine go first. The silk whooshes from my body faster than a terrified moon moth trying to escape a Pleiadian bat. The ornate jewellery and buckles clang as they hit the floor. If the marble is too cold at least the sacred robe will serve as our blanket, the Court can be damned.

“Look at me,” I say. Which is ridiculous because he's wide-eyed staring, gaze focused on my cock like it's the first one he's ever seen.

I put a finger under his chin and lift his head.

“In my eyes, boy.”

He does. Flushed. Mouth still puffy from previous use. Eighteen, and long past performing innocence. They created a boy who could useful in any room they asked of him. Then they decided to throw him away anyway. Their spite has been efficient. It’s also been convenient for me.

“Now ask nicely.”

A shade of spoilt brat curls his lip until he thinks better of it.

“Sir… um, Roxy… please grant me permission to look at… your naked form.”

Fuck, the asking does it for me every time. There isn't a drug created as addictive as a boy begging permission. The rush of it hits my brain like a hit of Astralune. My control snaps, pre cum fills my slit.

I step back, find a decent ray of light that's managing to avoid the Aurora rainbow and let him take his fill.

His eyes travel my body, journeying over nipples and abs, the flat of my stomach, past navel and pubic hair. He stops briefly at my cock, swallows and smiles, checks my thighs, my feet and returns his mismatched gaze to mine. The want remains, unembarrassed and stronger in its rawest form. I wonder if he'll still feel the same in the morning.

I leak. Like an untested youth who's just decided he’s an exhibitionist. One honeyed line sliding over veins and ridges. I don’t look down. I don’t have to. I can feel the wet track cooling as it runs. I'm shocked. Men like me don’t leak for an audience. We decide when the body answers. Cav, it seems, has just broken another rule. Another bead forms and follows the first. Cav grins. That cherub cheekiness I’m fond of. It makes me think of the inner sanctuary and the silks and how sweet the smell of discipline sits on sweat addled skin.

“I want us to make the Gods jealous, Cav. Now let the moon touch your skin as well.”

There's no look of surprise. He knew I would have him the moment the verdict rang true. I step in to help him undress and take the plain cloth at his shoulders. It’s newness makes it stiff in the folds and like parchment on skin. The tunic is cut the way of the old Drapery the Court prefers for a weighing - full, loose, and plain - so that nothing about the body can be accused of decoration. It's heavier than it looks.

I draw it down one arm, then the other, without ceremony, gentle in my haste lest the fabric scratch him. I leave the cloth bunched at his elbows for a moment so the night can witness his scars and the Gods have a few minutes to think on their betrayal. Then let it fall. It pools at his feet. There's nothing left between him and the galaxy and my perusal.

I’m a voyeur by nature. I've already seen him naked on the stone and watched him edge himself through my instructions. He will soon be used to my ways.

Walking around him feels like I'm walking the temple's stacks hunting a rare manuscript. I can walk around it ten or twenty times and discover a new treasure every time. Cav is no different. He's long lines and soft skin, paler than other angels I've seen, and his ass cheeks are the sort I could kiss all day long. Dimples, yes, fucking dimples, sit in the small of his back, unnoticed from the stone but visible now he's standing. I press a finger into one and almost unbalance him with my zeal.

His scars appear to be angry with him, the thin skin pulses purple, the last of his choir vying to be heard. Under my hand they are warmer than the rest of him, throbbing against my palm to the pulse in his neck. When I run my fingernails over them he inhales like I've stabbed him. There's body muscle, though it's more tone than bulk, a broad chest that sports two highly sensitive nipples and a long, elegant cock awaiting orders. What I didn't see before was how regal he is now the worry of the weighing has gone.

Here, bathed in star shine and Auroracrystals, he’s my Hyacinthus - a prince so beautiful Gods fought for his attention and accidentally killed him with their stupid jealousy. Except in Hevanna the Gods were serious in their efforts to kill this prince. Luckily they failed. All I can say is Apollo has lost his chance. This boy is mine and I'm not sharing. Yet.

I run one palm up the inside of his thigh and feel the shiver run through him. His cock lifts against his belly. I don’t touch it. At the same time the old flight muscle kicks against my other hand and he makes the sort of noise that would make Prometheus forget about fire. The truth of the ancient power used to lift him is still in there, and it answers to touch like a mouth.

I turn him towards the dark where the lawmakers laugh, where his celestial life began and ended on the whim of a bargain and a pen that didn't care. Keeping the name of his lover cost him the same as a refusing to suck a cock. That's the Domino legacy. The knock on effect has consequences. Cav is a weakness in their polluted system. They forgot the boy they bought as a youngster might just grow into his balls as a man.

I stand behind him with my mouth at his ear.

“Let them look at what they made. Let them see you hard for a magistrate who will never give you back.”

Then I catch his jaw and take his mouth.

It isn’t gentle. I kiss him like I did after the sentencing, like I’m claiming the last of his air, open and filthy, tongue and teeth colliding. One hand fists the back of his hair so he can’t pull away even if he wanted to. He makes a low sound against my lips and I swallow it, biting his lower lip until he gasps and opens wider.

When I finally let him breathe I keep my forehead pressed to his, both of us aware of our naked bodies pressing together, cocks kissing, thighs rubbing, the ache of desire twisting up our spines.

“Hands on the marble,” I pant, taking him by the shoulders and turning him back to face the stars. He finds the nearest pillar, arms automatically lifting into position.

“That’s right. Above your head.”

I trail one finger over his pulsing shoulder blades and tap his feet to spread his legs. The fine muscles on his back ripple and glow in the ethereal light like a sand-duned desert at dawn. I've never wanted to play in an oasis as much as I do right now.

“Keep your hands and feet where I've put them. If anything is too much you say stop and I stop.”

“Fuck… Roxy… there's no way I'm going to say stop.”

“You still get to.”

I bite the scrape on his collarbone, then again under his ear. I lick one scar, taste the copper and sugar, swallow the burnt flavour like the life-saving drink it is. He whimpers, like he's moaning morse code, sending the message loud and clear to Hevanna.

“Now do as you’re damn well told.”

The end

Continued in the Part 5 - The final episode of 2026 Libra

Subscribe for FREE if you want more like this. At least one new episode of the Over series every 2 weeks and a new fantasy from the Horny Horoscope series each month, as well as random poems and short stories. Thank you

Subscribers keep me writing on Substack

© polli@izonme 2026. All rights reserved.

Important notice - Want to read the version Pangram hated and I decided I didn't want to risk getting banned over? Go press the Polli on Tipeee button below this picture and select REWARDS choose the Over Sensitive Halloween Special for €1. Further instructions at the end of this story. Sorry it's the best I can do.🫶

Polli on Tipee - €1

If the orange Tipee link doesn't work (SS fault not mine) please try the link or you may have to go out of Substack and paste this link into your browser. Sorry x

https://en.tipeee.com/polli/dashboard/rewards/edit/596433#view

Don't forget to choose the reward you want

Note - That link just lost me Pangram points lol

Don't forget to choose the reward you want

Three days late - sorry 🥰

BUT

IF YOU Want to read a really, really hot, human written, free story about the three guys? This is the original.

Over Time Halloween Special

Pangram score: 100% human written.

🎃 Over Sensitive part 1 👻

When we arrived this morning Paul's mum's kitchen was a typical homely hub full of knick knacks hanging off of cupboards and the fridge door and pictures hanging on random nails that told a story of family, of years spent growing up and being loved.

She'd packed up her precious window herbs and ceramic chicken that, according to Paul, had survived 30 years of being the family egg container. Her cookbooks were safely boxed and protected from any dust. Small electricals, like the kettle and toaster had been relocated to the dining room, so Rick, Paul and I could have some breakfast in the morning.

The kitchen itself is old and in need of refurbishment. When Suki had said she was away for a spa weekend and could we, pretty please, fit the cupboards that had been sitting in her garage for months while she was away, Paul agreed. It's so much easier to work when the house owner’s not there to moan about the mess. And Suki has two spare bedrooms, meaning staying overnight wasn't going to be a problem. Hopefully we would only use one bedroom.

We’d arrived in Brighton around eleven, through streets wearing Halloween bunting and carved pumpkins like the houses were daring us to join the festivities. The back seat held me and our three overnight bags. The boot was full of the tools and the bits and bobs that hadn't been ordered for the delivery.

By two we’re deep in it. Everything has been ripped out and Rick’s on the upper cabinets, level in one hand, pencil behind his ear. Paul’s in and out of the garage digging through drawers and boxes declaring he was positive he'd left some saw or drill there when he left home twenty years previously. Then berating his absent mum for moving them or giving them away to neighbours. His childish behaviour didn't stop there. I watched him walk up to his mum's calendar and draw a penis over the date she'd penciled in as Doug’s birthday. He's her latest boyfriend and from what I gather Paul hates him.

“Well, he is one,” he’d said laughing and walking back to the cupboards we were here to fit.

Rick had remained pretty quiet all morning. Sometimes he would be that way, working solidly and humming to the old tunes on the battered radio. They put me on the base units which should be a simple job but the kitchen floor undulates worse than the ocean so I've been wasting a lot of time bent over trying to shimmy the cupboards into agreeing to be straight.

Usually that wouldn't be a problem but I picked up the wrong joggers to bring as work clothes. The ones I have on now are the ones I normally lounge around my flat in. They're baggy and overly stretched by too much washing. They have a tendency to slip off my hips especially when bending. Already they have revealed my ass cheeks to the guys twice, and made me receive the usual comments about half moons and full moons.

I reach for the drill. The waistband goes with the reach and cold air licks the top of my ass. I don't have any underwear on because… well, why would I want to wear any? And I can't fix my bare ass straight away because my hands are full with the drill and the cabinet.

Behind me, Rick's pencil stops moving.

I eventually tug the fabric up but said fabric decides otherwise and slips again. Next time it happens I'm on my knees, head in the carcass fixing the shelf, blind to the other guys and what they're doing. I feel the chill on my skin before I realise the joggers have gone completely and my ass is literally hanging out.

The garage door bangs shut and I see Paul’s work boots carry him into the kitchen. He doesn’t speak for a second. That's when I notice the silence and Rick's stillness.

"Jesus, Ty, those trousers are a fucking health and safety hazard."

I scramble to yank them up, give Paul an exasperated look.

"This is your fault. You made me rush this morning. I remembered the good jeans for tonight, but grabbed the wrong pair of work trousers from the drawer. They're fine."

"They're not on you."

Rick makes a sound that’s half splutter and half laugh. I stay kneeling. If I look at him I'm likely to go hard. All morning the want has been scratching at the back of my balls, niggling at my cock like a horny termite.

We've been fucking for over six weeks now. Six weeks of Friday nights turning into weekends and sometimes after work when overtime allows us to be alone in half built houses. But weekends are the time we always plan for. Maybe my cock has got some Pavlovian response to Saturdays going on. Like, Tyler, it's Saturday and I've remembered and now you need to reward me.

On a serious note, I don't know what to call what we three are. Thruple means an established relationship and that's hopefully yet to come. But it's definitely too soon to put us in that sort of concrete category. At our last discussion the conclusion went like this: at the moment we are something more than ‘friends that fuck.’ Though the term is technically accurate, it's also completely useless as a description of what happens when Rick has his hands on me and Paul is watching like he's keeping a sex scorecard and we’re not allowed to move on until I've passed every test. But it's also something less than a ‘relationship’ because that sounds like it comes with shared bank accounts and lectures on exclusivity. And we're not ready for that.

What I do know is this. On a Friday night, if we haven’t already made plans, and my phone buzzes with either of their names on my screen, my chest tightens, my breath catches, my cock goes on high alert. When we’re on site working together and Rick puts his hand on my shoulder and praises me I feel that hand print for the rest of the day. When Paul brushes past me, deliberately too close, close enough I feel the outline of his cock through my clothes, and he smiles like he’s the innocent party, I feel like I’ve won a prize.

So it’s not quite wedding bells material. I think it’s more like they’re waiting for me to belong to myself. There’s a difference, and it matters. Rick and Paul have always had something clean in how they’ve lived their lives. Until me, they’ve treated sex as what it is, a pleasure you participate in with no strings attached. They want me to experience a bit of that before we commit to anything. Maybe tonight I'll get a chance.

Paul, if I’m honest, would be the first to love me if I let him. Underneath the filth and swagger is a man who looks at me like I’m something worth keeping. He hasn’t said anything. He won’t, because Paul reads people accurately and he knows I’m still finding my feet in all of this, still learning what I am and what I need. He’s patient, like an alpha wolf, watching and waiting for this cub to mature.

Rick is different.

Rick cares for us the way he does everything - through action, not words. He’s a shelter in a storm, a warm blanket on a cold night, a rock. Someone who can put his hand on the back of neck and squeeze an I’ve got you in to your head without saying a word. I can see he’s not a man who gives his heart easily. There’s something in the way he avoids certain conversations that tells you at some point life taught him to be careful. I don’t ask. I feel he's the sort of man who’ll tell you when he’s ready to share. Up and until that point he still gives himself fully.

So that's what we are. Three men who fit together in their attraction and differences, who look out for each other in the only way each of us knows how.

As I put my head back into the cabinet to fix the shelf the joggers do what they've been insisting on doing all morning. The waistband gives again and they slide down over my ass to my bent knees.

The chill on my bare skin lasts about 4 seconds.

The clack of the level hitting the kitchen table is loud as Rick stops working.

One of his hands land unexpectedly on my lower back. It's not a hand saying I've got you, this one slides a calloused palm over my flesh and lets its fingers speak.

I go still. An ache twists in my gut and races through my blood like bush fire.

His voice is hungry.

"Ty, you've been on your fucking knees for forty minutes" he says, thumb stroking over my seam. "And your backside has been playing jack in the box with daylight the whole time.”

His hand moves lower, spreading warmth across cold skin, adding fuel to the ache.

"Rick..." I say, half enquiry, half amusement, as I extract myself from the cupboard.

I look at Paul. He's leaning against the doorframe tossing a box of fixings from one hand to the other looking at Rick approvingly.

Is he serious? Paul's mum's kitchen doesn't feel like the appropriate place to start getting handsy.

“Lad, there's only so much torment a man can take.” Rick says, stretching his palm across my flesh. He squeezes once like he's testing fruit. Then pulls my crack open for Paul to see. I hear the box of fixings Paul's been playing with rattle as he sets it down.

He doesn’t come closer.

I know this game.

"Up," Rick says.

I obey. The joggers fall to my ankles tripping me as I move. Rick guides me out of his way and I think how comical I must look shuffling around, but no one laughs.

Rick does that look, the one where I feel like I'm a little boy and I've done something he's proud of, then he sits back against the cabinet we’ve only half hung and undoes his belt.

I swallow. My cock kicks in approval. I glance at Paul again. Still in the doorway, still watching. The man loves this part of their game. They have an entire language of silent nods and secret glances that I'm yet to learn.

The radio breaks for a news update. The autumn sun highlights the dust layering on the draining board.

Rick unzips.

Subscribe now

"Here.” he says, pulling his erection from its confinement.

I go down because my knees know this part of their filthy game. Rick is sitting back, thighs spread, cock out in his fist. By now I've had enough practice with it you'd think my lips would be stretched enough not to worry about his size.

But I do worry.

To this day they don't stretch around him without a fight. Six weeks in and my jaw still aches when I get the angle wrong. There's a moment every single time, right at the start where, my body goes are you sure and I have to convince it, yes, just work with me here.

He looks at me looking at it and doesn't smile.

"Open."

I do. He watches the way my lips part.

“Tongue,” he says, like he's going to feed me a rare delicacy.

I offer my tongue.

The meaty head lands on it with a wet slap. I taste him, bitter sweet and salty, warm skin and soap. My body responds immediately, wanting to lick and suck, knowing this isn't what I'm being asked to do. My face muscles twitch knowing what's coming next.

The second I move forward and my mouth has to make room for him, something shifts in his face. Not smugness. More like - satisfaction. Like a man watching something difficult done well. Except I'm not doing it well, that's the thing. I'm doing it badly, even though I’ve learned the angle - chin down and throat lined up - the instant pull at the corners of my mouth confirms what an awful job I'm doing. All the while he watches my predicament, his exhale comes out slow and controlled.

That’s when I know.

He likes the struggle, likes that I haven't figured him out yet. Is that good or bad? I decide either way it doesn’t bother me.

Over by the door Paul watches us. It's his thing. His attention is keen, I feel it like a guiding hand pushing my head down. I sink lower. Both sets of eyes drop to the place where Rick is disappearing.

The radio fades to static. Breathing gets difficult.

Suddenly Paul moves. In a few strides he's standing next to Rick, blocking the light from the window, the bulge in his jeans pushing at the denim.

"Fuck, Ty, look at you. You're doing so good. You're nearly there.”

Rick grunts in agreement. Tries not to thrust.

“Look at us,” he says quietly.

I look up despite the awkward angle. Eyes watery. They hold my gaze as Rick rolls his hips, a short push, and the head seats itself at the back of my throat. I gag a sloppy, gurgling sound. Dribble runs down his length. He gathers it on his finger and pushes it back inside my mouth.

He doesn’t pull me off. He eases back half an inch and waits, eyes fixed on my mouth.

"You ok?”

I give him the cursory two taps on his leg because my mouth is rammed full.

“Good lad.”

He doesn't pull out. I inhale through my nose and fill my lungs, then swallow around him. My gag reflex loosens. They see it happen.

Rick’s face settles.

Paul walks behind me, the sound of his zipper being pulled down with each stride. A warm hand grabs my hips, the other gets spat on. He uses two fingers to begin opening me, which is an easy task because I'm so there for this that I automatically push back and suck those bad boys as deep as Paul wants to go.

He adds another finger. My hole stretches around the knuckles and a sound comes out of me that gets lost in the gurgling on Rick’s cock. The pace isn't kind either, but it’s accurate. As is the aim of his cock. I love the bluntness against my hole, the gentle curve of him between my crack. I love the first push even more. The gasp it pulls out of my lungs, the way my whole body jolts forward and Rick holds me in place and Paul pauses, brief, to let me settle.

He pushes in. My spine lights up like a shaken wasp’s nest, buzzing pleasure to my brain, shocking my lungs into action. Rick hears the groan tremble through me, holds me in place preventing my head from throwing back.

"That's it," Rick says, panting close to the top of my head. "Take it lad. Both of us. You know you can."

He guides me deeper. The head of him pushes past the point where I usually stop. I feel a gag brewing, swallow it down and take more of Rick with it. A moment of panic hits when I think I might vomit. He holds me on it. Makes me feel the full weight of him, nose in his pubes, throat swelling with his flesh. Tells me what a good lad I am for not pulling away.

He lets me up. I drag in air, messy, spit bubbles on my chin. He makes me do it all again.

Paul doesn’t talk. He fucks me in short strokes, the slap of it a small noise competing with the radio - newsreaders and weathermen and songs from the eighties. The complete indifference of the ordinary world to what is happening on Paul's mum's kitchen floor.

The lack of synchronisation is jarring, Then a rhythm develops, as it always does. I’m full at both ends, my arms are shaking and the only thing I can do with my mouth is what Rick gives me. Rick mumbles as I work. Filthy words from a filthy man. Encouraging me when to breath, when to suck, when to squeeze his balls. He praises me like I'm his son, tells me I'm perfect and all the time Paul's length is rubbing at my prostate in the way that only Paul knows how to do.

I push back onto Paul, feeding the buzz, feeding the sting, and it feels damn good.

Paul laughs once.

"Greedy.” He sighs the word, like he's a contented man. Then covers my back with his body and reaches under to find me dripping onto the dusty lino.

I am close. Rick must feel it in my throat, or see it in the way my hips start to chase in Paul's fist. His hand tightens in my hair and he eases me off. I gasp. Dribble follows Rick’s cock and wet spots his jeans

Paul stops everything. Stays still inside me.

Rick looks down at my face. Unapologetic.

"Not yet."

Paul pulls out. Slow. I swear and protest, let my disappointment be known. My hole clenches on nothing. My cock is flushed, wet and sticky.

Rick ignores it, tucks himself away, crouches so we are level and puts two fingers under my chin and makes me look at his laughter lined green eyes.

“Later," he says.

One word. I understand it. The whole night is in it. Cumming in Paul's mum's kitchen is not on the cards right now. The buzz and the ache are mine to bear until they see fit to change it.

Behind me Paul is a zip and a belt, buckle clinking closed, footsteps that return to pick up the box of fixings

Paul puts a bottle of water in my hand. When I look up he’s almost ordinary again. Almost. His eyes drop, once, to where I’m still hard.

He picks up his drill.

I pull up the useless sweatpants and tie the waistband as tight as I can. My knees hurt. My hole aches. Every time I shift, I feel where Paul was.

Outside, the late autumn sun keeps pushing through the kitchen window promising a dry evening for the Halloween festivities. We haven't finalised what we’re doing yet. I know it's a pint and some food at the local pub. After, I've no idea, but whatever it is I get the feeling Rick has already decided for us.

I watch him pick up his level.

I pick up my screwdriver and poke my head back in the cupboard.

Continued in Over Sensitive part 2

WANT THE VERSION PANGRAM HATED AND IS TOO HOT FOR SUBSTACK?

Press the orange BUY ME A BREW button and GO TO POLLI'S TIPEEE PAGE - Select *REWARDS* - Tip me 1 euro and it will be sent direct to your inbox.

If the orange Tipee link doesn't work (SS in app fault not mine) please go out of Substack and paste this link into your browser.

https://en.tipeee.com/polli/dashboard/rewards/edit/596433#view

Buy me a brew - 1 Euro

IMPORTANT - REMEMBER TO CHOOSE YOUR REWARD BEFORE PAYING

INSTRUCTIONS FOR TIPEEE - because I’m ND and always need instructions - this site works on a TIP and REWARD basis. You DON’T press the tip button straight away unless you just want to send me some cash lol, you need to choose the the REWARD.

So, Press the orange button marked Polli Tipeee or buy me a brew

Arrive at Polli’s Tipeee page DO NOT AUTOMATICALLY PRESS TIP -

Find the REWARDS SECTION (below the general message there’s a bar) - click the REWARDS section and the exclusive story is there. PDF file marked Over Sensitive Halloween Special. Add and checkout for €1.

FYI - I don’t see any of your details AND you don’t have to message me when requested unless there’s a problem.

Once downloaded you can send it to your kindle.

This is clean and discreet. Hope you enjoy the exclusive version of Over Sensitive Halloween Special part 1. Be warned it is the original with extras added and then edited by AI and it is filthy. Thank you for your support. I love you all x Polli

© polli@izonme 2026. All rights reserved.

Want to read the version Pangram hated and I decided I didn't want to risk getting banned over? Go press the Polli on Tipeee button and select REWARDS choose the Over Sensitive Halloween Special for €1. Further instructions at the end of this story. Sorry it's the best I can do

Polli on Tipee - €1

If the orange Tipee link doesn't work (SS fault not mine) please try the link or you may have to go out of Substack and paste this link into your browser. Sorry x

https://en.tipeee.com/polli/dashboard/rewards/edit/596433#view

Three days late - sorry 😘

BUT

IF YOU Want to read a really, really hot, human written, free story about the three guys? This is the original.👇

Over Time Halloween Special

Pangram score: 100% human written.

🎃 Over Sensitive part 1 👻

When we arrived this morning Paul's mum's kitchen was a typical homely hub full of knick knacks hanging off of cupboards and the fridge door and pictures hanging on random nails that told a story of family, of years spent growing up and being loved.

She'd packed up her precious window herbs and ceramic chicken that, according to Paul, had survived 30 years of being the family egg container. Her cookbooks were safely boxed and protected from any dust. Small electricals, like the kettle and toaster had been relocated to the dining room, so Rick, Paul and I could have some breakfast in the morning.

The kitchen itself is old and in need of refurbishment. When Suki had said she was away for a spa weekend and could we, pretty please, fit the cupboards that had been sitting in her garage for months while she was away, Paul agreed. It's so much easier to work when the house owner’s not there to moan about the mess. And Suki has two spare bedrooms, meaning staying overnight wasn't going to be a problem. Hopefully we would only use one bedroom.

We’d arrived in Brighton around eleven, through streets wearing Halloween bunting and carved pumpkins like the houses were daring us to join the festivities. The back seat held me and our three overnight bags. The boot was full of the tools and the bits and bobs that hadn't been ordered for the delivery.

By two we’re deep in it. Everything has been ripped out and Rick’s on the upper cabinets, level in one hand, pencil behind his ear. Paul’s in and out of the garage digging through drawers and boxes declaring he was positive he'd left some saw or drill there when he left home twenty years previously. Then berating his absent mum for moving them or giving them away to neighbours. His childish behaviour didn't stop there. I watched him walk up to his mum's calendar and draw a penis over the date she'd penciled in as Doug’s birthday. He's her latest boyfriend and from what I gather Paul hates him.

“Well, he is one,” he’d said laughing and walking back to the cupboards we were here to fit.

Rick had remained pretty quiet all morning. Sometimes he would be that way, working solidly and humming to the old tunes on the battered radio. They put me on the base units which should be a simple job but the kitchen floor undulates worse than the ocean so I've been wasting a lot of time bent over trying to shimmy the cupboards into agreeing to be straight.

Usually that wouldn't be a problem but I picked up the wrong joggers to bring as work clothes. The ones I have on now are the ones I normally lounge around my flat in. They're baggy and overly stretched by too much washing. They have a tendency to slip off my hips especially when bending. Already they have revealed my ass cheeks to the guys twice, and made me receive the usual comments about half moons and full moons.

I reach for the drill. The waistband goes with the reach and cold air licks the top of my ass. I don't have any underwear on because… well, why would I want to wear any? And I can't fix my bare ass straight away because my hands are full with the drill and the cabinet.

Behind me, Rick's pencil stops moving.

I eventually tug the fabric up but said fabric decides otherwise and slips again. Next time it happens I'm on my knees, head in the carcass fixing the shelf, blind to the other guys and what they're doing. I feel the chill on my skin before I realise the joggers have gone completely and my ass is literally hanging out.

The garage door bangs shut and I see Paul’s work boots carry him into the kitchen. He doesn’t speak for a second. That's when I notice the silence and Rick's stillness.

"Jesus, Ty, those trousers are a fucking health and safety hazard."

I scramble to yank them up, give Paul an exasperated look.

"This is your fault. You made me rush this morning. I remembered the good jeans for tonight, but grabbed the wrong pair of work trousers from the drawer. They're fine."

"They're not on you."

Rick makes a sound that’s half splutter and half laugh. I stay kneeling. If I look at him I'm likely to go hard. All morning the want has been scratching at the back of my balls, niggling at my cock like a horny termite.

We've been fucking for over six weeks now. Six weeks of Friday nights turning into weekends and sometimes after work when overtime allows us to be alone in half built houses. But weekends are the time we always plan for. Maybe my cock has got some Pavlovian response to Saturdays going on. Like, Tyler, it's Saturday and I've remembered and now you need to reward me.

On a serious note, I don't know what to call what we three are. Thruple means an established relationship and that's hopefully yet to come. But it's definitely too soon to put us in that sort of concrete category. At our last discussion the conclusion went like this: at the moment we are something more than ‘friends that fuck.’ Though the term is technically accurate, it's also completely useless as a description of what happens when Rick has his hands on me and Paul is watching like he's keeping a sex scorecard and we’re not allowed to move on until I've passed every test. But it's also something less than a ‘relationship’ because that sounds like it comes with shared bank accounts and lectures on exclusivity. And we're not ready for that.

What I do know is this. On a Friday night, if we haven’t already made plans, and my phone buzzes with either of their names on my screen, my chest tightens, my breath catches, my cock goes on high alert. When we’re on site working together and Rick puts his hand on my shoulder and praises me I feel that hand print for the rest of the day. When Paul brushes past me, deliberately too close, close enough I feel the outline of his cock through my clothes, and he smiles like he’s the innocent party, I feel like I’ve won a prize.

So it’s not quite wedding bells material. I think it’s more like they’re waiting for me to belong to myself. There’s a difference, and it matters. Rick and Paul have always had something clean in how they’ve lived their lives. Until me, they’ve treated sex as what it is, a pleasure you participate in with no strings attached. They want me to experience a bit of that before we commit to anything. Maybe tonight I'll get a chance.

Paul, if I’m honest, would be the first to love me if I let him. Underneath the filth and swagger is a man who looks at me like I’m something worth keeping. He hasn’t said anything. He won’t, because Paul reads people accurately and he knows I’m still finding my feet in all of this, still learning what I am and what I need. He’s patient, like an alpha wolf, watching and waiting for this cub to mature.

Rick is different.

Rick cares for us the way he does everything - through action, not words. He’s a shelter in a storm, a warm blanket on a cold night, a rock. Someone who can put his hand on the back of neck and squeeze an I’ve got you in to your head without saying a word. I can see he’s not a man who gives his heart easily. There’s something in the way he avoids certain conversations that tells you at some point life taught him to be careful. I don’t ask. I feel he's the sort of man who’ll tell you when he’s ready to share. Up and until that point he still gives himself fully.

So that's what we are. Three men who fit together in their attraction and differences, who look out for each other in the only way each of us knows how.

As I put my head back into the cabinet to fix the shelf the joggers do what they've been insisting on doing all morning. The waistband gives again and they slide down over my ass to my bent knees.

The chill on my bare skin lasts about 4 seconds.

The clack of the level hitting the kitchen table is loud as Rick stops working.

One of his hands land unexpectedly on my lower back. It's not a hand saying I've got you, this one slides a calloused palm over my flesh and lets its fingers speak.

I go still. An ache twists in my gut and races through my blood like bush fire.

His voice is hungry.

"Ty, you've been on your fucking knees for forty minutes" he says, thumb stroking over my seam. "And your backside has been playing jack in the box with daylight the whole time.”

His hand moves lower, spreading warmth across cold skin, adding fuel to the ache.

"Rick..." I say, half enquiry, half amusement, as I extract myself from the cupboard.

I look at Paul. He's leaning against the doorframe tossing a box of fixings from one hand to the other looking at Rick approvingly.

Is he serious? Paul's mum's kitchen doesn't feel like the appropriate place to start getting handsy.

“Lad, there's only so much torment a man can take.” Rick says, stretching his palm across my flesh. He squeezes once like he's testing fruit. Then pulls my crack open for Paul to see. I hear the box of fixings Paul's been playing with rattle as he sets it down.

He doesn’t come closer.

I know this game.

"Up," Rick says.

I obey. The joggers fall to my ankles tripping me as I move. Rick guides me out of his way and I think how comical I must look shuffling around, but no one laughs.

Rick does that look, the one where I feel like I'm a little boy and I've done something he's proud of, then he sits back against the cabinet we’ve only half hung and undoes his belt.

I swallow. My cock kicks in approval. I glance at Paul again. Still in the doorway, still watching. The man loves this part of their game. They have an entire language of silent nods and secret glances that I'm yet to learn.

The radio breaks for a news update. The autumn sun highlights the dust layering on the draining board.

Rick unzips.

Subscribe now

"Here.” he says, pulling his erection from its confinement.

I go down because my knees know this part of their filthy game. Rick is sitting back, thighs spread, cock out in his fist. By now I've had enough practice with it you'd think my lips would be stretched enough not to worry about his size.

But I do worry.

To this day they don't stretch around him without a fight. Six weeks in and my jaw still aches when I get the angle wrong. There's a moment every single time, right at the start where, my body goes are you sure and I have to convince it, yes, just work with me here.

He looks at me looking at it and doesn't smile.

"Open."

I do. He watches the way my lips part.

“Tongue,” he says, like he's going to feed me a rare delicacy.

I offer my tongue.

The meaty head lands on it with a wet slap. I taste him, bitter sweet and salty, warm skin and soap. My body responds immediately, wanting to lick and suck, knowing this isn't what I'm being asked to do. My face muscles twitch knowing what's coming next.

The second I move forward and my mouth has to make room for him, something shifts in his face. Not smugness. More like - satisfaction. Like a man watching something difficult done well. Except I'm not doing it well, that's the thing. I'm doing it badly, even though I’ve learned the angle - chin down and throat lined up - the instant pull at the corners of my mouth confirms what an awful job I'm doing. All the while he watches my predicament, his exhale comes out slow and controlled.

That’s when I know.

He likes the struggle, likes that I haven't figured him out yet. Is that good or bad? I decide either way it doesn’t bother me.

Over by the door Paul watches us. It's his thing. His attention is keen, I feel it like a guiding hand pushing my head down. I sink lower. Both sets of eyes drop to the place where Rick is disappearing.

The radio fades to static. Breathing gets difficult.

Suddenly Paul moves. In a few strides he's standing next to Rick, blocking the light from the window, the bulge in his jeans pushing at the denim.

"Fuck, Ty, look at you. You're doing so good. You're nearly there.”

Rick grunts in agreement. Tries not to thrust.

“Look at us,” he says quietly.

I look up despite the awkward angle. Eyes watery. They hold my gaze as Rick rolls his hips, a short push, and the head seats itself at the back of my throat. I gag a sloppy, gurgling sound. Dribble runs down his length. He gathers it on his finger and pushes it back inside my mouth.

He doesn’t pull me off. He eases back half an inch and waits, eyes fixed on my mouth.

"You ok?”

I give him the cursory two taps on his leg because my mouth is rammed full.

“Good lad.”

He doesn't pull out. I inhale through my nose and fill my lungs, then swallow around him. My gag reflex loosens. They see it happen.

Rick’s face settles.

Paul walks behind me, the sound of his zipper being pulled down with each stride. A warm hand grabs my hips, the other gets spat on. He uses two fingers to begin opening me, which is an easy task because I'm so there for this that I automatically push back and suck those bad boys as deep as Paul wants to go.

He adds another finger. My hole stretches around the knuckles and a sound comes out of me that gets lost in the gurgling on Rick’s cock. The pace isn't kind either, but it’s accurate. As is the aim of his cock. I love the bluntness against my hole, the gentle curve of him between my crack. I love the first push even more. The gasp it pulls out of my lungs, the way my whole body jolts forward and Rick holds me in place and Paul pauses, brief, to let me settle.

He pushes in. My spine lights up like a shaken wasp’s nest, buzzing pleasure to my brain, shocking my lungs into action. Rick hears the groan tremble through me, holds me in place preventing my head from throwing back.

"That's it," Rick says, panting close to the top of my head. "Take it lad. Both of us. You know you can."

He guides me deeper. The head of him pushes past the point where I usually stop. I feel a gag brewing, swallow it down and take more of Rick with it. A moment of panic hits when I think I might vomit. He holds me on it. Makes me feel the full weight of him, nose in his pubes, throat swelling with his flesh. Tells me what a good lad I am for not pulling away.

He lets me up. I drag in air, messy, spit bubbles on my chin. He makes me do it all again.

Paul doesn’t talk. He fucks me in short strokes, the slap of it a small noise competing with the radio - newsreaders and weathermen and songs from the eighties. The complete indifference of the ordinary world to what is happening on Paul's mum's kitchen floor.

The lack of synchronisation is jarring, Then a rhythm develops, as it always does. I’m full at both ends, my arms are shaking and the only thing I can do with my mouth is what Rick gives me. Rick mumbles as I work. Filthy words from a filthy man. Encouraging me when to breath, when to suck, when to squeeze his balls. He praises me like I'm his son, tells me I'm perfect and all the time Paul's length is rubbing at my prostate in the way that only Paul knows how to do.

I push back onto Paul, feeding the buzz, feeding the sting, and it feels damn good.

Paul laughs once.

"Greedy.” He sighs the word, like he's a contented man. Then covers my back with his body and reaches under to find me dripping onto the dusty lino.

I am close. Rick must feel it in my throat, or see it in the way my hips start to chase in Paul's fist. His hand tightens in my hair and he eases me off. I gasp. Dribble follows Rick’s cock and wet spots his jeans

Paul stops everything. Stays still inside me.

Rick looks down at my face. Unapologetic.

"Not yet."

Paul pulls out. Slow. I swear and protest, let my disappointment be known. My hole clenches on nothing. My cock is flushed, wet and sticky.

Rick ignores it, tucks himself away, crouches so we are level and puts two fingers under my chin and makes me look at his laughter lined green eyes.

“Later," he says.

One word. I understand it. The whole night is in it. Cumming in Paul's mum's kitchen is not on the cards right now. The buzz and the ache are mine to bear until they see fit to change it.

Behind me Paul is a zip and a belt, buckle clinking closed, footsteps that return to pick up the box of fixings

Paul puts a bottle of water in my hand. When I look up he’s almost ordinary again. Almost. His eyes drop, once, to where I’m still hard.

He picks up his drill.

I pull up the useless sweatpants and tie the waistband as tight as I can. My knees hurt. My hole aches. Every time I shift, I feel where Paul was.

Outside, the late autumn sun keeps pushing through the kitchen window promising a dry evening for the Halloween festivities. We haven't finalised what we’re doing yet. I know it's a pint and some food at the local pub. After, I've no idea, but whatever it is I get the feeling Rick has already decided for us.

I watch him pick up his level.

I pick up my screwdriver and poke my head back in the cupboard.

Continued in Over Sensitive part 2

WANT THE VERSION PANGRAM HATED AND IS TOO HOT FOR SUBSTACK?

Press the orange BUY ME A BREW button and GO TO POLLI'S TIPEEE PAGE - Select *REWARDS* - Tip me 1 euro and it will be sent direct to your inbox.

^{SORRY GUYS IT'S THE ONLY WAY I COULD DO THIS - €1 TIP AND IT'S YOURS, SENT FROM TIPEEE TO YOUR INBOX. I DON'T SEE YOUR DETAILS AND YOU CERTAINLY DON'T NEED TO MESSAGE ME WHEN PROMPTED - UNLESS YOU NEED TO KNOW SOMETHING.}

If the orange Tipee link doesn't work (SS in app fault not mine) please go out of Substack and paste this link into your browser. Or try it on the SS website.

https://en.tipeee.com/polli/dashboard/rewards/edit/596433#view

Buy me a brew - 1 Euro

✨IMPORTANT - REMEMBER TO CHOOSE YOUR REWARD BEFORE PAYING

INSTRUCTIONS FOR TIPEEE - because I’m ND and always need instructions - this site works on a TIP and REWARD basis. You DON’T press the tip button straight away unless you just want to send me some cash lol, you need to choose the the REWARD.

So, Press the orange button marked Polli Tipeee or buy me a brew

Arrive at Polli’s Tipeee page DO NOT AUTOMATICALLY PRESS TIP -

Find the REWARDS SECTION (below the general message there’s a bar) - click the REWARDS section and the exclusive story is there. PDF file marked Over Sensitive Halloween Special. Add and checkout for €1.

FYI - I don’t see any of your details AND you don’t have to message me when requested unless there’s a problem.

Once downloaded you can send it to your kindle.

This is clean and discreet. Hope you enjoy the exclusive version of Over Sensitive Halloween Special part 1. 🥰Be warned it is the original with extras added and then edited by AI and it is filthy. Thank you for your support. I love you all x 🏳️‍🌈👁️🏳️‍🌈 Polli

© polli@izonme 2026. All rights reserved.

Subscribe now

This is 100% Human Written Just For You🥰

Want to catch up?

Part 1 can be found here. Part 2 can be found here

Horny Horoscope Stories

Libra part 3

Please support my work. It's free to subscribe

Subscribe now

4. The Colonnade

We walk because standing still could make my wanting loud enough for the Court to hear through the walls. Okay, slight exaggeration, but it has truth in it. I do want him. More than I've ever wanted any other. I fear I've become slightly obsessed and that's not how I planned this.

The colonnade is a white throat around Hevanna's Temple of Judgement. The views are high altitude and forever in distance. At dawn our brief look at the sun is blinding. At night the views are moon-stunned on a cloud free day. Said moon watches us, wearing a coat of vapour, waiting for the night wind to clear the mist.

Dusk has brought more clouds pushing between the pillars like fussy lumps of cotton wool. Cav, now clad in the new tunic, keeps half a step off my shoulder. Which is either the manners he’s had trained into him as a corruption, or the last of his archivist training. Either way, I keep ruining it by slowing down so the silk of my robe finds his wrist and I have an excuse to grab his hand and hold it.

“Please, walk by my side. You're not my servant, Cav.”

That's a half lie. He won't be waiting on me in any sense of domesticity, but he will serve my body, as I will his.

“If we’re to be accepted for a bond we have to be convincing.”

He smiles and nods, moves to my side, still barefoot, still humble.

“You can touch me.” I emphasis the can and nudge his shoulder playfully. The watching seems to have unnerved him a little. Or is it the denial? Holding an orgasm can sit low in your belly reminding you of unfinished business like a dripping tap reminds you it needs fixing.

He turns, gaze going to my skin, to the clasp that’s only jewellery sitting on my shoulder. His eyes drop to the line of me under the grey silk. He knows I'm hard, just as I know he's aching for release and is semi erect if not fully. There’s no point hiding these facts when the dragon already knows.

“How long,” Cav asks, “have you been here playing still?”

Ah, he's curious about my voyeurism and love of edging. I like holding the want until it hurts, until I need to fix it, because the moment I finally let the stillness go the fucking is worth ten times more than every minute I held it.

“Ten years here.” I point a sweeping hand at the temple. “Before that, enough private rooms to learn the difference between wanting and taking.”

Cav doesn't say anything. Curiosity paints his face with an expression any God would be jealous of.

“That's long enough to know I like looking,” I add.

We continue to walk, side by side, odd violet eyes catching mine as we speak. “Hey, so I like to watch. And I don’t spend until I choose. It's my form of performance enhancement. I know you felt it when I stopped you. That ache? It won't leave you now, it’ll stay with you, amplifying each time ejaculation is prevented. And it's the same rule for me. I stay hard. Until I don't.”

“Hell’s teeth, Roxy. How… how long for?”

I grab his wrist and pull him towards a break in the columns. The drop is nothing but clouds and gravity.

“You, young man, will cum when I say. Not before. That’s the whole of it.”

He spins to look over the low wall, laughing and calling me Lucifer’s bastard, then steps back, flinching his shoulders, face gone pale. A week ago it wouldn't have mattered if he fell, his wings would have saved him. Today he's a prisoner to their loss.

He checks himself. Pretends it was nothing. Steadies his breathing.

“That sounds awfully like a punishment to me.”

“No, boy,” I chuckle and reach for him, “It’s a reward… a Libra reward you’re going to enjoy.” I move closer. He smells less coppery with his orgasm contained. Younger? More human? I can't decide.

“I have spent years teaching myself not to take what I want. The not taking is as much an art as is the taking.”

His breath hitches as he leans into me. Yes, the burnt copper has mellowed. Two new scents tempt my taste buds.

He's granite under the tunic. I palm it through the fabric. Watch his eyes glaze, his mouth open.

“Then you arrive with a name you won’t unspeak, and scars that still remember flight, and suddenly I realise I’ve known you less than three hours and am finding the holding back a problem.”

Those are the truest words I've spoken today. His fierce determination to defy the Court’s request and his erogenous scars were two of the reasons I decided to save him, but that damned watching has ruined me for all others. I’m angry with myself. He must be Adonis born, Eros blessed and Mercury enchanted. The spell he's cast on me could be my undoing.

His hips rotate slowly against my palm. He laughs a wicked laugh. A laugh like a boy who has nothing left to lose, like a boy who has let too many Judas's have a piece of him and wonders if I'll be next. Then the laugh turns breathless, almost feminine. The sound of it goes into my spine.

“Sir… uh, Roxy, sorry… again. Aren't you meant to be the sensible one here, the magistrate, the reasonable one?”

“I am reasonable,” I say gripping the length of him. “Reasonably, I want you on your knees on this marble and I want to be the one who puts you there because you asked very prettily.”

Cav’s breath changes. He steps in to my fist like an obedient dog and fills his fists with handfuls of robe, holding on as his hips find a rhythm.

“Fuck… Roxy… please… I want to cum.”

I lick the bruise on his neck. Just once.

“I know you do.” I say it sympathetically, then let go of his cock. I'm rewarded with one of his childish foot stamps and a spoilt brat whimper. By the feathers, he's my perfect match.

“Tell me the truth of the mortal, then you can have more.”

“Ugh…The mortal…” he tries to settle his breathing as he squashes the tent in his tunic. I wait, dread building, because this part of the conversation could hurt. He looks me in the eye preparing for a potential argument. “I did love him and I won’t unspeak it for you either. If that’s a problem…”

“For Seraphim's sake, I don't care whether you unspeak his fucking name or not. I just need to know whether you still have room to care for another. I’ve already told you we weigh, we bond… or we don’t, and if we don't I won't put my hands on you. We'll find other ways to entertain ourselves.”

“Like?” He says it seriously.

I rub my neck trying to think of things I might do if sex wasn't on the table. Not something I’ve ever had to face before.

“Ugh, chess?” It's weak and he knows it.

He's baiting me and enjoying it too. Those shadowy violet eyes slowly look around us, takes in the grandeur of it all - the temple, the colonnade.

“There’s room,”

Finally. Finally the tightness in my chest loosens. I sigh. He continues:

“There’s a lot of room actually. He isn’t here. You are.” A cheeky grin forms. “Now can you stop being so precious about the sodding sentencing and tell me what you want to do to me.”

I tell him.

In plain words. The complete filthy list. How I want him stripped out of the new tunic and held open against a pillar while with the moon as witness. How I want my cock in his mouth and then in him, slow enough he feels every inch of the seven years between us and likes it. How I want to taste him until he cums untouched.

“Impossible,” he says.

“Don’t challenge me.” I say.

The list continues from how I want him to moan so loud that the Court will hear and know the boy they betrayed lives to fuck again. To hints about the inner sanctuary. I say it all watching his face for the stop. There is no stop. Just his pupils going wide. His hand finding his length and rubbing at it.

I remove his hand and kiss the fingers

Justice, behind us, makes a sound like a kettle settling.

“She can hear,” Cav murmurs.

“She’s heard worse. But don’t worry. Honestly, she only leaves when she hears a lie.” I cover his hand with mine. “And this isn’t a lie. Besides, she’s been here forever, she must have enough material to rewrite the Kama Sutra and add another couple of volumes to it.”

I could write one volume about you alone, she huffs as she wiggles her tail like a pointy snake and settles on her perch.

Cav freezes. “Oh great Gods of Hevanna, did the dragon speak?”

The dragon has a name, pup. You'd do well to remember it.

I'm as shocked as he is. Justice rarely interacts. I take it as a welcome turn of events. She must like him. She'll think hard on her decision at the weighing. Restoring balance is her priority. Cav's already lost his wings, hopefully she'll see the protecting bond I'm going to offer as a final payment for his sins.

°°°°°°°°

5. The Almost

We don’t make it back to the scale.

I put him against a marble column because he pulls me there. His mouth hits my chest first, gliding over the sternum like a melting comet. He finds nipples to bite, areola to lick, then lower, the silk shoved aside like a curtain to Nirvana. He kisses ribs and belly button while I find the bruise on his collar bone with my thumb. I press it. Hard. Listen to his whimper. Watch the bruise bloom and decide to bite it. He makes a noise that would make a man with erectile dysfunction stay hard for a week.

“Yes,” he groans, “Fuck, yes, make it hurt.

I promise him I will.

I get a hand in his hair and guide his mouth down until his cheek is at the hard shape of my cock under the robe. I push against his jaw, soft silk between us, wet spot darkening the fabric. He looks up just as the wind uncovers the moon and rays of silver light find us - a duped boy knelt before a disillusioned magistrate, both prisoners of their want.

“Ask,” I say.

This time he doesn't hesitate.

“I want it... I want you… in my mouth. I want the rest after… I want it here, now, wrapped in moonlight and clouds.”

Such pretty words from a pretty boy.

The control I spent years curating frays at the edges, energy snapping one thread at a time.

“My name, Cav. Say my name… in the asking.”

Those big eyes, almost lilac in lunar light, fill with knowing. A name spoken during sex is important. It’s the difference between being a body and a person, between giving and taking. Cav knows this better than most. He lost his wings by keeping his human lover’s name, but more than that he let the Court know he understood there's a difference between heat and use, and he was done being used.

He looks at me now, understanding what I’m asking him to risk, and what I’m offering by wanting to hear it. His brow wrinkles as he thinks, his eyes flicker with memories. Shoulder muscles twitch reminding him of the price he's already paid.

I sense Justice straining to hear his words.

“I want you, Roxy… I want you in my mouth, in my body… and I want it now, Roxy, temple magistrate of Hevanna…” He pauses, looks over his shoulder, laughs. “If you can stand the dragon watching and probably taking notes.”

The asking is holy nectar, a celestial aphrodisiac, my favourite sort of soul candy. I caress his jaw, thumb-stroke his lips.

“Oh, don't worry, sweet boy, I can stand it.”

He opens the rest of the silk. His palm is hot, his mouth hotter. He takes me down in one long slide, throat open, gag free, swallowing veins and ridges until he's impaled nose to belly. The heat of it shocks a sound out of me, the depth of it makes my head fall back against the marble, muttering prayers of thanks to the Fates. Novas explode in my spine, bright and brief, then collapse heavily, turning into a slow orbit that drags every nerve into his mouth.

His lips seal around the base. His throat is obscenely full when he moves. I watch it contract and swell as he tightens the give and adjusts the pull. He controls his need for air with a solid chest and a slow heartbeat. I silently thank the Court for adding that to the youth training programme. No one wants a boy who panics about blocked airways.

I feel like a planet pulled off its path. Years of holding still, and one swallow pulls me off the axis. Gravity attacks my knees. My brain thinks of the scars I haven’t yet kissed properly and the cock I watched not thirty minutes ago. Hell’s fire scorches my insides. An aurora borealis blurs my vision.

He pulls of, sloppy with saliva, lips puffy from the work. Moonbeams catch my shine, cold air makes me shiver. He fills his lungs, slides back on, slower this time, tongue curling around me taco-shell style, cradling the weight of me like a warm manger.

I let my hips move. Gently. Testing both of us. I hold his jaw and thrust. All the while I tell him how perfect he is, how filthy and right he looks on his knees. Not one lie there I think as a supernova commits suicide behind my eyes.

The marble is cold at my back. Everything else is burning, caught in the pull of him and I think this is born from his corruption, and then I think, thank fuck. My hand stays in his hair. I shower him in praise because praise is part of how I fuck and because he goes wrecked and hungry when I do.

It’s nearly the whole thing. Clumsy and carefree, Cav's nose in my pubes, his spit dripping off my balls, fire and stars exploding in my nervous system like planetary popcorn.

I stop him.

I don't want to but Justice has raised a foot indicating she's thinking of leaving. She's warning me I might have gone too far this time.

Continued in part4 - The Weighing.

✨This Substack comes to you free of charge. The only payment I ask is - if you enjoyed this piece of work show your appreciation for the time and effort it took to produce by liking and subscribing. ✨

Subscribe now

Share Polli 🏳️‍🌈👁️🏳️‍🌈

Want to read the version Pangram hated and I decided I didn't want to risk getting banned over? Go press the Polli on Tipeee button and select REWARDS choose the Over Sensitive Halloween Special for €1. Further instructions at the end of this story. Sorry it's the best I can do

Polli on Tipee - €1

Three days late - sorry 😘

BUT

IF YOU Want to read a really, really hot, human written, free story about the three guys? This is the original.👇

Over Time Halloween Special

Pangram score: 100% human written.

🎃 Over Sensitive part 1 👻

When we arrived this morning Paul's mum's kitchen was a typical homely hub full of knick knacks hanging off of cupboards and the fridge door and pictures hanging on random nails that told a story of family, of years spent growing up and being loved.

She'd packed up her precious window herbs and ceramic chicken that, according to Paul, had survived 30 years of being the family egg container. Her cookbooks were safely boxed and protected from any dust. Small electricals, like the kettle and toaster had been relocated to the dining room, so Rick, Paul and I could have some breakfast in the morning.

The kitchen itself is old and in need of refurbishment. When Suki had said she was away for a spa weekend and could we, pretty please, fit the cupboards that had been sitting in her garage for months while she was away, Paul agreed. It's so much easier to work when the house owner’s not there to moan about the mess. And Suki has two spare bedrooms, meaning staying overnight wasn't going to be a problem. Hopefully we would only use one bedroom.

We’d arrived in Brighton around eleven, through streets wearing Halloween bunting and carved pumpkins like the houses were daring us to join the festivities. The back seat held me and our three overnight bags. The boot was full of the tools and the bits and bobs that hadn't been ordered for the delivery.

By two we’re deep in it. Everything has been ripped out and Rick’s on the upper cabinets, level in one hand, pencil behind his ear. Paul’s in and out of the garage digging through drawers and boxes declaring he was positive he'd left some saw or drill there when he left home twenty years previously. Then berating his absent mum for moving them or giving them away to neighbours. His childish behaviour didn't stop there. I watched him walk up to his mum's calendar and draw a penis over the date she'd penciled in as Doug’s birthday. He's her latest boyfriend and from what I gather Paul hates him.

“Well, he is one,” he’d said laughing and walking back to the cupboards we were here to fit.

Rick had remained pretty quiet all morning. Sometimes he would be that way, working solidly and humming to the old tunes on the battered radio. They put me on the base units which should be a simple job but the kitchen floor undulates worse than the ocean so I've been wasting a lot of time bent over trying to shimmy the cupboards into agreeing to be straight.

Usually that wouldn't be a problem but I picked up the wrong joggers to bring as work clothes. The ones I have on now are the ones I normally lounge around my flat in. They're baggy and overly stretched by too much washing. They have a tendency to slip off my hips especially when bending. Already they have revealed my ass cheeks to the guys twice, and made me receive the usual comments about half moons and full moons.

I reach for the drill. The waistband goes with the reach and cold air licks the top of my ass. I don't have any underwear on because… well, why would I want to wear any? And I can't fix my bare ass straight away because my hands are full with the drill and the cabinet.

Behind me, Rick's pencil stops moving.

I eventually tug the fabric up but said fabric decides otherwise and slips again. Next time it happens I'm on my knees, head in the carcass fixing the shelf, blind to the other guys and what they're doing. I feel the chill on my skin before I realise the joggers have gone completely and my ass is literally hanging out.

The garage door bangs shut and I see Paul’s work boots carry him into the kitchen. He doesn’t speak for a second. That's when I notice the silence and Rick's stillness.

"Jesus, Ty, those trousers are a fucking health and safety hazard."

I scramble to yank them up, give Paul an exasperated look.

"This is your fault. You made me rush this morning. I remembered the good jeans for tonight, but grabbed the wrong pair of work trousers from the drawer. They're fine."

"They're not on you."

Rick makes a sound that’s half splutter and half laugh. I stay kneeling. If I look at him I'm likely to go hard. All morning the want has been scratching at the back of my balls, niggling at my cock like a horny termite.

We've been fucking for over six weeks now. Six weeks of Friday nights turning into weekends and sometimes after work when overtime allows us to be alone in half built houses. But weekends are the time we always plan for. Maybe my cock has got some Pavlovian response to Saturdays going on. Like, Tyler, it's Saturday and I've remembered and now you need to reward me.

On a serious note, I don't know what to call what we three are. Thruple means an established relationship and that's hopefully yet to come. But it's definitely too soon to put us in that sort of concrete category. At our last discussion the conclusion went like this: at the moment we are something more than ‘friends that fuck.’ Though the term is technically accurate, it's also completely useless as a description of what happens when Rick has his hands on me and Paul is watching like he's keeping a sex scorecard and we’re not allowed to move on until I've passed every test. But it's also something less than a ‘relationship’ because that sounds like it comes with shared bank accounts and lectures on exclusivity. And we're not ready for that.

What I do know is this. On a Friday night, if we haven’t already made plans, and my phone buzzes with either of their names on my screen, my chest tightens, my breath catches, my cock goes on high alert. When we’re on site working together and Rick puts his hand on my shoulder and praises me I feel that hand print for the rest of the day. When Paul brushes past me, deliberately too close, close enough I feel the outline of his cock through my clothes, and he smiles like he’s the innocent party, I feel like I’ve won a prize.

So it’s not quite wedding bells material. I think it’s more like they’re waiting for me to belong to myself. There’s a difference, and it matters. Rick and Paul have always had something clean in how they’ve lived their lives. Until me, they’ve treated sex as what it is, a pleasure you participate in with no strings attached. They want me to experience a bit of that before we commit to anything. Maybe tonight I'll get a chance.

Paul, if I’m honest, would be the first to love me if I let him. Underneath the filth and swagger is a man who looks at me like I’m something worth keeping. He hasn’t said anything. He won’t, because Paul reads people accurately and he knows I’m still finding my feet in all of this, still learning what I am and what I need. He’s patient, like an alpha wolf, watching and waiting for this cub to mature.

Rick is different.

Rick cares for us the way he does everything - through action, not words. He’s a shelter in a storm, a warm blanket on a cold night, a rock. Someone who can put his hand on the back of neck and squeeze an I’ve got you in to your head without saying a word. I can see he’s not a man who gives his heart easily. There’s something in the way he avoids certain conversations that tells you at some point life taught him to be careful. I don’t ask. I feel he's the sort of man who’ll tell you when he’s ready to share. Up and until that point he still gives himself fully.

So that's what we are. Three men who fit together in their attraction and differences, who look out for each other in the only way each of us knows how.

As I put my head back into the cabinet to fix the shelf the joggers do what they've been insisting on doing all morning. The waistband gives again and they slide down over my ass to my bent knees.

The chill on my bare skin lasts about 4 seconds.

The clack of the level hitting the kitchen table is loud as Rick stops working.

One of his hands land unexpectedly on my lower back. It's not a hand saying I've got you, this one slides a calloused palm over my flesh and lets its fingers speak.

I go still. An ache twists in my gut and races through my blood like bush fire.

His voice is hungry.

"Ty, you've been on your fucking knees for forty minutes" he says, thumb stroking over my seam. "And your backside has been playing jack in the box with daylight the whole time.”

His hand moves lower, spreading warmth across cold skin, adding fuel to the ache.

"Rick..." I say, half enquiry, half amusement, as I extract myself from the cupboard.

I look at Paul. He's leaning against the doorframe tossing a box of fixings from one hand to the other looking at Rick approvingly.

Is he serious? Paul's mum's kitchen doesn't feel like the appropriate place to start getting handsy.

“Lad, there's only so much torment a man can take.” Rick says, stretching his palm across my flesh. He squeezes once like he's testing fruit. Then pulls my crack open for Paul to see. I hear the box of fixings Paul's been playing with rattle as he sets it down.

He doesn’t come closer.

I know this game.

"Up," Rick says.

I obey. The joggers fall to my ankles tripping me as I move. Rick guides me out of his way and I think how comical I must look shuffling around, but no one laughs.

Rick does that look, the one where I feel like I'm a little boy and I've done something he's proud of, then he sits back against the cabinet we’ve only half hung and undoes his belt.

I swallow. My cock kicks in approval. I glance at Paul again. Still in the doorway, still watching. The man loves this part of their game. They have an entire language of silent nods and secret glances that I'm yet to learn.

The radio breaks for a news update. The autumn sun highlights the dust layering on the draining board.

Rick unzips.

Subscribe now

"Here.” he says, pulling his erection from its confinement.

I go down because my knees know this part of their filthy game. Rick is sitting back, thighs spread, cock out in his fist. By now I've had enough practice with it you'd think my lips would be stretched enough not to worry about his size.

But I do worry.

To this day they don't stretch around him without a fight. Six weeks in and my jaw still aches when I get the angle wrong. There's a moment every single time, right at the start where, my body goes are you sure and I have to convince it, yes, just work with me here.

He looks at me looking at it and doesn't smile.

"Open."

I do. He watches the way my lips part.

“Tongue,” he says, like he's going to feed me a rare delicacy.

I offer my tongue.

The meaty head lands on it with a wet slap. I taste him, bitter sweet and salty, warm skin and soap. My body responds immediately, wanting to lick and suck, knowing this isn't what I'm being asked to do. My face muscles twitch knowing what's coming next.

The second I move forward and my mouth has to make room for him, something shifts in his face. Not smugness. More like - satisfaction. Like a man watching something difficult done well. Except I'm not doing it well, that's the thing. I'm doing it badly, even though I’ve learned the angle - chin down and throat lined up - the instant pull at the corners of my mouth confirms what an awful job I'm doing. All the while he watches my predicament, his exhale comes out slow and controlled.

That’s when I know.

He likes the struggle, likes that I haven't figured him out yet. Is that good or bad? I decide either way it doesn’t bother me.

Over by the door Paul watches us. It's his thing. His attention is keen, I feel it like a guiding hand pushing my head down. I sink lower. Both sets of eyes drop to the place where Rick is disappearing.

The radio fades to static. Breathing gets difficult.

Suddenly Paul moves. In a few strides he's standing next to Rick, blocking the light from the window, the bulge in his jeans pushing at the denim.

"Fuck, Ty, look at you. You're doing so good. You're nearly there.”

Rick grunts in agreement. Tries not to thrust.

“Look at us,” he says quietly.

I look up despite the awkward angle. Eyes watery. They hold my gaze as Rick rolls his hips, a short push, and the head seats itself at the back of my throat. I gag a sloppy, gurgling sound. Dribble runs down his length. He gathers it on his finger and pushes it back inside my mouth.

He doesn’t pull me off. He eases back half an inch and waits, eyes fixed on my mouth.

"You ok?”

I give him the cursory two taps on his leg because my mouth is rammed full.

“Good lad.”

He doesn't pull out. I inhale through my nose and fill my lungs, then swallow around him. My gag reflex loosens. They see it happen.

Rick’s face settles.

Paul walks behind me, the sound of his zipper being pulled down with each stride. A warm hand grabs my hips, the other gets spat on. He uses two fingers to begin opening me, which is an easy task because I'm so there for this that I automatically push back and suck those bad boys as deep as Paul wants to go.

He adds another finger. My hole stretches around the knuckles and a sound comes out of me that gets lost in the gurgling on Rick’s cock. The pace isn't kind either, but it’s accurate. As is the aim of his cock. I love the bluntness against my hole, the gentle curve of him between my crack. I love the first push even more. The gasp it pulls out of my lungs, the way my whole body jolts forward and Rick holds me in place and Paul pauses, brief, to let me settle.

He pushes in. My spine lights up like a shaken wasp’s nest, buzzing pleasure to my brain, shocking my lungs into action. Rick hears the groan tremble through me, holds me in place preventing my head from throwing back.

"That's it," Rick says, panting close to the top of my head. "Take it lad. Both of us. You know you can."

He guides me deeper. The head of him pushes past the point where I usually stop. I feel a gag brewing, swallow it down and take more of Rick with it. A moment of panic hits when I think I might vomit. He holds me on it. Makes me feel the full weight of him, nose in his pubes, throat swelling with his flesh. Tells me what a good lad I am for not pulling away.

He lets me up. I drag in air, messy, spit bubbles on my chin. He makes me do it all again.

Paul doesn’t talk. He fucks me in short strokes, the slap of it a small noise competing with the radio - newsreaders and weathermen and songs from the eighties. The complete indifference of the ordinary world to what is happening on Paul's mum's kitchen floor.

The lack of synchronisation is jarring, Then a rhythm develops, as it always does. I’m full at both ends, my arms are shaking and the only thing I can do with my mouth is what Rick gives me. Rick mumbles as I work. Filthy words from a filthy man. Encouraging me when to breath, when to suck, when to squeeze his balls. He praises me like I'm his son, tells me I'm perfect and all the time Paul's length is rubbing at my prostate in the way that only Paul knows how to do.

I push back onto Paul, feeding the buzz, feeding the sting, and it feels damn good.

Paul laughs once.

"Greedy.” He sighs the word, like he's a contented man. Then covers my back with his body and reaches under to find me dripping onto the dusty lino.

I am close. Rick must feel it in my throat, or see it in the way my hips start to chase in Paul's fist. His hand tightens in my hair and he eases me off. I gasp. Dribble follows Rick’s cock and wet spots his jeans

Paul stops everything. Stays still inside me.

Rick looks down at my face. Unapologetic.

"Not yet."

Paul pulls out. Slow. I swear and protest, let my disappointment be known. My hole clenches on nothing. My cock is flushed, wet and sticky.

Rick ignores it, tucks himself away, crouches so we are level and puts two fingers under my chin and makes me look at his laughter lined green eyes.

“Later," he says.

One word. I understand it. The whole night is in it. Cumming in Paul's mum's kitchen is not on the cards right now. The buzz and the ache are mine to bear until they see fit to change it.

Behind me Paul is a zip and a belt, buckle clinking closed, footsteps that return to pick up the box of fixings

Paul puts a bottle of water in my hand. When I look up he’s almost ordinary again. Almost. His eyes drop, once, to where I’m still hard.

He picks up his drill.

I pull up the useless sweatpants and tie the waistband as tight as I can. My knees hurt. My hole aches. Every time I shift, I feel where Paul was.

Outside, the late autumn sun keeps pushing through the kitchen window promising a dry evening for the Halloween festivities. We haven't finalised what we’re doing yet. I know it's a pint and some food at the local pub. After, I've no idea, but whatever it is I get the feeling Rick has already decided for us.

I watch him pick up his level.

I pick up my screwdriver and poke my head back in the cupboard.

Continued in Over Sensitive part 2

WANT THE VERSION PANGRAM HATED AND IS TOO HOT FOR SUBSTACK?

Press the orange BUY ME A BREW button and GO TO POLLI'S TIPEEE PAGE - Select REWARDS - Tip me 1 euro and it will be sent direct

to your inbox.

^{SORRY GUYS IT'S THE ONLY WAY I COULD DO THIS - €1 TIP AND IT'S YOURS, SENT FROM TIPEEE TO YOUR INBOX. I DON'T SEE YOUR DETAILS AND YOU CERTAINLY DON'T NEED TO MESSAGE ME WHEN PROMPTED - UNLESS YOU NEED TO KNOW SOMETHING.}

Buy me a brew - 1 Euro

✨IMPORTANT - REMEMBER TO CHOOSE YOUR REWARD BEFORE PAYING

INSTRUCTIONS FOR TIPEEE - because I’m ND and always need instructions - this site works on a TIP and REWARD basis. You DON’T press the tip button straight away unless you just want to send me some cash lol, you need to choose the the REWARD.

So, Press the orange button marked Polli Tipeee or buy me a brew

Arrive at Polli’s Tipeee page DO NOT AUTOMATICALLY PRESS TIP -

Find the REWARDS SECTION (below the general message there’s a bar) - click the REWARDS section and the exclusive story is there. PDF file marked Over Sensitive Halloween Special. Add and checkout for €1.

FYI - I don’t see any of your details AND you don’t have to message me when requested unless there’s a problem.

Once downloaded you can send it to your kindle.

This is clean and discreet. Hope you enjoy the exclusive version of Over Sensitive Halloween Special part 1. 🥰

Buy me a cuppa Tipee €1

Be warned it is the original with extras added and then enhanced by AI and it is filthy. Thank you for your support. I love you all x 🏳️‍🌈👁️🏳️‍🌈 Polli

© polli@izonme 2026. All rights reserved.

👉TRIGGER WARNING - physical and sexual abuse. The contents of this short story may be distressing to some readers. For the safety of your own peace of mind if you think this subject matter will upset you PLEASE DO NOT READ.

Sincere thanks to for posting an image that helped inspire this short story. The picture asked and I asnwered after I had read this thought provoking article by about consent.

Subscribe now

Share

Share Polli 🏳️‍🌈👁️🏳️‍🌈

100% Non AI - read the trigger warnings first.

Sorry

He stood in the wrecked classroom in nothing but the boots and the hat. A breeze blew in the broken door, cooling naked skin, kissing the welts on his ass. A small rodent chittered in the corner, too busy surviving to notice the young man.

The room behind him looked like a dystopian crime scene. Torn paper, emptied bins, leaves blown in from the sycamore tree in the yard. The furniture was long gone. Removed by thieves the night the school had closed. Sold for food by the next morning.

His clothes were folded neatly, in a pile on the tatty office chair Raymond had dragged from the dump last week. His brother was full of bright ideas like that.

A snapped belt lay in two pieces near the blackboard, the buckle bent.

The hat had stayed on the whole time. Which was odd when you think of the aggression involved. The boots had stayed on because the man had told him to keep them on. Besides, they’d made him feel ten years older.

The man had said his name was Grif. He’d said the moon was talking to him, and that the full moon tonight was about blood. It was, indeed, a blood moon. Grif had smiled when he said it, the kind of smile that didn’t reach his eyes or move his face.

“Lunar fuck,” he’d said, almost polite. “You don’t have to believe in that shite. You just have to be here for it.”

He’d been here alright .

They had started with mouths and hands, clashing teeth and awkward gropes. The beers had helped them pretend they weren't strangers. Clothes came off. His folded neatly. Grifs hurriedly dropped on whatever surface he found, which was mostly floor space.

Then Grif had flipped him over the wood-wormed desk, without warning, without care, and the ‘getting to know you’ part ended. He had to admit he liked it at first. The weight of the man over him, the grip on his wrists, the way skin on skin contact had felt meaningful. Like ‘could this be the one’ meaningful.

Grif talked the whole time, rambled really, about tides, and lunar phases. He discussed the influence the moon has on the cosmos. Had opinions on how a body could be a celestial message if you use it hard enough.

Somewhere in the middle the talking stopped making sense. The grip tightened past the point where it was still a game. The spanking became a real punishment, like it was his fault vampires existed.

Hope had played another dirty trick on him.

He had said the word they’d agreed on. He’d said it loud enough and clear enough so no mistakes could be made. Grif had heard it and hadn’t stopped right away.

After, Grif had sat on Raymond's old office chair. Sat right on top of the folded clothes, breathing like he had run a mile.

Grif touched the hat once, polite and paternal.

The word sorry filled the room. Sorry, that it got away from him. Sorry, please understand, he didn’t usually do that. Sorry, about the cuts on his ass. Sorry, about the bruises. Sorry, he had to rush off. Sorry everywhere but in his heart.

Then Grif dressed in the dark and left, without a word, not asking if the young man was ok, or offering a lift back to town. The young man in the boots watched him go, rubbed the bruises appearing on his wrists, ran his tongue over his lips, inspecting the cracks the man had put there. His ass throbbed. Sitting down would hurt for a week.

He thought about calling the police, and knew he wouldn’t. He thought about calling Grif and knew the number was already gone from his phone. Raymond wasn't old enough to drive.

The hat felt heavier now. He adjusted it anyway. Adjusted it in the way a young man does when he’s trying to remember who he was before he agreed to a meet.

Outside another rodent approached the abandoned schoolhouse.

Inside, the young man found the lump of chalk he and Raymond had picked up at the quarry.

He wrote SORRY on the blackboard.

The end.

Thank you for reading.

FYI- I am practicing writing with out the aid of AI. I think I’m doing ok. You may think differently. All constructive criticism is welcome.

If you enjoyed this free story please take a moment to restack and like it. This helps me reach a wider audience and encourages me to write more. ❤️

Need to catch up? Part 1 can be found here

Subscribe now

End of part 1 recap

The wings were taken a 5 days ago. Sealed with a hot blade. The sweetness must be him.

“You’re staring,” Cav says.

“There’s a scrape on your collarbone.”

I don't tell him I want to investigate it with my mouth. I sip my wine and watch the bruise move with him as he raises his cup in a toast.

Justice lifts her head. The empty pan ticks. Cav glances at the dragon and something in him goes quiet. I guess he’s never been looked at by a Court dragon that can smell a lie on a moonbeam.

Libra Part 2 - Kink in the Clouds

Justice is our lie detector." I say it like the fact it is. "She goes, the room changes.

He drinks. Thinks. Drinks again.

There's wine still on his lips when he says:

"The other Dominos, they told me,” he pauses, “not to trust you."

My teeth catch the glass when I laugh.

"Good. Only fools trust." I feel my smile hurt my face. "But you're a Domino…”

“Ex-Domino…”

“Ex- Domino maybe, but they didn't take your brain…” I nod to the bulge in his rags. “Or that.”

He looks down, sees the outline of himself against the cloth, doesn't try to hide it.

“So? I enjoy sex.”

“At what cost? You've already lost your wings.”

“Look Roxy, I study desire and I do a lot of field research.”

“With humans?” The surprise sparks his eyes but he keeps a straight face. “Now they're coming for your soul.”

“Soul?” He chokes. “I don't have one. They took that when I was ten years old.”

I nod, scratch my chin. He’s a cauldron of regret, bubbling a spell. I should forget the offer I'm about to make, but I know a thing or two about the paths desire takes us on as well. And I really want to walk this one with him.

“Yes, I read your index. I believe you were the youngest corruption they've ever made and you have every right to be angry…”

He stamps a foot on the marble.

“Angry… angry doesn't describe what I feel when I let myself think about it.”

I hug him. I can't help myself. The Court has taken this intelligent young man's life and treated him worse than they treat the weird amount of caged birds in the Hevanna Aviary.

Same copper flavoured burnt sugar. That smell. Sweet and subtle and unique to him, fills my nostrils, sends a rush to my groin so fast it almost takes the breath from me. I tighten the embrace. I want him to feel me against his hip, I want him to know exactly what he's doing to me. He doesn't attempt to pull away.

“Know this young man, I’m going to be kind to you. I'm also going to want you. Several times a day. You should know that before we go anywhere near the scale."

He doesn't flinch. Good.

"And if I don't want you back?" he asks, face resting on my bare chest.

"Then the scales weigh you and I don't touch you."

His pulse is going hard at the side of his throat, visible, rapid. I want my hand there. He tips his face up to the sky and breathes out slow.

"Magistrate…”

I scowl at him.

“Sorry… I mean sir… uh, Roxy, okay, tell me the charge. Be honest with me. That's all I ask.”

The Charge

The charge is simple. Cruel? Yes. That's Hevanna's speciality.

He loved a mortal. He was asked to repent the sin. He said the mortal’s name with laughter in his voice and told them to shove their prayer of repentance up their asses. They declared the union an imbalance and took his wings. Then they sent him to me to be measured: exile, service, or erasure. My choice.

I say the words with my arms still wrapped around him.

“They want me to put you on the scales in an empty pan and ask Justice whether you are still fit for the library, the garrison, or the dark. They, as you already know,” I point at his shoulders, “have made you guilty.”

Cav’s laugh is short and not kind. “And you? Have you decided?”

I rest my face in his golden curls, let his scent fill my blood.

“When I read that your lover had a name you wouldn’t unspeak, my heart sang for you, for your devotion, your conviction. But I also died a little…”

He shifts. Pulls away enough to watch my face.

“For fucks sake Cav, they don't give a shit if you're the most important Angel in the heavens. They saw the affair as a sin and your refusal treasonous. They've wrapped their judgement in holiness. It's a hard call.”

“Yes, but what do you really think? It must be something, otherwise I wouldn't be standing here, right now.”

I place my hands on his shoulders. The bruise on his neck looks angrier. I look at the scale, then at him.

“For what it’s worth, I think the sin is that they asked you to want less, desire less, and they let the heavens agree.”

“But what does that mean… for me? Do I get erased or not?”

“Oh, sweet boy, I couldn't let them erase something as beautiful as you.” The words tumble out like water over rocks. “I’ll not weigh you alone. If that pan takes your name, it takes mine with it.”

His mouth opens ready to protest. I shake my head.

“It's safe. We go for a Bond, not erasure. The Court will call it corruption. The dragon will call it true or she will leave. That is all I have, all I can offer.”

He stares at me, furious with a world that has worked to trap him. And hard under the ruined linen in a way that a boy bred to fuck would be. I squeeze his shoulders.

“You don’t even know me.” he says.

“I know enough. I've done my research and written the homework. It's you who needs to get to know me.”

I look at Justice who's been taking an avid interest in our conversation, and trace a finger along Cav’s jaw.

“You’re free to leave, Cav. You can walk off this marble right now. No hard feelings.”

My finger strays down to his sternum and finds a tattered piece of linen to play with.

“Or you can take the linen off and lay outside so I can look at you until dusk.”

Cav’s mouth goes tight. He inhales and clenches his fists.

“Ok, I'll stay.

He removes the ruined linen strip by strip, banana peeling himself naked. There's no theatre in it, just the stiffness in his shoulders as he adjusts to life without wings and the sensitivity blooming in his scars. His hard length slaps against his belly as it finds freedom from the cloth. Clothed in shredded linen he was competition for the stars, naked he rivals the galaxy.

He lies face down on a stone bench already warmed by the day. I stand over him and look at the butchering he received. Deep gouges into muscle. Both shoulder blades possibly reset from dislocation. He's healing well. Angels tend to err on the plus side of celestial regeneration genes.

A breeze crosses the terrace, skitters along the recovering wing-roots. The muscles jump.

“Turn over.”

He does. The same breeze kisses his nipples. The stone abrades his scars. He avoids eye contact, preferring to look past me over my shoulder. Once I have mapped him and stored him naked in my memory I take the bench opposite and wait for the light to change.

Dusk creeps slowly. Baby-step shadows forming on his body, a human sunset splendid in bruised skin. I've been here for years, measuring men, supplying verdicts, and yet this is the first time I have ever been given one I could look at for eternity.

I’m hard under the robe and I don’t shift to ease it. The discomfort feels like I deserve it. But I know he's worse off. I can see it in the way his cock lifts and settles, wetter each time, in the way his hands stay flat on the stone because he wasn’t told he could use them.

He wants to be touched. He’s imagining it. So am I.

I think of my mouth on the scars, my tongue finding the heat of the healing skin, my fingers on his nipples, tugging and tweaking until he makes the sound he has been swallowing since he lay on the stone. I dream my cock nestled between his thighs, me telling him to be still for me, to take the stretch and hold the pain. I think of the silks I keep in the inner sanctuary, the marble plinths with iron rings, the suspension bars and cupboards of soft rope. I picture him there as I follow the evening shadows across his body.

When the warmth has left the terrace, I fetch a clean tunic and go to my knees beside him.

“Touch yourself for me, Cav. Show me how you pleasure yourself.”

He knows what I'm asking so the hesitation surprises me. Is he slightly embarrassed by the exposure and the strange audience? Surely not. He’s probably been displayed like this thousands of times and resents doing it one more time to save his life.

The sound of skin moving on skin shuffles around the terrace on slippered feet. Fascinated, I watch his wrist and the way he tries to avoid reading my eyes, failing every time.

His other hand stays on the stone, supporting his body, trembling with the effort.

“Yes, like that, keep the pressure steady for me.” I nod at his chest. “Now your nipples. Pinch them.”

He changes position. Lays back down, lets his fingers find a nipple. His first pinch is clumsy, more skin than nipple. The second pinch is the one that sets his hips jerking into his fist. The squeeze is hard enough to stain the skin a cardinal red.

His breathing changes. The scars shift against the stone when his back arches, and the touch of stone works like erotic pain in stereo.

“That’s it. Now say what you’re thinking, what you'd like right now.”

“Fuck, no, don't ask me…”

His whole body vibrates.

“But I want to know.”

He looks at me with eyes that have witnessed every flavour of desire and a tongue trained to lie.

“Your mouth... On me. Sir, fuck, Roxy…I can’t…” His hand speeds up. “I keep almost…”

He wears his want like a crown of thorns.

“Stop.”

He stops with a groan and a head thrown back in frustration. He doesn't let go of his flesh. He lets it weep over his fingers.

“Good,” I say. “Again. Slower. I’m not done looking.”

He spreads his legs. Just a little. I put a hand on the inside of one knee and move it out until his thigh lies flat on the stone. Then I try the other, but the stone isn't comfortable enough to hold him open without his thighs twitching. I allow one knee flat on the stone, the other leg raised and angled to give me the perfect view.

His right hand doesn't leave his cock, doesn't stop the leisurely up and down. His left hand stays on his chest, skittering from one nipple to the other for a quick pinch and tug.

The wet sound of a body masturbating is louder with his legs apart. I watch the way his stomach muscles tighten, the way his balls draw up. The golden nest that surrounds his cock dulls in the cloud-light, like the god, Khonsu, is jealous of this boy

“Look at me.”

He does. Already one of his violet eyes is turning, and soon it, like the other, will be black. I'm not sure how many weeks it takes for a fallen angel’s celestial power to fade from his eyes. But I am sure the loss will add more ugliness to the rage inside him.

Looking at me makes it worse for him. His wrist speeds up without permission and he seems annoyed at its impertinence. His fist shines when moon rays slip through the dusk. His orgasm is seconds away. I can smell it in his unique sweet copper scent.

“Stop.”

His hand pulls off and waves its sticky skin in the air, flapping like an injured bird. He swears and protests as his cock jerks against his belly searching for the denied friction.

“Not yet,” I say. “You cum when I decide you’ve been looked at enough. Hands on the stone.”

I stay on my knees beside him, fresh tunic ready for the weighing by my side, and don’t touch. Looking was the bargain. I’m not done collecting it.

End of Part 2

Part 3 available 12th October

This Substack comes to you free of charge. The only payment I ask is - if you enjoyed this piece of work show your appreciation for the time and effort it took to produce by liking and subscribing.

Subscribing keeps me writing on Substack.

Subscribe now

Subscribe for FREE if you want more like this. At least one new episode of the Over series every 2 weeks and a new sexy fantasy from the Horny Horoscope series every month.

© polli@izonme 2026. All rights reserved.

Magistrate Roxphenial 111.

The empty balance pan has been ringing in my ears since dawn. It doesn't usually bother me but today the tap, tapping complaint reminds me I am a small cog alongside the hinge of the great scale of Heranna.

It's the sound a Libra magistrate learns to recognise before he learns to walk. Justice is already on the other pan: pearl scales, one wing folded, patience bleeding from her eyes. She's watched Hevanna’s lies all her life. By the way she's watching me she knows one more is coming.

I turned twenty-five a few days ago and remain too young to be an elder, too trusted to be anything else. The path they set me on is changing and me with it. I’ve worn these open robes so long cloud-light lives in my skin and star dust no longer entertains me.

The silk is silver-grey. It matches my eyes and my mood. The clasp stays undone because the Court likes its judges to project their availability, and allow easy access during, ‘impromptu’ Court recesses.

I still have the smile they hired, but I'm tired of trying to juggle the pans when the Court keeps one unfairly weighted

Dusk is coming, delivering an angel to my judgement, an angel whose wings they've already taken.

I read the charge twice last week and again over breakfast this morning. My hands shook so bad I nearly spilled coffee on the vellum.

I've been to conferences and private meetings discussing his misdemeanor, trying to change his fate, like I'm some kind of Inspector Poirot and he's my greatest suspect. He's not. He’s the most magnetic angel I've ever seen. He wears his aura with moonlight and star dust, his confidence with celestial dignity. And I swear, though I only saw him from a distance, it was love at first sight.

I want him. Damaged and devious though he may be. That's my first corruption. The second will be looking at him and letting the wanting win. I've been like this since I first heard his name: Cavum.

Justice clicks a claw on the gold.

Recuse yourself.

I ignore her.

The clouds below the marble are the colour of semen. Somewhere under them, a bell rings, and ordinary people do mundane things. Up here I’m supposed to be the still point. The celestial judge of all Hevanna. I am Magistrate Roxphenial 111.

The wine has gone warm, but I pour it anyway. I take a mouthful and wait for the boy who doesn't know he's walking to his ruin.

Fallen Angel - Cavum

He doesn’t arrive like a choir. He whispers his way across marble on bare feet. Ghost-like, head bowed and humbled. There's no fanfare for this fallen angel, merely the sigh of the clouds and Justice tapping her claws on the balance pans.

Eighteen, travel-ruined white robes, mouth already set for a sermon I’ve no intention of giving. They’ve taken the wings he was allowed to show. What's left is the suggestion of them - a tension in the shoulders as they adjust to not carrying the weight, and scar tissue, so much scar tissue that my throat goes stupid and my fingers itch.

It’s known that an angel can still feel the vanes there, that power from their wing muscles doesn't die with removal - it mutates in the ruined tissue, turning every ridge and hollow of scar into something sensitive and hungry.

I watch him walk towards me. Bloodied tunic in pieces, wrapped around him like a bandage.

Seven years my junior, and it doesn't show, not in the way he holds the room, not in the body.

The body has already been used. It's well documented in his Hevanna name index. With golden curls and sky-filled eyes like that, he's acquired the careful stance of someone who has fucked his way through schools and training camps and still lives to be graded.

That’s the problem with Domino Angels like Cavum. They are angels of distinction, Hevanna's guardians of truths, lies, and impossibilities. In other words, the Central Library Archivists. Though Cavum sits higher in their ranks because he's a qualified Erotologist - a specialist in eroticism. An empty rank now he's lost it all. Every position of authority erased with his wings and his access to the other world.

But all isn't doom and gloom. He has a body trained for sin, an erotic IQ to die for, and, now, if he chooses, a new master to please.

I look at him. Study his cut jaw and dimples. Marvel at the tight muscular frame that holds him proud. Notice his wariness, the way he's already half-hard from the mere knowledge that I am the one who will decide what happens to the ruins of his wings. I decide the seven year age gap means nothing.

“Magistrate,” he says, extending his hand.

“Roxy. Please. Call me magistrate and I’ll start behaving like one.”

His eyes go over the open robes, my bare chest, my mouth. He doesn’t look away fast enough. I take his hand and pull him to me in a warm embrace.

“Then you call me, Cav.”

I hold out the cup I haven’t drunk from.

“I didn’t come for wine.”

“I know. You came to be weighed. But we'll drink first. The scale doesn’t talk, and Justice bites. All you have in this part of Hevanna is time and me. Wine helps with both.”

He takes the cup because refusing would be compliance and it's written all over his face that he’s finished with that. He stopped taking orders the moment he accepted the human’s affection.

Burnt sugar and copper come off him when he moves. The wings were taken a five days ago. Sealed with a hot blade. The sweetness must be him.

“You’re staring,” Cav says.

“There’s a scrape on your collarbone.”

I don't tell him I want to investigate it with my mouth. I sip my wine and watch the bruise move with him as he raises his cup in a toast.

Justice lifts her head. The empty pan ticks. Cav glances at the dragon and something in him goes quiet. I guess he’s never been looked at by a Court dragon that can smell a lie on a moonbeam.

°°°°°°°°

End of Part 1

Part 2 available Wednesday

If you enjoyed this FREE non AI story please repay my kindness by liking and restacking this post. This will help me reach a wider audience and encourage me to continue writing on Substack. 🫶🏳️‍🌈👁️🏳️‍🌈

Image created by AI.

© polli@izonme 2026. All rights reserved.

^{AI Note - To check the AI content, you will have remove the words from the video. For some reason Pangram doesn't work on video. I can however assure you it is 100% non AI. Alternatively go to and check it there.}

Oklahoma Heat Epilogue collaboration between and Poll

Subscribe now

Cody's parents were out of town for the night - another fundraiser for another animal charity that he couldn't remember the name of. They'd stuck the name and address of their hotel on the fridge door, stocked it with his favourite food and promised to be back by lunchtime the next day.

Having the house to himself, meant free time to daydream about Jason.

All week his fantasies had kept hitting the same wall: Jason was leaving. Their attempt at dating had fallen apart, and their last days together had been wasted on stupid arguments. A list of disasters, and Cody still didn't know where it had gone wrong. He just knew that every time he thought about Jason leaving, it hurt. Really bad.

The worst part was having a week to sit with everything Jason had said and still see him at work every day. Of course Cody understood the reasons why Jason wanted to leave - small towns were suffocating. But understanding reasons didn't help and never would. He wanted Jason. And the fact they'd never actually had sex ate at him.

Denial had kept the attraction at bay, but it was Jason's scepticism about romantic love that had ended their relationship before it began. Unlike Jason, casual sex scared him. He believed it made desire look ordinary, almost animal, to the point of embarrassment. It couldn't find a home in the elaborate fantasies that lived in his head. But now Cody's morals sat like a pus-filled scab on his heart waiting to be cured.

He lay on his bed, a small lamp shining through the dark, shadows falling across his bare chest like silent witnesses. The window was cracked because Cody enjoyed the cold on his skin for sleeping. It also helped when he was trying not to think. Not to think. He laughed into the small room. Thinking was the only thing he could do. Thinking about Jason and what could have been. The same Jason who had invented a fantasy for him and then told him he had no intention of ever committing to a relationship.

Somewhere out in the street a dog barked and a gate creaked. Usual night noises. He thought he heard tapping. Dismissed it. Let Jason continue to plague his thoughts.

Jason was cute and confident, sexy AF. When topless in shorts, parading his body like a gift to the world, Cody wanted to climb him like a tree.

And the guy’s cock? Now that had been an eyeful. He’d seen Jason jerking off and got more than he bargained for. That image would be embedded in his head forever. It wasn’t the size of it, Cody was certain he was bigger than Jason in that department. It was the curved shape, the big, light coloured head, the neat black curls. Cody’s cock kicked at the memory, reminding him it was in his shorts and hadn’t been fondled all day. Eager to remedy that, Cody pushed his shorts down and began jerking and dreaming.

Suddenly the window scraped open. Cody stayed his hand, listening. He lay very still, heart suddenly loud, and watched as one very familiar jean-covered leg came across the windowsill.

Then a sly voice. “You decent PG?”

Cody yanked his shorts up so fast he nearly fell off the bed. Jason came through the window as though it was a regular thing. One leg, then the other, dark hands on the sill, hoodie half-zipped, that set look on his handsome face that said he’d decided something and wasn’t going to change his mind.

Jason shut the window carefully behind him. Looked around the dimly lit room like he was inspecting the decor of a luxury mansion. He looked at Cody’s flushed, tongue-tied face, the tangled sheets. His smile widened into something Cody wanted to punch off him.

“What the fuck Jason…”

He sat up, pulled the covers higher over his naked chest like a sheet could be protective armour. Ignored his throbbing dick.

“How the fuck do you even know where my room is?”

“Your window’s the only one with the light on.” Jason nodded at the lamp. “Overheard your mom telling a cashier about the fundraiser. Wondered if you were brave enough to stay home alone, knowing I was still around…”

“Get out..”

“Relax, bro, in a minute. I’ve only just got here… besides PG, I’ve seen you mooning around the last few days. And I’ve been thinking. I’ve been thinking that maybe I made a mistake. That maybe we have some unfinished business that needs attention before I leave tomorrow.”

They stared at each other through the dim light. The barking dog muffled by the closed window, the room getting warmer without fresh air.

“If you’re here to apologise, don’t. If you’re here to prove something, also don’t. I’m not in the mood.”

Jason’s eyes dropped to the line of Cody’s cock against the thin cotton sheet. Then back up to his face.

“Yeah,” Jason said smugly, sarcastically. “You look devastated.”

“Piss off.”

“Make me.”

Jason let his words settle and moved closer, stumbling on the edge of the rug in the dark and laughing it off. When he found the end of the bed he put one knee on it.

“Just admit you’ve been waiting for something exciting to happen, especially with the window left open like that?”

Jason's one knee stayed resting on the bed.

“I leave it open because the room gets stuffy."

Jason snorted a laugh, put the other knee on the mattress, positioning himself between Cody's spread legs and kneeling tall. Cody dug his heels into the mattress a scooted further up the headboard.

“La… last chance. Leave… leave now and I'll forget the date even happened.”

“I’m not here to talk about the date.”

Jason leaned in, hands on either side of Cody's body on the mattress, raised eyebrow towards the bulge under the cotton sheet.

They stared at each other through the dark while the room got warmer.

“No. Don’t you dare try.”

Jason reached past and pulled the charger cable off the night stand.

“Jason, you can't be serious…”

Jason looped the cable once around the left bedpost, testing the give.

“You said dare and try.”

“That’s not what…”

Cody's protests went ignored.

Jason smoothly grabbed Cody’s left arm, attached the wrist to the other end of the wire and knotted it.

“What the hell are you doing?” Cody tried to pick the knot apart with his right hand.

“Shut up PG. This is for your own good.”

Cody tried to wrench his right arm away, but Jason was too quick for him.

The second wrist went the same way. Belt cord yanked from a pair of grey sweatpants folded neatly on Cody’s desk. Cody’s arms ended up stretched across the headboard like a human scarecrow on a windy day.

“No way! Jason, stop it! You can’t do this.

Jason sat back on his heels on the sheet between Cody’s legs. Looked at Cody’s face closely as Cody silently struggled with the bonds. Jason saw in Cody’s eyes what he wanted to see.

He rubbed at the bulge growing in his jeans, “PG’s been thinking about this cock, hasn’t he?”

Cody looked away quickly. Stared at the ceiling.

How did Jason know? This can’t be happening!

His voice came out flat. “Of course not. You’re embarrassing yourself. ‘

“Am I?”

Jason slowly dragged the bedsheet down. He gripped the waistband of Cody’s boxer shorts with his strong, dark hands and dropped both to the floor.

Cody's bare body was fully exposed. He yanked at his bonds, a blush crawling up his face at the sudden nakedness. The headboard thumped the wall, his boner flailed like a waving banner.

“Wow. That’s a nice size, PG. Been saving that for the date we ruined, or for me climbing through your window like a wish come true?”

Cody didn’t answer. He gave up struggling, decided he was grateful for the half-arsed compliment and feigned a continued interest at the ceiling.

Jason grabbed his jaw and turned his head, so he had to look at the situation.

“Look at you. All that pretending to be superior and holy as shit, and you’re dripping all over your bed just cos I tied you up.”

“Untie me. Right now. Your joke has gone on long enough.”

Say it like you mean it.”

Cody lay still.

Jason leaned in, mouth close to Cody’s ear, “You’ve had this in your head for a long time, PG. I know you have. I’ve seen it in your eyes. Me an you. Fucking. Problem is, I don’t come with hearts and flowers, just experience you don’t have.”

Cody’s breath hitched. He kept a straight face, even though his voice shook. “You’re not as experienced as you think you are.”

Jason smiled against Cody’s cheek. “Good. Then I’ll practice on you.”

He let his mouth drag across Cody’s lips, before sitting up again and eyeing Cody’s cock like a penis connoisseur.

Cody couldn’t look at Jason. Nobody had seen him properly naked since the bath when he was small, and that hadn’t felt like this. His face went hotter. His cock leaked anyway. Humiliating. He hated that Jason’s plan was working. Jason still hadn’t touched him. That was even worse.

“Please Jason. It’s not what you think. Untie me.”

Jason leant forward. Gripped his friend’s erection at the base and murmured, “Not until I’ve done… this.”

The shock of it was immediate. Cody couldn’t help himself. He bucked up into the wet warmth like something had stung his ass. Jason nearly choked but managed to push Cody back into the mattress and hold him there while his mouth worked and Cody wriggled and moaned.

He’d had a hunch. Proud little PG was never going to ask. Now he knew.

He took him deep. Tonsil deep. Let the head rest there and liked the weight of it. Swallowed until Cody’s cock jerked on his tongue. Too close. He pulled off, wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, and waited for the swearing to stop.

“Feels good, don’t it?”

Cody’s pulse raced. He flexed in the bonds and shifted his hips. He’d been a just a minute from unloading in Jason’s mouth. Shocking, that. But he knew he wanted the mouth back. “You’re very sure of yourself.”

“I’m sure of you.”

Jason’s thumb traced the sticky wet line on Cody’s stomach, then went to his mouth.

Cody stared at him, cock still spit-shiny. “So why are you doing this?”

“‘Cos I want it. You. First. Before I go. And you need this.”

Cody laughed nervously. “So this is an act of charity?”

“No, dumbass. This is your salvation.”

Jason put his mouth back on him, slower this time. Pursed his lips tight as he took him in, pressed his tongue on the frenulum, let him slide to the back of his mouth, returned to the tip and did it again and again.

Cody watched the slow motion bj like he was watching porn for the first time - turned on and full of guilt - as he moved with the rhythm of Jason’s mouth. He didn’t think he’d ever be able to go back to just a fist after this.

Cody turned his face toward the wall.

“That’s enough. You’ve made your point.”

Jason came off him just far enough to speak. “I haven’t even started the point.”

“Just unfucking tie me.”

“In a minute.”

“Jason.”

“I heard you.” He stayed between Cody’s legs, one hand on Cody’s hip holding him still. “PG, you’re allowed to hate that you want it. But I’m not leaving you with a half-finished first time.”

Cody laughed mirthlessly. “This is not a first time. Never will be.”

Jason looked at the veined flesh pulsing against Cody’s stomach, watched the way it jumped when he touched it.

“Yeah,” he said. “Looks it.”

He sat back and undid his own zip. Shoved his jeans down just far enough, took himself out and stroked once. Cody had no choice but to see it. Cody shut his eyes.

“Put it away.”

“No.”

“I’m not watching that.”

“You already are.”

Using his free hand Jason foraged in his hoodie pocket and found the lube he’d put there earlier. He dribbled a generous amount over himself making sure he was fully coated. Then moved forward and dragged the head along Cody’s thigh.

“Tonight’s the last chance you get, so I’m not going to let you talk yourself out of it cos you’re scared you might enjoy it.”

“I’m not.”

He knelt back up, wrapped his other hand around Cody and moved in sync with his own rhythm. Cody’s hips lifted into it. He couldn’t help himself.

“Stop it.” he moaned, thrusting into Jason’s fist.

“Mmm, don’t look like you mean it to me…”

Seeing Cody start to push into his fist nearly made Jason lose it. He’d wanted this for Cody. He hadn’t expected it to wreck him this much. Definitely wank bank material.

He stopped. Cody made a noise about it. Jason hooked a pillow under his hips, it went under crooked. He was beyond caring about aesthetics. He pressed the head of his cock against Cody’s hole. Cody clenched at it.

“I’m gonna get you ready. Then I’m gonna fuck you like I actually care how it feels.”

“Don’t you dare. Let me go.”

Jason’s mouth twitched. He got the lube, slicked his fingers, watched some drip on the sheets, then pushed one finger in. Cody clenched, swore, tried to sound disgusted.

“Out…Jason. I said…

“I know what you said.”

Second finger. Careful. Cody’s face went from tight to something looser, and Jason watched that.

“S’okay PG. Relax onto it.”

“I’m not all right. You’re… ahhh…”

“There.” Jason curled the fingers, not elegantly, but enough to find the spot. Cody jerked and pushed back.

“Yeah…That. Oh God… I hate you.”

“I know you do.”

Jason grinned and lined himself up, jeans still half on.

Cody turned his face into his own arm. “If you do this, I won’t forgive you.”

Jason laughed and pushed. The head caught, slipped, caught again. Then it was in, just enough for the stretch.

Cody went rigid. All the air left him. Jason froze there, shaking. Pound him, that was the want. He didn’t. He talked Cody through the first minute. Cody laughed, shaky, then moaned and pushed back.

“Oh my God, Jesus… Just do it, J.”

Jason did. Slow, because he didn’t want to ruin it. Cody lasted about a minute before his voice changed.

“Don’t stop... I mean it. I like it... Fuck… J … I like it.”

Jason checked his face, shifted the angle, and stayed there until he was all the way in.

“No, no don’t stop J… deeper… uh, oh… harder, yes... more... oh fuck.”

Jason laughed into his shoulder and gave him that. Deeper, harder, whatever Cody kept asking for, until his balls drew up and he couldn’t hold it.

The end of it came quick. Cody first. Untouched. Moaning expletives and Jason’s name like a whore’s shopping list. Jason following, forehead on Cody’s shoulder, buried deep.

Tonight Jason didn’t immediately bolt out the door. Not like the park. He untied Cody’s wrists, kissed the red lines on each one, zipped up his jeans and checked his watch.

“Night, PG.”

Cody stared at the ceiling, heard the window scraping open.

“Use the door,” he sighed happily, “You might have just stolen my v card but you're not a burglar.”

Cody could hear Jason's laughter as he headed down the stairs to his new life.

Before he opened the door he shouted up the stairs, “Any regrets, PG?”

“None, you idiot. And thank you.”

The end.

Thank you for reading this FREE Non AI written story brought to you by the joint effort between and myself. The only payment that we require is for you to press the like button or the restack button. If you're not actually subscribe to us, remember it is free to do so. Just hit no pledge if asked for money.

Subscribe now

Thank you 🫶

This story contains an adult character who is mildly autistic. If you have a low tolerance of, or find neurodivergence a distressing subject then please pass on this one. Other things some readers might find offensive: on page graphic sex between consenting adults over the age of 18, solo sex, BDSM practices, kink and profanity. 💯 NSFW. AI assisted 🧠 (plot anchor, editing,)

End of Over Whelmed Episode 7 Recap

Ren has learned he is a masochist. He's about to sign a BDSM contract with Baz and Saul, the two men he adores…

REN✨

Well, I'm certainly learning things tonight. I glance down at the final paragraphs on the paper. Notice how noticeable the ridge in my jeans is. Tell myself to look at the document.

"Oh, yeah… safeword," I nearly cough."I've been thinking about that. I read that some people use… a colour system. Is that right? Red for stop. Amber for slow down. Green for keep going."

"Traffic lights," Baz says. "Yeah. That's what we use. It's simple, the most common, and it works.”

"Okay, I’ll use that system then.”

Saul nods seriously. "Red means everything stops. Immediately. No questions, no hesitation, no disappointment. You say red and it's over and we take care of you. That's not negotiable."

Then Baz leans forward and folds his fingers over mine. His green eyes reflect the flames from the fire, a cocky grin edges his soft lips.

“And should you ever have your mouth too busy to talk, you use gestures, three hard taps on the nearest surface even if it's just someone's leg and everything stops. Do you understand?”

I nod and laugh while visualising the scenario. "I understand."

I look around me. I’m sitting in a living room with two men who have just handed me a map of their entire sexual landscape, and asked me to find myself on it. But what I'm discovering is that I am the actual landscape. I could want to try nearly everything on their lists. By doing so I give permission to be slapped and caned, flogged and paddled, to be bound and dominated, to willingly accept bruises like I would candy. And yet I don't think I've ever felt so taken care of in all my life.

Over Whelmed Episode 8 🏳️‍🌈🔞

REN✨

I return to the final paragraphs in the contract. Words jump out at me. Exhibition. Being watched. Display. Performance for a partner or partners or audiences.

My face must do something because Baz says, "Oh yeah, that one landed."

"Already knew that one," I say. "I think I've always known. I guess I just didn't have anywhere… safe… to take it.”

Saul doesn't say anything. He doesn't need to. The Sunday in the wet room told him everything he needed to know about what being watched does to me and the look on his face right now says he remembers every second of it.

This list-contract thing is the most thorough document I have ever read and I'm so grateful it exists.

I pick up the pen.

"One more thing before you sign," Baz says. "And I know this isn't sexy but it matters. Book a doctor's appointment. Get on PrEP. Saul and I are clean, we test every four months even when there's been nobody. But there's no such thing as zero risk, so we don't take chances. Which means no anal until you're covered. That's not just a rule, that's us looking after you.”

He leans forward. Elbows on his knees. Flames reflecting in his eyes and a distinct bulge in his jeans. I think they see the disappointment in my eyes.

Saul picks up his glass, swirls the red liquid.

“But for tonight, is there anything on the list you'd want? Now. Not eventually. Something we can tick off for starters.”

The fire. The wine. The two of them looking at me. The paper still warm from my hands sitting on the table. My thoughts are pure sin. Of course there's stuff in the contract I want right now. I've just read things that made my toes curl. And I want it all with them. Both of them. At the same time. See, I'm getting carried away.

I've never been in the same room with both of them before and the energy is so strong between us it feels like we're standing at the crossroads of some ancient ley line. My mind is a one way street of energised sex.

"Oh, ugh… “ I stammer. “I want to be looked at.” I say it, rather boldly for me. I'm surprised and pleased with myself because talking like this about sex and personal desires… that's so new it's practically still wearing the price tag. But as I've said before, it beats the crap out of all the guessing and trying to read signals (which I fail at). "By both of you... I want to see how that feels. Us... Together.”

Saul sits back. Looks at Baz. Baz looks at Saul. A whole conversation passes between them. Baz adjusts his trousers. Discreetly. But I can see his problem.

“I can show you the marks… from the other morning… you said you wanted to see them tonight."

"I did, didn't I?" Saul says, leaning back against the sofa like he's settling in to watch TV. “Better get naked and show us then.”

I stand and move towards the crackling fire. I'm thinking that if I'm taking any clothes off I want to stay warm.

"Turn around."

I turn. My back to them. Watch flames dance.

"Take your jeans off."

My hands go to the zipper. I push the jeans down to the floor, step out of them and fold them onto a fireside chair. I stand there in my boxers with the fire in front of me and both of them waiting for his next instruction.

The logs spit and crackle.

"Those too," Saul says.

I know exactly what he's referring to. I remove my boxers, maybe a bit hurriedly, and place them on top of my jeans

The warm air envelopes me, wraps around my bare skin, caressing the two fading lines like a caring parent. I know Saul's marks are fading because I checked in the shower. The lines exist as mottled yellow stains, still mine. Still his. Now theirs. I can feel them both looking at my ass, and my cock, already thick, twitches with excitement.

Someone stands up. I hear the furniture sigh. Followed by footsteps softened on the rug.

Baz. His hand, warm, lands on my left thigh. Not on the mark. Next to it. Gentle. The way he touches everything. Then his thumb traces the line itself, slowly, reading it like braille.

"Beautiful," he says. Quietly. To himself or to me or to Saul, I don't know.

Then Saul. The soft leather glove dragging up the back of my leg and over the curve of my ass. His hand is different. Heavier. He takes the right cheek, finds the second mark, presses into it with his thumb. Not gentle. Deliberate. I feel the bruise wake up under the pressure and my breath catches. My cock twitches for the second time and I hear Saul inhale behind me.

"Good boy," he says. "They suit you."

That's all it takes. Those words and any caution left in sight disappears. Both of their hands are on me. Both of them, standing behind me in the firelight. l’m half naked in their living room with their marks showing and my body is walking the ley line like a tightrope. Adrenaline pumps, pre-cum fills my foreskin.

Baz's hand moves. Across my lower back under the hem of my t-shirt. Fingers find their way down to my crease, two slip inside until I shiver. He feels it, stops, waits for my nod, then resumes his journey. He doesn't touch my centre, but I know and he knows that he has permission. That's all that counts. His fingers return to my t-shirt.

"Arms up," he says, and carefully pulls my t-shirt over my head. The necklace catches and I free it. The rings settle back against my chest where they belong. Mum and Gran, always with me. They raised a boy who was terrified of the world. Who once had to wear ear defenders to school, who got bullied so bad most of his day was spent hiding in the school toilets, and now that boy is standing naked in a firelit room with two men who want him and he’s not afraid anymore. I think they'd have something to say about that. I think what they'd say is: finally.

Saul's hand goes to my hip. “Turn for me, baby.” he says in his loving Daddy voice. I absorb his words like a sponge. Baby. No one has ever called me Baby before. It has the same effect as good boy. I melt.

They both watch me turn and my skin prickles with goosebumps everywhere their eyes land. In my head I see the contract, the three names, the sections where I've marked. Exhibitionism, impact play, bondage. That's all I’m certain of at the moment. That's my… beginning. Vanilla sex? Not for me. I walk straight past that like a horse with blinkers on and a carrot dangling in front of its nose.And right now I'm being looked at by two people who are interested in where this journey is going to take me, so the rest of the list can wait.

°°°°°°°°

Saul strokes my jaw with his gloved hand, does the thing where he lets his thumb run over my lips, opens my mouth. He slides his mouth over mine and it isn't gentle. I lean in and take what he's offering, pushing my body into his, clinging to his shirt like a limpet. His hand locks on the back of my neck and he kisses me like he regrets leaving abruptly on Thursday morning. I open for him completely because there’s no version of me that wouldn't.

Baz steps in behind. His body closes the gap, shirt covered chest to my back, his mouth finding my neck and the curve of my ear. His hands slide around my waist. I’m between them, Saul's tongue in my mouth, Baz's teeth on my skin, both of them hard against me. The growing silence in my head is noticeable.

Saul breaks the kiss. Steps back just enough to look at me. I'm wrecked already. He knows it.

He takes my face and turns it to Baz.

Baz kisses differently. Gentle, like he's got all night and intends to use it. His hand finds my hair, grips it at the root, and I gasp into his mouth and he swallows the sound and keeps going.

This is what two flavours of the same thing feels like. Baz is a slow tide, relentless, inevitable, filled with the kind of slow wanting you can feel in your blood. Saul is like a decision that's already been made. Just there. Expectant. The kind of man who doesn't ask if you're coming because he already knows you are. All you have to do is keep up with him.

Between them I don't know whether I'm being worshipped or claimed. The answer might be both and I think that's the whole point because I definitely want both. When he finally pulls back Saul is right there again. His mouth drops to my jaw, my throat. His teeth. Not soft. I wouldn't want it any other way.

I’m a shaking mess between them; a tectonic plate waiting for the earthquake. I’m already so far gone I'm pretty sure I won't last long. But that's ok. Tonight isn't about how long I take, it's about what I learn while getting there.

"Colour," Saul says, beard scratching against my throat.

"Green," I say. "Please...”

He's biting and sucking my skin as Baz's hands slide up my torso and find my tender nipples.

“Please, baby? What do you want?” I feel the smile on his lips as he asks his question. He knows exactly what Baz is about to do. Of course he does.

The skin around my nipples is still sensitive after Saul's pinching yesterday. Baz finds this out within seconds. He rolls them and tugs at them and the sensation literally stops my heart beating. I pull away from Saul and freeze. Rabbit-in-headlights sorting of freeze. Baz’s fingers tighten. Not hard. Just enough. Just enough that the bruised nerve endings wake up and send a signal to my cock who drips his approval onto the rug.

Baz pulls me back into him, his mouth moves from my neck to my shoulder. Teeth. Lighter than Saul. I don't pull away because it feels damn good, so he bites down a little harder and my legs turn to jelly. A shiver runs through my body that feels like ice and fire.

Baz notices. I can hear the smile in his exhale against my skin. His fingers roll my nipples slowly now, almost deliberately, building pressure stealthily. The pain blurs to throbbing and heat and peace. My head begins to focus on nothing except Baz's hands, his mouth and the knowledge that Saul is standing not half a metre away, watching every second of this with those broody eyes and he's not missing a thing.

Baz is using the bruises. He remains behind me, chest to my back, and works each nipple between finger and thumb until the skin that was only marked yesterday starts to sit up for him. Things look different already. I can see them if I glance down: darker, swelling past the little yellowy purple smudges Saul left, the points drawn tight and obvious. Firelight makes them look ripe.

He pinches and holds. Lets go. The blood comes back in a beautiful throb. Then he takes them again, rolling, stretching them just far enough that I have to rise onto it, and the swell stays when he releases. Left. Right. Left. Making them… fat. Making them stand out.

“That’s it,” he murmurs into my ear. His mouth is almost on the shell of it. “Look at them. Watch what I'm doing.”

I look. Two swollen, bruised nipples pulled proud of the muscle, the areola gone tight and pebbled, the points darker than they were when I took my shirt off. My cock weeps with jealousy.

Baz’s thumbs rub over the tips, slow circles on skin that is already aroused, and the visual is filthy. Meanwhile Saul’s gaze is a weight on my chest. I can feel his eyes tracking movements. Baz cups my pecs and offers the swollen flesh to his brother like I'm a special dessert he's just prepared.

Then Saul's mouth is there. Warm and wet, closing over my left nipple, tongue circling once, then twice, before finally sucking. His gloved hand finds the right one, rubs the leather over it as his mouth pulls like a baby on a bottle at the other. My head drops back against Baz's shoulder. I make noises I should be ashamed of but can't be.

Arms slide around me. Holding me up. A mouth to my ear. Baz's voice: "Stay with us. Breathe. Don't let go yet."

Don't let go yet. Well, obviously I'd like to stay in this moment for as long as I can, but the tectonic plates are transforming my spine to dust and I can feel the earthquake building in my core with no guarantee of a timed release. When I blow it’ll definitely be out of my control.

Saul's teeth graze the tip of my left nipple like a threat and then he bites. Not hard enough to break skin but firm enough for my cock to kick, my heart to race, and the air to leave my lungs. He moves to the right nipple, the one he's been agitating with the leather. The friction has made the swollen flesh angry. Again he sucks and pulls skin into his mouth. Tongue flicking the taut flesh before he clamps down and his free hand finds the wet nipple and pinches at the same time. Not gently. The two sensations hit at the same time and my whole body arcs like they've hit me with a stun gun.

"Colour," Baz says. Steady. Right in my ear.

"Green," I pant. It comes out wrecked. "Oh, so… fucking green."

Saul laughs softly against my chest. A genuine chuckle. Then he steps back, returning to the sofa leaving Baz with two wet nipples to continue to torture. Saul sits. Watches like a man expecting something. I can see the bulge behind his zipper, can remember what the head looked like. Tasted like. I want the weight of it in my mouth. Soon.

Baz continues to pinch my flesh, turning the left nipple white at the very end, then opening his fingers and watching it flood pink again, fatter than before. He does the same to the right.

Then his mouth is at my ear: “Later I’m putting clamps on these,” he whispers. Not a threat. A promise he has already decided. “When they’re like this. Swollen enough to hold. I think you’d like it. I think you’d like the feel of them hurting you.”

The words clamps and hurting land in my balls. I jolt. He feels it. His fingers tighten on the bruises in a little mean pulse, as if he is showing the nipples what a clamp would feel like, a preview made of skin.

“Yeah,” he breathes. “That’s what I thought.”

He keeps working my chest. Pull. Roll. Release. Exquisite torture until the points look like the kind of swollen that will catch on a shirt. Behind me he is hard against my ass, still full of wanting, doing this like it’s care. The pain is a dull ache now, warm, radiating and relaxing.

Saul doesn't speak. He doesn’t have to.

I’m on display between a fire and a sofa with my nipples being prepared for metal I haven't seen, and all three of us are watching the same two places on my chest as if they are the only thing in the room.

And then Saul taps his lap and beckons me to him.

SAUL POV✨

I tap my thigh.

“Come here. On my lap, Ren.”

He comes. Bare, flushed, nipples already standing from Baz’s hands, cock wet at the tip. I am still in my shirt and trousers. So is Baz, though his has come open and his bare chest is on display. That’s not a tease for its own sake. We have pledged to keep penetration off of the table until he is on Prep. We can do everything else. And we will.

He settles across my thighs with his back to my chest. Yes, the whole naked length of him parked on me. Soft skin rubbing against shirt buttons. His naked ass, yes, his ass, finds the hard line of my cock through the denim and sits on it like the cloth isn't a barrier. I feel the split of him, the give, the exact place I could shove up into if the evening was a different evening. He’s right there. Open from the way he is sitting. Unprotected. My cock kicks so hard against the zip it hurts, a stupid, furious pulse, and I know he feels it because his breath stutters and his hole tightens against the seam as if his body has already said yes.

I want in him.

Not later as in our agreement. Now. I want the jeans open and his hips pulled down and the first push that would make him grab my wrist. I want to watch that mouth fall open from being filled. I want to watch myself slide in and hear his cries when I pull out. I want to breed him everyday and film the cum dripping out of him. I want him so bad it almost makes me laugh. Prep first. That’s the rule. I won't break it. But I also won't pretend I am happy about it.

I let him sit on the shape of what he’s not getting. I roll my hips once, mean and small, so the denim drags up the cleft of him and he feels every inch I am keeping back. My arm goes around his waist and parks him there, pinned to the problem.

“Feel that,” I say, into his hair. “That’s how much I want you. But the clothes stay on tonight… I still might fuck you through them though.”

Before he can answer I reach around and take his cock. Two strokes only. Slow. His foreskin slides down and back. He clenches and trieds to use my fist. I squeeze once under the head, feel him kick, and I take my hand off him.

“That’s all you're getting for now.”

He nods. Grips my arm.

“Thank you, sir.”

Fuck, it does it to me every time. Sir. I've never asked anyone to use an honorific, not even in the early days, but a lot of the subs automatically say it out of respect. Ren has used it during training since our first session together and I guess he's not quite across the barrier of calling me Saul. I don't think I want to correct him.

I slide both hands up to his chest, to where Baz has created art with his nipples. I cup the muscle and push it forward, offering the swollen points to the room like they are the reason we lit the fire. The bruises sit under the swell, yellow-purple and faint at the edges, the tips are dark and fat from the work already done. I hold the pecs from underneath so the nipples stand out of my grip, stretched just enough that the air hurts.

I deliberately widen my legs and take his legs with me, opening him up for Baz.

“Baz.”

He knows. He crosses the rug and goes to his knees between my feet, between Ren’s open legs, shirt undone and untucked now, mouth at the height of what I am holding out. He knows what comes next.

He looks at the nipples I have presented and he leans in.

The first contact is only heat. His breath. Ren shivers back into my shirt. Then Baz’s mouth closes on the left one, the whole swollen end of it, and he sucks. Not a kiss. A pull. I feel Ren’s spine light up against my chest. I keep the breast of him offered, my thumbs bracketing the areola so Baz has a target that cannot duck away.

Wet sounds. Fire. Ren’s cock standing untouched in the space above Baz’s kneeling body, leaking onto nothing. Baz comes off with a slurp. The nipple is redder. Bigger. He goes to the right and latches on sucking hard, hollowing his cheeks. Ren’s head drops back on my shoulder. His mouth is open on my jaw. He's trying to wriggle into it. I don't let him.

“Watch him,” I tell Ren.

Ren looks down the length of his own chest. Sees Baz’s dark head. The shirt covered shoulders. The nipple disappearing into a wet mouth and coming out glossier, angrier, standing. Spit running down his torso in frothy bursts. Baz uses his tongue on the tip while it is still between his lips, a small filthy flick, then he bites just enough to make Ren’s hips jerk on my cock.

I hold him still with the pressure from my arms which are bandied around his torso holding his chest for Baz. The boy's straining in my lap. Juice drips from his foreskin, stringy lines of want sliding down his shaft onto his shaved balls. Baz ignores it.

When the left one comes out of his mouth and stays standing it matches the right. They're perfect for clamping.

I put my mouth to Ren's ear.

“Green or red.”

He has to find air.

“Green.”

“Say the whole thing.”

“Still green. Sir.”

Baz sits back on his heels. I keep Ren’s chest offered, nipples out, while he takes the clamps off the side table. Simple. Mean enough. Rubber on the bite so we don’t split him. A short chain that will tap his sternum every time he breathes.

“Left first,” I say. “Don’t look away.”

Baz fits it behind the swollen tip, on the bruise I put there yesterday, and lets the spring close.

Ren goes taut in my lap like he has been plugged in. A punched breath. His cock jumps so hard it slaps his own belly. I feel the shock of it travel through his back into my shirt. I don’t ease my hands. I keep the muscle pushed up so the clamp has something to sit on, so Baz can see the point trapped in the jaws, already darkening, already trying to swell around the metal.

Ren’s mouth is open on nothing.

Right clamp. Same care. Same bite. The chain drops between them, a small cold weight, and his nipples are no longer just swollen. They’re owned. Standing in metal, starved of blood. I could cum like a teenager right now, here in my jeans with my cock pressed against his ass. Fuck how I want to.

Baz looks up at me from the floor, mouth wet, eyes blown. He's feeling it too.

I look at the picture we’ve made. Dressed men. Naked boy on my lap with a clamped chest. And know it's time to take it up a notch. I nuzzle his neck.

“How's that feeling baby? Still good?”

“Sweet jesus… “ he pantts. “Fuck yes… sir, but I'm going to cum… soon.”

“No, no, my pretty baby. Not just yet. Baz has a surprise for you first.” I let my words sit for a moment before adding, “He wants to taste you. Would you like that?”

As I speak Baz slides his fist around Ren's length and starts slow rhythmic movements.

REN POV ✨

Would I like Baz's mouth on me? Of course I fucking would. Whether I can stop myself cumming the minute he does is another question. I'm so close I'm almost afraid that if Saul touches me again I'm going to erupt.

The clamps are performing bitches, both biting and pulling every time I move. Saul's cock is a clothed, throbbing animal between my ass cheeks and Baz, shirt open and sexy as fuck, is jerking me in slow motion, eyes fixed on my reactions the way Gloria stares at me when I'm eating: hungry.

I want to scream, YES, YES, suck me, but my voice can't compete the the strangled noises falling from my mouth. It comes out as a groan, “Oh God, yes… green… please.”

Share

BAZ POV ✨

I have wanted this since he dropped his dressing gown the day of the lingam. Fuck, that's a lie. I've wanted this from the moment I set eyes on him with his nervous ways and his tense body.

It's not just about the clamps, though they will enhance his orgasm. It's a mouth thing. My mouth to be precise. His cock in it. The skin I don’t have, wet and alive, filling my throat while Saul holds him still on his lap like a gift he’s finally letting me unwrap. I am on my knees fully clothed, Ren’s taste already on my tongue from his chest, and now the rest of him is in my fist, hot, leaking, the foreskin a slick collar half-drawn back off the head.

I look up once. Ren is staring at me like i’m every Christmas present he’s ever wanted. His first oral. I know he won't last but I want him to have the best experience for his first time.

“Stay in my hand,” I tell him. Quiet. For him, not for the lens. “I will do the rest.”

I stroke him the way I did on the massage table. I roll the hood forward until the glans disappears, a soft wet purse around the head, then I bring it back and the head comes out dark and shining and so clean it makes my mouth water. The clamp chain on his chest ticks when he jerks. Saul’s denim is a hard line under him. I can smell fire and metal and the skin scent of bodies caught in foreplay.

I put my mouth on him.

Not all at once. I kiss the covered head first, lips on foreskin, and I feel him throb inside the hood. Then I open and take him in with the skin still forward so my tongue is on the outside of him, on the part most men skip. He makes a broken sound and tries to thrust. Saul’s arm locks his waist. He doesn't know whether to resist or give. Then the shock of it dissipates and his sweet surrender to my throat tastes like innocence and victory and growing up.

“He said stay,” Saul murmurs into his neck. “Let Baz have it.”

I peel him with my lips. Slow. The hood slides back under my mouth and the glans comes onto my tongue, slick, salted, the slit already spilling. I groan onto him. I can’t help it. I have researched this. I have wanted this. I suck the head forward and back, a filthy little rhythm, my mouth a hot sleeve over what the knife took off me.

His thighs shake either side of my shoulders. The clamps make his nipples stand in the firelight above my eyes, swollen, trapped, the chain jumping when I take him deeper. I glance up the length of him because I want that picture too: clamped chest, open mouth, Saul’s hand at his jaw, my lips holding him.

“Fuck…Baz…”

I come off long enough to breathe him in. Saliva falls from my mouth. It's not pretty but it's good.

“I know,” I say, against the wet head. “I’ve got you. Try and control it until Saul takes the clamps off. You'll appreciate it more.”

Then I take him again. Deeper. Nose to the shaved skin of his belly. The head hits the back of my throat and I swallow around it, force it into my velvet tunnel and his whole body tries to fold. Saul holds him. I hold my breath, make shallow movements with my throat that squeeze his head.

He is a mess of yes and a chaos of no. Hips stutter, clamps pull, one finger, just one, slides along his taint to his shaved hole. It doesn't push in, it circles it, let's it know it could intrude and leaves, finds his smooth balls tight, drawn up, ready to blow. My hand cups them.

His fist finds my hair. Not steering. Holding on.

“ Shit, fuck, …Baz I’m… I can’t…”

This time Saul doesn't tell him to hold it.

I keep him in my throat. I feel how close he is - the swell, the tight hood, the way his balls have drawn up in my palm. Out of the corner of my eye I see Saul’s hands come around Ren’s chest and take the chain.

“When these come off it's going to hurt. That’s the point. You cum into his throat when the blood hits. Don’t fight either thing.”

Ren makes a strangled noise that is another gurgled yes.

Saul pulls both clamps at once.

The springs let go with a small dull snap and the blood slams back into shocked nipples like an earthquake has hit him.Ren’s whole torso bows off Saul’s chest. He cries out like a wounded animal.

His nipples flush dark in a rush I can see from the floor, swelling, burning, the pain arriving in the same second his cock kicks hard on my tongue, and pushes deep into my throat.

I take him through it.

He cums like the two sensations have found the same wire. First pulse thick and violent. I swallow. Second pulse while he is still yelling about the nipples, hips jerking, chain gone, bare swollen tips throbbing in the firelight above my eyes. I stay down and let him empty into my mouth, pain-slut honest, shaking so hard Saul has to hold him to his body like he's having a fit.

I work the foreskin through it so he spends inside the hood and down my throat together. Filthy and honest. His fist in my hair goes tight enough to sting and I don’t care.

When the pulses thin I keep him there a second longer, then ease off and roll the skin forward over the wet head. I kiss the covered glans. His nipples are still standing, darker now without the metal, the kind of sore that will sing if the air moves.

Saul’s palm covers one of them, not kind, just there, catching the throb.

Ren is crying in that wrecked, grateful way that is not sadness.

“Shhh. Good, boy,” Saul says, into his hair. “still green?”

“Oh God,” he sobs, “Yes, so yes…”

He wraps his arms tighter around Ren.

“Good because yesterday morning you forgot to thank me for the stripes on your ass and the cum on your tongue.”

His sobbing slows. He senses the change in the room.

“That means you owe me a punishment.”

Ren wipes his nose with the back of his hand, waiting.

Saul toys with his blonde hair twirling it around a finger.

“And I want to collect it.” He smiles.

“Right now.”

The end - until January 2027

Thank you for reading. As you are aware this is free story. The only payment I require is your likes and restacks. Restacks are how we reach more readers. Press the restack button now and show this author your appreciation. 🫶

Subscribe now

Please note: if you are familiar with the first Over story - Over Time - you will already know Ren's older brother, Tyler. If you haven't already met him, his story can be found here.

Over Whelmed will return in January 2027 for a brief catch up with Ren and his experiences with Saul and Baz. Thank you for being here for him. Sending hugs for all the likes and restacks 🫶 Polli

Acknowledgements

My eternal gratitude goes to fellow Substack authors without whom this story would still still be an idea floating in my ND brain:

© polli@izonme 2026. All rights reserved.

Content warning 🔞🏳️‍🌈🧠

This story contains an adult character who is mildly autistic. If you have a low tolerance of, or find neurodivergence a distressing subject then please pass on this one. Other things some readers might find offensive in the series: on page graphic sex between consenting adults over the age of 18, solo sex, BDSM practices, kink and profanity. 💯 NSFW. AI assisted (plot anchor, editing,) This episode is very mild.

Please note: if you are familiar with the first Over story - Over Time - you will already know Ren's older brother, Tyler. If you haven't already met him, his story can be found here.

New to the series? Find more here or start with Episode 1 of Over Whelmed found here

Subscribe now

If you get asked for money hit the no pledge button

Over Whelmed Episode 7 part 1🏳️‍🌈🔞

Gloria sits on the arm of the sofa and watches me get ready like she knows exactly where I'm going and has opinions about it.

"Don't," I tell her. She blinks. Slowly. Judgement delivered. And the guilt creeps in. She watched me pack an overnight bag with the same disdain. I've left her enough food and water, a fresh litter tray, and the cat flap is here to use whenever she wants to. Maybe she's jealous. Who knows what cats think. All I know is while I love Gloria very much what I feel for the Castillo brothers is way more. It's consuming.

I've changed three times. That's two more than I'd usually bother with and one more than I'd ever admit to Tyler. The black jeans won. I have a thing for black denim. I'm nervous and excited and so turned on I'm surprised I manage to get my jeans done up as easy as I do. The t-shirt is dark blue, soft cotton, the one I bought six months ago and have never worn. I guess it was waiting for the right moment. My necklace sits under the collar where it always sits. I touch the rings through the fabric and say goodnight to Mum and Gran the way I do every evening. This time I whisper: “Wish me luck” and feel the gold warm.

The bag's in the van. It’ll stay in the van until I know whether the evening is a bag evening or a drive-home evening, and I'm not deciding that in advance. I used to decide in advance because it gave me certainty, protection from unknowns. A set plan of how a date or an event would end felt like a security blanket. It was also rigid and boring. Spontaneity is so fucking scary but, here I am, semi hard already, new doors swinging open, and anxiety tucked safely in my pocket.

The drive takes twenty minutes. I know the road. I've driven past the house before without knowing it was theirs - huge stone ‘character property’ I guess you'd call it. Set back behind a security wall with scaffolding on one side and what looks like a serious extension going up at the back. I never looked twice at it. Now I'm pulling up on the gravel driveway in my van with a bag I'm pretending isn't there and Gloria's meows in my ears.

The front door is wide. Old wood and glass. Paint peeling in a way that looks more upcycled chic than age. Through the glass in the door I can see movement. I ring the doorbell and contemplate running away just as the door opens and they're both stood there. Together. Both in jeans and white cotton shirts and the flavours of cooking floating out into the evening air. If belonging had a scent this would be it.

"Hey," Baz says. Warm. Intense green eyes. The smile that starts slow.

Saul says nothing. He looks at me the way he always looks at me: hungry, without apology. And then he steps forward, puts his hand on the back of my neck, and kisses me.

Not a peck. Not a hello. A kiss. His mouth on mine, firm and deliberate and tasting faintly of whatever he's been cooking. My brain goes white for a second and then comes back online just in time to feel his hand tighten on my neck before he lets go.

"Come in," he says.

I haven't moved. Baz is smiling. He steps into the space Saul left, takes my face in both hands the way he takes everything, with gentleness, like it matters. He kisses me differently. Slower. Softer. His thumbs on my jaw. Slow tongue seeking mine. It feels like something he's planned for a long time. When he pulls back he stays close for a second longer than he needs to, foreheads touching.

"You look nice," he says.

"I changed three times," I say, because apparently honesty is my default setting when my brain has been kissed out of my skull.

Saul laughs. Short. Real. "Good. Come in."

The hallway is tall. That's the first thing. The ceiling is higher than my entire living room and there's a staircase going up that looks like it belongs in a film, wide dark wood, the banister worn smooth by two hundred years of hands. The plaster on the walls is patched in places — fresh white next to old cream next to bare stone where someone started a job and hasn't got back to it yet. There's a stack of floorboards leaning against the wall by the door and a toolbox that hasn't been moved in a while judging by the dust on it.

"Ignore that," Baz says. "We ran out of momentum in March."

Saul grunts. "I ran out of momentum. He ran out of interest."

"I ran out of patience with your grouting," Baz says.

I've never heard them do this teasing before, they arrive at mine on separate days so this brotherly banter is new. It kind of reminds me of how Tyler and I tease each other. The object is in understanding exactly which buttons to press and how hard. Hearing it here in their hallway with their dust and half-finished projects is different. It's real. It's the sound of a life together that has nothing to do with me and everything to do with what I'm walking into.

Saul takes me through the ground floor first. Kitchen is done, properly done. Big flagstone floor, an Aga that looks like it's been there since the house was built and probably has. Stone walls with stainless steel splashbacks. Stainless steel workbench next to the Aga. It has an industrial feel to it. Very Saul. Something is in the oven creating the delicious aroma that hit my nostrils when they opened the door. In a small conservatory off of the kitchen there's a long table with mismatched chairs and three places already set.

Three. I notice that. I notice that I notice it. My heart skips.

The living room is next door. High windows, old shutters that actually work, a fireplace big enough to stand in. Two sofas that don't match and a rug that's seen better decades. Books everywhere, some on shelves, others stacked on the floor, piled on the mantelpiece. Baz's oils and candles on a side table next to a speaker and a stack of vinyl. Saul's bike jacket over the arm of a chair. It's lived in and loved.

"The good rooms are down here," Saul says. "Upstairs is a work in progress."

He takes me up. The staircase creaks in the middle where the wood has settled over the centuries and I find myself counting the steps because... why not? Eighteen. The landing is wide and smells like old timber and fresh paint in equal measure.

"That's mine," Saul says, nodding at a closed door at the end. He doesn't open it. I don't ask. "Baz is there." Another door, half open — I catch a glimpse of plants, fabric, the kind of room that smells the way Baz smells. "Bathroom's there. It works. The tiles don’t."

Then he opens a door on the left. A guest room. Simple. Clean. Bright. The bed is old iron, painted white, pushed against a wall with a window that looks out over the garden and, beyond it, the scaffolding and the shape of something being built at the back. A bedside lamp that looks like it was rescued from a car boot sale and given a second chance sits on an oak side table, and a matching wardrobe covers the far wall.

"If you want it," Saul says. "No pressure either way. It's just a room."

Baz appears at the top of the stairs behind us.

"I put a towel out," he says. "And one of my oils in case you can't sleep. The lavender one."

Saul looks at me. "You don't have to decide now. It's just there."

I look at the bed. The towel. The oil. The window with the scaffolding and the dark garden beyond it. I think about the bag in the van and I say nothing about it.

"Thank you," I say.

Saul nods. Turns. "Right. Food."

°°°°°°°°

We go back down the eighteen steps. I can't help but count them again. Some old habits, it seems, are harder to suppress than others.

The kitchen is warmer now. Whatever Saul has in the Aga has been doing its work and the whole room smells like slow-cooked meat, rosemary and… tomatoes, yes tomatoes. He pulls a dish out with a cloth and sets it on the dining table. It's just a casserole. A big one. Nothing fancy. The kind of food Tyler makes on a Sunday when he can be bothered to pop round to mine, the kind that says I spent time on this but I'm not going to make a fuss about it. Most of all it's the sort of food that reminds me of growing up, of Mum and Gran and family. My chest aches at the thought and I wiggle my nose to stop the water in my eyes.

Baz pours the wine. Red. He doesn't ask me if I'm okay or if I want some, just puts a glass in front of me like he can see my wobble and chooses to see where it goes. It goes away, thank God.

I like that he's made the wine decision for me. Choosing between red or white when my brain is already managing the fact that I was kissed on a doorstep forty minutes ago, and standing in this house with these brothers is making me think of family and the good times, is more than I can offer right now.

We eat.

That's it. We just eat. And it's… I don't know how to describe this... normal is what I'm reaching for. I mean, I eat with Tyler sometimes, when he comes over, and it's fine, it's comfortable, but there's always a bit of performance in it. The catching up. The checking in. This isn't that. Saul eats like a man who is hungry and has made food and is eating it. Baz tears bread and dips it and talks about a client who fell asleep during a massage and snored so loudly he had to stop the session. Saul tells him he should have charged double. I laugh. Properly. The kind of laugh that arrives without permission.

Baz looks at me when I laugh like he's bottling the sound of it.

I eat the casserole, drink the wine and think about the fact I’m sitting at a table with two men who want me and who I want, and nobody is pretending this is anything other than what it is. For the first time in a week, my body isn't running hot, or panicking, or categorising every detail. It's just sitting in a chair. Eating.

Saul refills my glass. His hand passes close to the back of my neck as he reaches across. It doesn't touch but I feel the heat of it anyway.

"Rick called me back today," he says, sitting down. "Him and Paul. They're interested in doing some work on the house."

I look up. "Tyler too?"

"Tyler came with the package. Rick doesn't go anywhere without his crew these days." He sees my face. "Relax. It's building work. They're good at what they do and I'd rather have people I trust than strangers."

Tyler getting work makes me happy. He's been quiet about jobs lately and I know things have been patchy since the last contract finished. Rick and Paul keep him steady but steady doesn't pay the bills.

"What's the work?" I ask.

"Extension at the back," Baz says, tearing bread. "We're building a space. Private. Separate entrance, soundproofed, the works."

"A club," Saul says. Matter of fact. Like he's telling me they're putting in a new bathroom. "Not open to the public. Invitation only. A place for people in the community to use safely. We've been planning it for a couple of years."

He watches me while he says it. I can feel him reading my face.

I take a mouthful of wine. The word community sits in the room and I know exactly which community he means, and my brain does the thing it does which is to receive the information, place it carefully to one side, and continue eating the casserole because the casserole is very good the information needs a moment before I can digest it.

"They know what it's for," Saul says, bringing me back to the conversation. "Rick has already asked for opening night invites." And with one of his sexy grins he’s revealed a truth I’d been left out of.

I put my fork down.

Tyler knows. Tyler knows and he didn't say a fucking word. Not a text, not a phone call, not a single one of his stupid fucking sideways comments over a cup of tea at mine. He just took the job and kept his mouth shut and let me get here on my own, and that is so completely Tyler that I want to laugh and cry at the same time. My brother is building a sex club for the men I'm going to be sleeping with and his only response was to ask when he starts.

"You alright?" Baz says.

"Tyler knows," I say. Mostly to myself.

"Tyler's a grown man," Saul says. "He didn't blink."

Share

If you're enjoying this story please press share

Of course he didn't blink. Tyler's never blinked at anything I've done. Not once. He just stands there with his arms folded and waits for me to catch up with myself and then says something practical and moves on. I love him so much sometimes it makes my toe nails hurt.

"Okay," I say. Pick up my fork. Keep eating.

Baz reaches across and puts more bread on my plate without asking. "The plans are in the other room if you want to see them later," he says.

I nod. Eat the bread.

Meanwhile my ass, hearing the words club and community, tingles, reminding me I still wear Saul's marks and how much those two lashes from his belt have changed the way I think. Because they have. Something happened on Thursday morning that I haven't fully worked out yet. The sting arrived and my brain went quiet and my cock went hard and those two things happened at the same time. I'm not sure which one I'm chasing. The silence or the arousal. Whether they're even separate things or whether my wiring has just been waiting for someone to connect them. I don't have the answer and I'm not sure the answer exists in a form my brain can handle. But my body knows something I don't and it's sitting here at this dinner table reminding me with every shift in my chair.

The conversation moves on. Baz tells a story about a supplier sending him the wrong oil and Saul argues about whether the Aga needs servicing and I sit there drinking wine in their kitchen thinking: this is what it's like. This is just what it's like.

Saul clears the plates. Doesn't let me help. Baz takes the wine and the glasses and walks through to the living room and I follow him because following seems to be what I do in this house and I'm not upset about it.

The fire is going. Baz must have lit it while Saul was cooking because it's past the spitting stage and into the deep orange glow that makes everything in the room look warmer than it already is. He sits on one sofa, legs tucked, glass in hand. I sit on the other. The rug between us is old and worn and probably worth more than my van.

Saul comes in carrying a folder. A folder. Not after-dinner drinks. Not coffee. A tatty cardboard folder with the corner soft from being opened too many times. He sits next to Baz and puts it on the low table between us and doesn’t open it.

“Before we get into this,” he says, “I need you to understand something. Nothing in here is a demand. Nothing is a test. There are no right answers and no wrong ones. Some of it you’ll know already. Some of it you won’t. Some of it will make you uncomfortable and that’s fine. You tell us and we move past it.”

My heart rate picks up. The vibe is formal. Interviewy. Not what I was expecting after casserole and wine, but I go with it because going with it is what feels right in this house.

“Okay,” I say.

“And if at any point tonight you want to stop talking about it, pick up your keys and go home, that’s fine too. No questions. No consequences. Sunday still happens. Wednesday still happens. Nothing you say in this room gets used against you.”

“Okay.”

“Stop saying okay.”

“Alright.”

Baz smiles behind his glass.

Saul rests two fingers on the folder and doesn’t slide it yet.

“This is our limits document,” he says. Matter of fact. Like the extension. Like the casserole “Some people call it a contract. In paper form it's very old school. But I'm not one for keeping my private life on line.” He taps the folder. “It's a working document, reviewed every six months. It changes and grows much like a D/s or power exchange contract. This one is particular to us. It's an integral part of who we are.”

He doesn't take his eyes from my face.

“Call it whatever you need to as long as you understand what it actually is: a written record of what we agree is allowed in our dynamic, what isn’t allowed, and what we do if something goes wrong. It exists because talking is easy to get wrong when you’re new and when you’re in the moment. Paper doesn’t flinch.”

I look at the cardboard file. Then at him.

“I’ve never…”

“We know,” he says. “That’s why we discuss this tonight. You don’t guess with us. You don’t perform the answer you think we want. You read it. You mark it. You ask whatever you need to ask, while you can still think. And remember there are no stupid questions here, all questions are relevant and will be answered with honesty.”

He pauses. Makes sure I'm focused on him and his words.

“Communication is the whole job. Tonight and every day after that means words and this document. Later, when we’re playing, it means we're all on the same page.”

Baz leans forward a fraction. Softer frequency. Same content.

“Safe, sane, consensual,” he says. “That’s the old phrase. It still holds. Whether we’re doing a pre-agreed scene or it's just a spontaneous fuck, nothing happens that you haven’t agreed to. Nothing happens that we,” he points at the three of us, “haven’t agreed to. If it stops being any of those three, everything stops. We have it written down first so nobody has to invent the rules when they’re already in a volatile headspace.”

Subscribe now

Saul nods once. Opens the folder. Five or six printed pages fall out.

He slides them across the table.

I pick them up. The first page has a header. Limits, Boundaries and Preferences. Below it a date - last reviewed in April - and two names. Saul Castillo. Barry Castillo. And underneath a third line sits. A line that’s been hand drawn like an unexpected guest has dared to crash their private lives. It's blank. Waiting for my decision like a pseudo marriage certificate. None of it's romantic. The line is a space with a job. When I put something there I will be a real and full time fact in their lives, as they will be mine. 

The document is strangely powerful, not only in symbolic meaning but in what it offers someone like myself - a working document, a point of reference, a discussion starting point, a safe place to say, yes, no, maybe one day, just give me time. Options that breathe. My whole life people have expected me to just know, to feel my way through, to pick up on things that other people pick up on without thinking. This document doesn't expect me to feel my way through anything. It asks me directly and waits for an answer and the answer is allowed to change. It feels like I've been pulled out of quick sand after being buried in it forever and I'm looking back at the innocent landscape with wise eyes.

Have to admit for the last few weeks my head has been trying to imagine a workable relationship with these two men. I couldn't quite see how the logistics would work and there were moments of self doubt. Not just around a sex life, other things, like being in real relationship and what that would look like.

In the past my ND hasn't done my love life any favours with relationships. That means I don't have much experience, and like Tyler, my younger years were spent chasing girls. One even told me that my love is a gift that feels like ice. Understandable. I'm not heavy on the PDA, which kinda makes me a freak in a romantic relationship. It puts people off when spontaneous moments of affection don't happen. But if you really understand me you'll know I love you when you see it in my eyes, hear it in my voice, witness it in the way I would give my life for you. You see, I love with a heart full of unreachable planets and a soul full of stars - it might not always be visible but it's as constant as the Milky Way. And sometimes it just needs the dark to be fully seen.

Right now the Castillo brothers are my galaxy and the dark is being offered by what is essentially a BDSM contract in an old mansion where a sex club is under construction. They have unwittingly built the framework and have now added a line for me. Yes, this document is powerful indeed.

I rest my thumb on the empty line and don’t write anything yet.

“Read it first,” Saul says. “All of it. Then we talk.”

°°°°°°°°

I start reading. The format is clear, which helps. There are categories to put my choices in. Hard limits - things that might be off the table, no negotiation. Soft limits - things that might be possible one day but not now. Preferences - things actively wanted.

And then subcategories under each. Impact play. Restraint. Sensory deprivation. Oral. Edging. Exhibition. Verbal. Marks. And more. Much, much more. Some of them I know. Some I have to read twice. Some I have to read three times and still don't fully understand. So I ask the questions without feeling stupid and get told sensible answers without being laughed at. The relief is a tsunami.

I turn the pages. Read. Turn more. Ask more questions.

Baz and Saul sit across from me and let me carry on. They don't rush me. They let me take it at my own speed, which is slow, because I’m reading every word and asking questions and am determined to get this right first time.

I get to the last page and stop.

"Can I ask something really personal?"

"Anything," Baz says.

I look at the document. Then at them. Sitting together on the sofa, shoulder to shoulder, easy and close in the way people are close when they've shared a house and a life and something more than that. The question has been bugging me for days, from the moment Baz left ideas in my head.

"Do you two have sex with each other?"

The room doesn't change. Nobody flinches. Saul grins and looks at me with the expression of a man who expected the question and is glad I asked it.

"We've done a lot together," he says. "Scenes on and off stages, dark rooms, bathhouses, bate sessions. And we've shared a guy, once, many years ago. We know each other's bodies. We've touched each other in the context of what we do. Baz gives me the lingam massage, which you already know.”

"But we've never fucked each other," Baz says. Simply. "Never penetrated. That line has always been there. It might always be there. It might not. We don't close doors permanently."

I try and ignore the pink rising up my face and the urge to bounce my knee. I'm not uncomfortable talking like this. No, I like being honest. Having everything out in the open. Often thoughts and ideas that sit in my head fall out of my mouth unaided anyway. Talking like this is refreshing, it's rare that people do communicate like this. And my body? Well, that's responding in the only way it knows how.

"But right now it's closed," Saul says.

I nod. That makes sense to me. A clear boundary that's been discussed and agreed and might be revisited. Yes, my brain can work with that.

“Anything else you need us to clarify?” Baz asks.

I look down at the document. Page four. Restraint. Mild: Rope, leather, cuffs, fetters, tape, fabric. My semi perks up.

"I liked the belt," I say. Quietly. "On Thursday morning. Knowing my hands were tied. The not being able to move felt weirdly safe. Is that normal?"

"For you?" Saul says. "Yes. Your brain spends every minute of every day trying to make decisions. Restraint takes that pressure away. You don't have to decide what your hands do because your hands aren't yours anymore. In turn, your body slows down because it's not waiting for instructions. The loop breaks. That's why it felt safe. It wasn't the belt. It was the fact that somebody else was in charge of you and your nervous system could finally stop running the show. That's not weird. That's your body de-stressing.”

I look at him. That’s exactly what it felt like.

"We can go further than a belt," Baz says. "When you're ready. Rope is slower. More deliberate. You feel it being done to you, the wrapping, the knots, the tightening. Some people find that as powerful as the restraint itself."

"Baz ties," Saul says. "I hold."

I don't know why that sentence makes my cock move but it does and there's no hiding it in these jeans and I don't try.

That's something else about this whole set up. … and probably he best part… It's such a turn on - mentally and physically - the talking first.. it's proving to be great foreplay. There's blood flowing south, thickening me as I talk. And that ache you get, the one in your gut that tickles low behind your balls. It's just waiting for the starting flag.

I continue: “And the belting you gave my ass?”

"Impact play," Baz says. "Page three. Belt, hand, paddle, crop, flogger, up to whips. There's a scale. You mark where you are now and where you think you might want to go."

I find the section. My semi is now a full boner. Jeez, the levels of extreme in this document are imprinting on my skin. I look up. Saul is watching every move I make.

“Whips?” I try not to sound incredulous.

“You'd have to be in the lifestyle for a long time before that would ever be considered?”

I swallow. I'm not too sure I want to know the answer to the next question but I have to ask it.

“So… are you both whip practitioners?”

They exchange a glance.

“I was. I haven't used a whip in 15 years. And I'm not going to start now… unless…” he raises one eyebrow at me.

Fuck no. Never. Instant reaction. Then curiosity whispers in my ear: but you've never tried it, how can you have so sure? The idea of it becomes both terrifying and tantalising. I say nothing.

“Ren,” he sighs, “don't worry about the future, that will take care of itself providing we talk openly and honestly before and after sex. Nothing in that document happens without a conversation first and a colour check during. Every time. No exceptions.”

I nod. I re-read the words. Read them again.

"I want to explore impact play," I say, the old Ren disappearing into smoke. "Not all of it… well, I guess, who knows. But I want you to know that Thursday morning wasn't a one-off. What you did with the belt at the end. The two stripes. That wasn't punishment to me. That…”

I stop again.

"That… what?" Saul asks. Quiet. Patient.

"Lit something inside me." I say.

The room is very still. Baz crosses his legs. The fire crackles. Saul doesn't move.

"Alright," Saul says. "Noted.”

"So, about pain," I say, finding the more I talk the easier things become.like this. "Thursday wasn't just the ass slapping… it was the pinching. You asked me about my pain tolerance and I told you it was high. But… it's not just tolerance. I don't just endure it. I…"

I stop. Trying to find the right words.

"You like it," Baz says. Not a question.

"It goes quiet," I say. "When it hurts. Everything goes quiet… like someone turned the volume down in my whole head. Is that on the list?”

Saul leans forward. "What you're describing has a name. It's called sensory override. Your brain runs multiple channels all day long. Every sound, every texture, every light, every decision, every thought about every thought. Most people filter that down without trying. You don't. You never have. So your system is permanently overloaded and there's no off switch."

He pauses. Lets me catch up.

"Pain gives you one. A sharp enough sensation forces the brain to drop everything else and attend to the one thing that's happening right now. Part of that is your nervous system finally getting a single clear signal instead of a thousand competing ones. Continued pain, say from an extended flogging or a long session with the belt, does something else entirely. The body starts producing endorphins to cope with it and after a while those endorphins flood the system. That's subspace. That's the high people talk about. Your brain chemistry actually changes. Like it did with the lingam massage. You go somewhere else all calm, floating, completely present but completely gone at the same time. Coming back from that takes care. That's what aftercare is for. That's why we don't just stop and walk away.”

“So what I'm describing or needing is… normal? Acceptable?.”

“You're not a freak, Ren. If that's what you’re worried about. In the BDSM community it is more normal and acceptable than you'd ever believe.”

The room seems to be getting very warm but Baz insists on putting more logs on the fire.

“But let's not pretend the other half isn't there,” continues Saul. “You got hard, Ren. Both times. The pain turned you on and the silence turned you on and they happened together. That's not just sensory processing. That's masochism. And there's nothing wrong with it. Nothing at all. In fact it's perfect.”

Well, the world turns and little ol' me suddenly becomes a masochist. I stare at him. The words hang in the air like an executioner's blade. Me? A pain slut. Saul's almost giddy with joy. It seems we might be a perfect match. That explains a lot.

"You've read about this," I say as Baz decides to sit next to me.

"Yes, I've read about it. I have had other ND clients. Sensory processing in ND brains is different. Pain to you is like lidocaine to your gums - it numbs your mind enough to let real sensation through. That way you can achieve higher level orgasms.”

The fire crackles. I’m sitting very still. Baz’s shoulder brushes mine as he extends his arm along the back of the sofa behind me. My body is very aware of his presence and especially interested in higher level orgasms. I'm sure the one I had from the lingam massage still ripples through me daily, like an erotic ghost.

"That means Baz and I need to introduce you to the lifestyle in increments," Saul says gently. His eyes flicker to where Baz's fingers are brushing the back of my head. "It means we go in carefully. Knowing what pain does to you makes it more important to get it right, not less."

I'm learning things tonight that I never thought possible. I glance down at the final paragraphs on the paper. See how noticeable the ridge in my jeans is. Tell myself to look at the document

"Oh, yeah… safeword," I say. "I've been thinking about that. I read that some people use… a colour system. Is that right? Red for stop. Amber for slow down. Green for keep going."

"Traffic lights," Baz says. "Yes. That's what we use. It's simple, the most common, and it works.”

"Okay, I’ll use that system then.”

Saul nods seriously. "Red means everything stops. Immediately. No questions, no hesitation, no disappointment. You say red and it's over and we take care of you. That's not negotiable."

Then Baz leans forward and folds his fingers over mine. His green eyes reflect the flames from the fire, a cocky grin edges his soft lips.

“And should you ever have your mouth too busy to talk, you use gestures, three hard taps on the nearest surface even if it's just someone's leg and everything stops. Do you understand?”

I nod and laugh while visualising the scenario. "I understand."

Looking around me I realise I'm sitting in a living room with two men who have just handed me a map of their entire sexual landscape, and asked me to find myself on it. But what I'm discovering is that I am the actual landscape. I might want to try nearly everything on their lists. By doing so I am giving permission to be slapped and caned, flogged and paddled, to be bound and dominated, and to willingly accept bruises like I would candy. And yet I don't think I've ever felt so taken care of in all my life.

°°°°°°°°

The end - or is it?

Dear all - the series can end here with Ren learning about himself and what the Castillo brothers can offer him.

OR

if you want some intimate details of the evening events you can read episode 8 where you'll discover how the evening actually ends. Does Ren sign? Does Ren try some things from the document? Does he stay the night?

Continued in Episode 8 - free to subscribers

Subscribe now

Share

Thank you for reading. Your support means everything. If you are enjoying my writing please take a moment to like and restack my stories because they let me know how much you appreciate this UNPAID work.

Acknowledgements

My eternal gratitude goes to fellow Substack authors without whom this story would still still be an idea floating in my brain: - who asked the question. for his foreskin article for their amazing article on Kink and the ND brain.

© polli@izonme 2026. All rights reserved.

This story contains an adult character who is neurodivergent. If you have a low tolerance of, or find neurodivergence a distressing subject then please pass on this one. Other warning: on page graphic sex between consenting adults over the age of 18, solo sex, BDSM practices, kink and profanity. 💯 NSFW. AI assisted (plot anchor, editing, research)

Please note: if you are familiar with the first Over story - Over Time - you will already know Ren's older brother, Tyler. If you haven't already met him, his story can be found here.

Acknowledgements

My eternal gratitude goes to fellow Substack authors without whom this story would still still be an idea floating in my brain: , ,

The Over Whelmed series can be found here

Subscribe

No pledge = free = do it now🫶

Over Whelmed Episode 6 🔞🏳️‍🌈🌶️ NSFW

Episode 6

SAUL POV✨

I have the video on my laptop and the room lights down. I’ve already watched it once, yeah, all the way through like a man needing air. The second time I watch it like I need a ventilator. Or him.

That’s the truth I’m not going to pretty up for anyone. Right now I’m in my own house with my cock in my fist and Ren on a screen doing the most intimate thing he has ever done on purpose, and he did it for me. He said so. I want him to see it. Not Baz’s idea. Not a prompt. When they couldn't contact me, the boy thought of the idea himself. He made it the only option available like he'd solved a puzzle. Then he wrapped his hand around that uncut cock of his and performed.

Performed is the right word. It's not a slur. Two weeks ago he was face-down in a headrest blushing at being looked at. Tonight he's on his back in his massage room with a ring darkening the root of him and a phone pointed at his fist. He’s keeping his thighs open because he has been told to, and because something has changed in him enough to want the lens. That’s some beautiful fucking progress. That’s a submissive finding the shape of his own exhibition and flaunting it.

I watch the hood. Forward. Back. The wet click. Baz’s voice off-camera saying slower, and Ren groaning like he has been denied a life raft and doing it anyway. Two weeks ago that fist would have raced. Last week Baz had to bring him off because Ren only knew the one-and-done version of himself. Sunday, in the wet room, he went down on his knees eager and confused and I had to hold the whole scene in my hands or he would have spent himself on being willing. Look at him now. He gathers his own skin. He covers the head and holds it. He uses the organ he was born with like the tool it is instead of treating it like wrapping. When he gets close he doesn’t steal the shot. He goes slower. That’s training landing in a body that speed-thinks and still managing to obey.

My cock is leaking down my fist and I don’t care if that’s ugly. I’m not watching a love story. I’m watching my boy work.

My boy. Careful. He’s not a collar yet. He’s not ready for the whole of me. I know that in the same breath I know I already think of him as mine; when he does something like this - offering the most private part of his progress to a camera because he wants Saul Castillo to have it. That’s not casual. Casual is what I've had for fifteen years.

This, this is the thing I know will get me in trouble. I am proud of him. Viciously. I want to walk into that room and tell him he was beautiful and then I want to be unkind to him for being beautiful, because that’s how I love, when I eventually let myself use the word. Tonight I’m sitting in the dark calling it want so I don’t have to admit that this piece of film is doing something to the part of me that was supposed to stay a step back.

°°°°°°°°

I pause on his orgasm. The first pulse trapped under his hood. The spill over his knuckles. Three days coming out of a hole too small for the wait. His glassy eyed stare looking straight at Baz. I’ve seen a lot of men cum. I’ve made a lot of men cum. This one’s different only in how little his face hides it, staring at Baz with his groaning breaths and the way his hips still offering after the last pulse has stopped.

The camera stays focused, stuck like glue, the unflinching eye of truth. Baz's hand is steady enough. He focuses on the mess like it’s a sentence being finished, and I stay still long enough to let the room decide who owns the silence that follows.

A month ago, certain moments were unbearable for Ren. They would have made him leave his body: panic, shut down, flee the feeling. Yet, in a single morning he has learned how to stay inside that same kind of moment To realise fear is futile when want is accepted as normal.

I start the clip again at the hood. I stroke to the click of it. I’m going to finish to this. I'm going to spend myself on the progress and on the filthy fact of him and on the feeling I will not name, and then I am going to close the laptop and be a reasonable man about the fact that Baz sent this with only a timestamp, which is my brother saying here, wreck yourself cleanly

I am halfway through the slow part, his other hand drifting behind the sac, my own balls drawn up hard, when the phone lights up.

Ren.

His name. At ten o’clock.

I pause the video. The boy on the screen stays frozen with his fist around himself and his mouth open.

I answer.

What I get isn’t the boy who left the shower door open. Not the filthy kid who wanted me on Sunday. Who knelt so gracefully with his knees on wet tile and mouth full of cum covered towel. It’s the sound a person makes when the floor has gone.

I’m on the bike before I have a strategy. Ten minutes if the lights are kind. I know his road. I know his front door. Never been through it like Baz because the gym is out the back and I go through the garden gate. Tonight that changes.

On the drive I tell myself the rules. I’m not walking in as the man who runs a scene. I’m not going to put him on his knees to make the feeling behave. He thinks he wants that. The feeling wants to be handled. It doesn't want to be held. I know the difference. What it wants is a body that stays.

I’m good at staying. That is the part of the work people skip when they talk about the rest of it. I’ve stayed fifteen years for Poppy. Stayed sober, stayed reliable, stayed responsible. If you met her she'd tell you that. But I took the chances of that away from her. She doesn't have the use of her legs because I was an idiot on a fast bike, tanked up on coke and beer. She’s the reason for the glove. The scar tissue under there, faded now. But I don't deserve anything faded. I want it real and I want it in my face every day. I want to be reminded of what an absolute cunt I have been. So the glove is my aposematic signal to myself so I won't do it again. I destroyed Poppy's life because I was selfish. I don't do selfish anymore. I stay with my twice weekly visits and my offering of training and physio and I stay with my hope that she will walk again.

And as for distance, I'm good at that as well. I haven't had a serious relationship in all of these fifteen years. There's never been enough of me to commit to one person long term. I like my apps. I like my nights in dark rooms and dens and sex clubs. I like the one and done more than anything. If I do relationships it's polyamorous. There's never enough of me to fulfill one person.

And then Tyler asked me to be a personal trainer for Ren and attachment became an unrequited possibility. I have waited and watched, played the friend, the father figure. I didn't want to get attached while he was waiting to be himself. But I'm here for it now. But Ren’s not ready to understand me. Not the whole of me. Not the secrets and the lies. Not the glove. Nor the part that wants to keep him. If I do it this fast, I’m not keeping him. I’m taking him before he can fully choose it.

°°°°°°°°

He opens the door in his shorts and vest before I’ve even knocked. Eyes too big. Pallor tinged grey. Wearing a face that's read himself as a mistake.

“Saul, I’m sorry… sir, I didn’t know who…” he starts.

“You knew,” I say. Not unkind. “Come here.”

He walks into me like being held is medicine. Not because he’s a cuddler. He isn’t. Space is how he stays in one piece. His affection has always lived in other rooms with the yes sir, the looking, the staying when he could have bolted. Putting his body on mine is different. That’s him walking into a feeling that’s alien to him and deciding, for a minute, not to stand outside it.

I get the door shut with my heel and I hold him in the hallway like that is the entire job, because it is. I don’t squeeze the life out of him. I don’t rock him, or turn it into a scene. He’s just spent something he doesn’t usually spend. The decent thing is to let him stay with it.

“Have you drunk anything?”

He nods, then shakes his head, then laughs once, ugly. “Tea. Earlier. I don’t… I don’t know.”

We go to the kitchen because a hallway is for arriving and a table is for coming down. I put the glass in his hand and I wait until I hear him swallow. Drop lies. It will tell a man he has drunk when all he has done is hold the glass and stare through it. I watch his throat work. Only then do I look for food.

Toast is quick and simple. I stand at the counter with my back half to him so he doesn’t have to be looked at while I do something as ordinary as feeding him. When I put the plate down he takes a bite like he is doing me a favour. The second bite is his.

I don't tell him the video was beautiful. I don’t tell him I was watching it when he rang. He would hear that as heat and it would send him the wrong way down the drop.

He’s smaller in this light. Not physically. Occupying less of himself. The man who said film it isn’t in the room. This one keeps both palms on the table as if the wood might slide.

“Baz said it might do this,” he says, staring at the table. “I thought… I thought I wanted you to tell me off.”

Of course he did. That’s the version of me he keeps in his pocket for emergencies: the wet-room voice, the one that can turn weather into a fault and a fault into something he can finish. He rang the Dom because the Dom comes with edges. He got the man who makes toast instead.

“I know,” I say. “That’s why you rang me. The feeling wants a sentence. You haven’t earned a sentence. You’ve had a long day and your chemistry has fallen down the stairs. I’m here for that.”

He looks at me like I have refused him a gift. Then like I have given him a different one he doesn't understand just yet.

I don’t fill the silence with a better speech. He needs the quiet to put the idea of me as Dom and care giver into perspective. If I keep talking I will mash the ideas into one and he will only hear the refusal.

I keep a chair between us for as long as I can. Not as a punishment. He just isn’t built for being crowded when his wires are already stripped. Space is how he stays in one piece. If I drag him into my chest now I’m doing it for me, to make me feel like I’ve caught him, and that's just another way of taking.

It lasts the length of the second glass of water. Then his mouth starts to shake and the distance I’m so proud of looks like cruelty even to me.

He glances at my chest. Away. Back again. That is the whole request. Men like him don’t climb into a lap. They stand at the border of an emotion they haven’t got roads for and wait to see if the border is allowed. His affection has never been the missing thing. Being inside it is.

I move the chair.

He comes in on his own. I let him. One arm, not both. I don’t rock. I don’t rub his back like I am winding a child. I hold him until his breath hits my shirt in pieces that start to look like breathing.

When I can feel him thinking about apologising for the hold, I cut it off at the pass.

“Bed,” I say. “Clothes on. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Okay.”

Subscribe

Share

°°°°°°°°

His room is ordinary. Delivery shirts on a chair. The smell of detergent and the oil he didn’t quite wash off his body. He gets under the duvet like a boy trying not to take up space. I take off my boots and jacket and leave everything else on, then I get in behind him and pull him back against my chest. I put an arm around the front of him so he can feel my presence like an anchor.

He grabs my wrist. Holds it to his sternum. His heart is going like he’s still on the table.

“I’m sorry,” he says into the dark.

“For what.”

“For ringing. For the video. For Sunday. For being… I don’t know. Too much.”

“You’re not too much,” I tell him. “i told you, you’re a person whose body spent itself and then kept on spending. Don't apologise. It happens.”

He breathes. It takes a while to become a real breath. I match it without making a lesson out of it. My mouth is in his hair. I can smell Baz’s oil under the soap, faint, a family smell now, which is a thought I am not going to examine at nearly midnight with my boy shaking in my arms.

I should go home. I should leave a number on the counter and a glass by the bed and protect the line I drew for myself: do not get this attached to someone who is still learning the difference between being seen and being kept.

I stay.

He goes quiet in pieces. The hands on my wrist loosen and then tighten again, checking I've kept my word.

“Saul,” he says, once, very small.

“Yeah.”

“Don’t go.”

“I won't.”

There's just the two of us in a bed that wasn't built for this. And there's the work that doesn’t look like work from the outside: to stay, to hold, to let him come back from the drop without turning the episode into a lesson.

I lie there and I let myself want him. Desperately. I don’t take him. That is the discipline tonight. Not the voice. Not the rules. The not-taking.

He sleeps first. I stay awake long enough to be sure. The video is still paused in my house, Ren caught mid-orgasm, waiting for a man who’s not there. I’ll close the laptop in the morning. I’ll talk to Baz. I’ll try, again, not to get too attached.

His fist is still loose around my wrist when I finally let my eyes shut.

I fail the last rule quietly, in the dark, and I don’t move my arm.

°°°°°°°°

Thursday arrives like a debt.

Grey light. Rain splattering windows. Ren’s back against my chest and my arm still where I left it. Nice-guy Saul did last night. Water. Toast. Clothes on. The not-taking. That version of me is useful and I am not ashamed of him.

He is also not the whole of me, and this bed now smells like Ren’s detergent and my self-control going stale.

I have needs. I had them at ten o’clock with his video paused on my laptop. I had them with his fist around my wrist. I have them now, with morning wood trapped against the inside of my jeans because I was too proud to undress, and a boy in my arms who thinks last night was the full picture of Castillo.

I need to know if I can still move him when I am not rescuing him.

Ren has turned in the night. Not away. In. His face is on my chest, mouth open a little against the shirt I never took off. One hand is fisted loosely in the cotton over my ribs, the same place it landed when he said don’t go. His knee is hooked over my thigh. He’s heavy in the way only a man who has finally dropped off can be heavy.

He’s also hard.

I feel it pressing against my thigh. A blunt line letting me know what it wants. He shifts and the solid length of him drags further over my leg. One hand moves to my stomach then further until it rests on top of my zipper. He makes a sound into my shirt. Not a word. A small, wrecked hum.

I don't move. I try talking to the boner in my jeans that's taking a particular interest in Ren's movements, but it's still thinking about the video and Ren cumming and the way it had to part company with my wrist. It's also enjoying Ren's hand even though the boy is only resting there.

His breathing changes. I feel the moment his body accepts consciousness and his eyes begin to open. You can see the night before registering - the kitchen, the toast, my arm across him, and now his cock pressed to my denim, giving him away.

He goes very still.

He takes his face off my chest by an inch. Not looking at me. Looking at the problem. His own hips. His hand on my fly. The fact of us. In his bed.

“Oh,” he says, very quietly.

“Morning,” I say.

Colour climbs his throat. He tries to ease his hips and hand back and only makes it worse as his palm does a slow slide along the zip that punches a breath out of both of us. He stops dead again.

“I didn’t… sir.. I turned over. I didn’t mean to…”

“I know you didn’t. Stay where you are. You’re not in trouble for waking up hard.”

He puts his face back in my shirt to hide. That’s allowed. His fist tightens in the cotton. His cock is still on me, hotter now, and I can see a damp spot starting against the seam of his shorts. He's pretending that if he doesn’t look at it, I won't feel it.

I feel it.

We lie like that. Rain. His heart against my ribs. Mine doing something I'll think about tomorrow. I keep the arm around his back and I don’t turn it into a scene. I let him have the minute he needs to walk around the new shape of the things he's doing.

His hand loosens in my shirt.

It flattens. Travels an inch down my ribs, stops, travels another. He’s checking the road. Each inch gets filed. Each inch needs permission he hasn’t asked for yet.

“Ren.”

“Mmm.”

“You’re allowed to touch. You don’t have to pretend your hand needs to move there.”

A tiny nod. The hand settles over my stomach, still on cloth, thumb moving, deciding. My cock has been hard since he turned in the night. It kicks under the denim when his thumb gets close to my waistband button, and he feels it. He snatches the hand back as if the jeans bit him.

Then, because he is brave in little ugly bursts, he puts it back.

Lower this time. The heel of his hand at the waistband. Fingers pointing down the fly. Not holding me. Hovering on the choosing.

He tips his head and looks at my face the way he often does: fast, accurate, expectant. I keep my face easy. Daddy voice, no grin.

“Take your time.”

“I… don’t know how to start.”

“You already started. You stayed when you woke up with your hand on my cock. The next bit is only a question.”

He swallows. His fingers creep one button’s width. They find the metal. They rest there. He doesn’t pop it. He holds the button between finger and thumb like it's a small live thing.

His cock twitches against my thigh, left out of the conversation, leaking into his shorts. He glances down at himself and up again.

“Look at your hand.”

He looks. His own fingers on my button. The picture lands. He breathes out a laugh that is almost nothing.

“Can I,” he says.

Just that. The button. The zip under it. The whole morning hiding in two words.

Ask me properly.”

He has to fetch the air for it.

“Can I open your jeans, sir?.”

“Why?”

He hates that. He needs it.

“Because I want to touch you,” he says, into my chest, fierce and tiny. “I don’t want you to touch me if you don't want to. I just… I… fuck…I want my hand on you. Please.”

There it is. Not a grab. A please, held on a button, from a man whose affection lives in other rooms and has, this morning, walked as far as my zip and stopped to ask if he can go further.

It goes through me like a knife.

This is the thing I’ve wanted from him since long before the wet room. A boy who could take, and doesn’t. A boy who gets all the way to the button and parks there with a please because my yes still matters more than his hard-on. I’ve thought about it with my fist in the dark. I thought about it while watching the video. I’ve thought about it in the last thirty minutes with his face on my chest and my arm going numb and my cock aching in these jeans like a stupid secret. None of the versions had the actual sound of him asking. The real thing is undoing. I feel it in the base of my spine like a hornet's nest lives there. I feel it in the way my cock kicks in approval under his waiting fingers. I throb for the boy I can't have. Yet.

I have to take a breath before I speak or I will grab his wrist and ruin his ask.

“Yeah,” I say. “You can touch me. I'd like that. But there's one thing before you do.”

He nods.

“You can't touch yourself not during, not after. Only I can do that. Say you understand.”

“I understand.”

“Then undo it. Slow. I want to watch you do it.”

His fingers fumble the button. Miss. Find it again. He huffs a laugh when it finally slips the hole. The fly eases. He pinches the zipper tag and looks at me one more time.

I nod.

He draws the zip down.

Tooth by tooth. No rush. The sound is filthy only because he is being so careful. Heat comes up into his knuckles. He gets halfway, feels how hard I am against the back of his fingers, and has to stop and put his forehead back on my chest.

I brush the hair from his face.

“It’s okay. You don't have to do anything you don't want to,” I tell him. “I know things are moving fast for you…”

He cuts me off: “ No, no, it's not that… it's just… well…”

I give him a stern look.

“Ren, communication is key here. You know that. Just say it. Whatever it is. No one’s going to laugh at you.”

He sighs, raises himself up on his elbow so he can look me in the eye.

“It's… I've never gone this far… not with anyone. I don't want to get it wrong. I… I need you to tell me what to do.”

Fuck. Music to my ears.

I grip his chin. Run my thumb over his bottom lip. Then take his hand and press it to my crotch.

“You can finish whatever you want to do whenever you’re ready.” His fingers flex. “But if we're going there I have another request.” He blinks and nods. “You have to be naked for me.”

He holds my gaze for a second like he's checking I mean it. Then sits up and pulls his shirt over his head and I watch him do it the way he deserves to be watched. That is to say, I watch without looking away, because he needs to know he is being seen and I need him to know I like what I see.

The rest follows when he climbs off of the bed. Unhurried. He doesn't perform it. That's what gets me — there's no performance in him, just a man taking his clothes off because he was told to, serious and deliberate and slightly flushed at the ears.

I've seen him in the shower, I touched him through the towel, I've watched him in the video and now he's standing in front of me with nowhere to be and nothing between him and my eyes. Something has shifted in him, some kind of confidence. It's palpable. There's an edge to his coyness that's as sexy as fuck. He’s presenting his shaved body to me like he's owning it. Shoulders back, chin level, letting the looking land.

The flush at his ears has spread south and I'd bet my life that it has nothing to do with embarrassment and everything to do with the fact that he likes this. Likes being seen. Has probably always liked it and never had the right people paying attention.

I more than like what I see.

When he's done scrambling back on the bed he looks at me. Waiting.

I raise my hips from the mattress. Slide my leather belt from the loops in my jeans, slowly and fold it once setting it on the bedside table next to me. Casual. Like it means nothing.

It means something. He knows it means something. I watch him register it. Curiosity dances in the blue of his eyes like little waves of wonder. I say nothing and he says nothing and we leave that understanding exactly where it is.

I take his hand again, once more guiding it back to my waiting length and the half open zipper.

He stills, as if he has broken something. I put my mouth in his hair. I don't kiss him. I just stay there.

“Good. Breathe. Now the zip all the way down. Slow. I want to feel you think about it.”

He draws the zip down tooth by tooth. My cock is a beast pushing at the soft jersey, growing out of the waistband, head peeping out like a nosey demon.

"Just there," I say. "Over the cotton. Nothing more."

His fingers find me through the cotton and he goes very still, like he needs a second to understand what he's holding. The damp patch on my boxers grows. He notices, says nothing, continues caressing me through the fabric. He's feeling the truth of it, the weight, the heat, the fact that I am hard for him. It's the understanding that I’m hard for him I see register. Followed by knowing that there's nowhere for either of us to go now except forward.

His fingers flex. Tentative at first. Then with more intention.

I let him find his way. I don't rush him. I watch his face while he works out what he's doing and what he wants to do. He's apprehensive, shy almost. He maps me through the cotton like I might startle. I stay still for him. I let him have a whole minute of just my intimate pulse and the wet spot under his palm, as I watch his own cock twitch into the air going unanswered.

I could take his hand and push for more. Instead I savour that first touch like the elixir it is.

°°°°°°°°

REN POV ✨

His cock is in my hand.

That sentence. I need a moment with that sentence. Did I ever think I'd be saying something like that? No. I want to shout it from the bedroom window. I'm that excited. Ok it's like that glove he wears. To bed as well, apparently. I suppress the urge to question it while laying next to him, body begging for any morsel he'll pass my way.

It might not be skin to skin, but it's as good as.

His cock is in my hand and it's not what I expected, which is a stupid thing to think because I didn't know what I was expecting. I have no reference point for this beyond the internet and the internet tells lies. What I expected… wasn't… this hot, or this big.

Yeah, the heat. The weight. The feel of steel and the pulse of him through cotton. A wet spot under my palm and the understanding that I caused it - that Saul Castillo is leaking because of me - and that information is doing something to the ache in my gut that burns with each touch.

I move my fingers. Slowly.

He doesn't move. Doesn't help. Doesn't rush me. Just lies there and lets me work it out at my own pace like he has all the time in the world.

I am extremely aware of every single thing my hand is doing.

I find my grip, slide once, experimentally, down and back, and my hips try to follow the same rhythm against his leg. I can't help it. I need to thrust and he said no touching.

He inhales, taps my hip. Two fingers reminding me to stop humping his leg.

“Move back, open your legs for me. Let me see you, enjoy you, while you rub me,” he says.

I do it straight away. Move my hips away, open my legs so he has a better view of me. I'm hard. Foreskin half retracted. Not as hard as when Baz put me in that ring, but hard enough to cum with just a few strokes. I practice the breathing that Baz told me to do. Keep the energy in, controlled. I think it's working - until it's not.

The head of Saul's cock is already out of the waistband of his boxers. I see it looking at me dark and wet. I think of what it would feel like inside my body. I stop practicing breathing techniques at the idea of him stretching me open, because my chest just won't move.

“Go on. Flat hand. Over the cloth,” he says, voice unfreezing my revelry, hips pushing into my grip. “Learn it, Ren. Imagine it in your throat, in your ass.”

I clench at the thought and lay my whole hand over him. He stays still for me and stares at my crotch. His eyes tell me he likes what he sees. And I really, really like him looking.

I continue the covered rub. It reminds me of the shower and the towel. I watch the only part of his cock I can see. There's a shiny bead sitting right at the tip catching the grey morning light and I track it as it travels and I think: I want that.

That thought arrives without warning and without apology.

I don't ask.

I just lean down and press my lips to the tip of him. Soft. Tasting salt and want. No technique. Just me acting on impulse and doing the most honest thing my body has done.

He goes completely still.

The room goes completely still.

I lift my head and look up at his face. It's not anger I see, it's calculation.

SAUL POV✨

I don't move. I let the moment sit exactly where it landed.

He's looking up at me with my juice on his lips and enormous eyes. He wears the expression of a man who has just done something he didn't plan and doesn't know yet whether it was brave or catastrophic.

It was both. That's the problem.

"Come here," I say.

Not the wet-room voice. Not last night's voice either. This voice is the one that means we need to deal with this now and I'm not angry but I am serious and you should know the difference.

He sits up. Wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Watching me.

"You did something just now without asking," I say. "You know that."

He nods. The blush leaving his face.

"I'm not angry at you for it. Part of that is my fault. We haven't discussed the rules around your mouth or any other part of you. That was supposed to be Friday's conversation. I haven't given any rules to you yet. But you didn't ask. And in this… in this whatever this is becoming,” I wiggle my fingers between us. “Asking isn't optional. It's the entire thing. Do you understand why?"

"Because… without it…?"

"Because without it I don't know what you want and what you're doing because you think you should. Those are not the same thing and I need to be able to tell them apart. That kiss told me something. The not-asking told me something else. I need both of those things to be mine to read. You don't get to take that from me by jumping ahead."

He's very still. Processing. Filing.

"Floor," I say. "Kneel."

He gets off the bed and goes down without arguing, which tells me everything about where he actually is this morning. I take the belt from the bedside table and crouch behind him. He presents his wrists immediately, behind his back like an obedient criminal. Another tell. I bind them, not tight enough to hurt, tight enough that he'll know they're there.

I sit back on the edge of the bed. Zipper still open, cock still fighting my boxers. He's level with my thighs, still hard, still waiting to find out what happens next.

I take his chin. Tip his face up.

"You liked what you tasted."

Not a question.

"Yes," he says. Barely a word.

"Then you're going to stay there and watch me finish. And when I'm ready I'm going to give you what you went for without asking. And you're going to take it and say thank you and mean it. Clear?"

His cock kicks in the air. "Clear."

I keep the gloved hand in his hair. Always present. Always nagging at my conscience. The other hand goes to myself. I don't rush. I watch his face while I work - the way his eyes track everything, the way his arms try to fight the belt, the way he stays on his knees, cock weeping for me, like staying is where he belongs.

I reach down and take his left nipple between finger and thumb. It's a beautiful nipple sitting pink and proud on his slim chest.

I pinch. Hard.

He gasps. His head drops back an inch as I don't let up. His cockhead is exposed now, foreskin collar being bathed by pre-cum.

"Eyes on me." It's an order. I can't help myself.

He brings them up. They're wet at the corners. Not crying. Something else. The look of a man whose pain and want have just discovered they live in the same room. Something stirs in my bones. It's primal. Been dormant a while. Called to a new dawn by a boy who sees the world with different eyes to mine, who's made me think about all the boxes we live in and how they all need interconnecting doors.

I pinch the right one. Same pressure. Hold it longer. Much longer.

He makes a sound that goes straight down my spine and ricochets off my balls.

"You're not going to tell me to stop," I say.

"No," he says. Wrecked. Honest.

"That's going to be another conversation we have properly. Later. How much of this you want and how far it goes. But noted." I release. Watch the colour flood back in. "Noted very much."

I work myself steadily. He watches. His shoulders stay straight as his nipples bloom. That’s the thing that gets me over the edge, not just his innocence, the discovery of him. So much untried territory waiting to be tested. A canvas for my kinks.

I move forward. My hand goes to his jaw. Opens him.

He knows what's going to happen. He can't not know. He keeps his mouth open like the good boy he is.

I spend across his lips, his tongue, his chin. My aim is true. He flinches at the heat of it and stays open. Takes what lands. His eyes are on my face the entire time.

"Close," I say.

He closes his mouth. Swallows what he has. Waits.

I run my gloved thumb through what's on his chin and push it onto his tongue.

"Suck."

He sucks my leathered thumb clean. Careful. Like he's been doing it longer than this morning.

I look at him. Kneeling in his own bedroom in the grey Thursday light, hands bound with my belt, my tainted thumb in his mouth, cum on his face. The egg cracked, all right. Whatever climbed out of it is extraordinary. I hope my tainted heart can do him justice.

"Do you like the filthy things I do to you," I say.

He lets go of my thumb. Looks at me.

"Yes," he says. Simply. Without dressing it up.

"Good answer." I wipe his face with the back of my hand. "Now. I pinched you hard enough to leave marks. You didn't use a safeword. You don't have one yet, which is also Friday's conversation, but you could have said stop. You didn't. You got harder. Tell me your pain tolerance on a normal day, not today, a normal day when nobody is watching."

He thinks. I like that he thinks rather than just answering.

"I guess it's higher than most people's," he says. "I don't feel things the same way as Tyler. Sensory stuff either doesn't register or it registers too much. Pain usually doesn't." A pause. "When it does register it's — I don't know how to say this."

"Say it anyway."

"It's… clean," he says. "It's just one thing. There's no noise around it. Just the thing itself."

I look at him for a long moment.

"Friday," I say, "is going to be a very interesting conversation."

I stand. Undo the belt from his wrists. He brings his arms forward slowly. He waits for instructions. I point at the bed.

"Over," I say. "Arms in front of you. Flat on the duvet."

He folds himself over the edge of the bed. His back is long and pale in the morning light. His ass a cream peach. The shaved cleft is calling to me. I ignore it. He puts his arms flat and his face turns sideways on the duvet. He waits.

I take the belt. Double it in my hand. The leather folds with a sound he hears because I feel him tense and then deliberately release it. Making himself stay open.

I give him two. Not full arm. Measured. One for the left cheek, one for the right. The sound of it is loud in the quiet room. He gasps both times, sharp and clean, and pushes back toward the belt on the second one which is either reflex or appetite and either way I store it.

The marks rise slow and clean. Two lines. Parallel.

I crouch down and look at them.

"I want to see those Friday night," I say. "That's the invitation. Dinner at seven. Bring a bag if you want to stay. Leave it in the car if you're not sure. Either one is a yes."

He turns his head. Stares at me over his shoulder. His eyes are bright. His cheeks are wet. His cock is trapped between his stomach and the duvet unfulfilled and hard. He looks at me like I have performed a miracle.

"Okay," he says.

I stand. Slide my feet into my boots as I zip myself away. I pick up my jacket.

"Shower," I say. " Go to work. No touching. No cumming. Friday. 7pm.”

I let myself out.

°°°°°°°°

Episode 7 will be where we will leave Ren, Saul and Baz for a while. They need time for their relationship to grow before we revisit them in January 2027

There will be a brief return to see what Tyler, Rick and Paul have been getting up to in Over Sensitive And Rick will have his series of Rick Remembers starting end of October.

November will see a completely new series called Cardboard Heart about a bi guy and his secret desires. So keep a look out for all upcoming releases. 🫶

Share

Subscribe

My darlings, I have no immediate plans to go paid. I need at least another 12 months here to see if I like it. I am starting a Subscribestar account incase I don't. Here's the

I like the fact genuine people pop in to my site and enjoy my work for what it is. Poorly created images + top of the range writing. I'm not wrong when I say you won't find anyone else like me on Substack 🤣 I'm on a journey. You're welcome to join me if you enjoy your filth honest, real and extremely intimate.🫶

Thank you for all your support. Please like and re post my work if you think it worthy. Independent authors like myself offering free reading material for your pleasure rely on people like you to access a wider audience and encourage us to write more. You are what makes writing worthwhile.🫶

This story contains an adult character who is mildly autistic. If you have a low tolerance of, or find neurodivergence a distressing subject then please pass on this one. Also depictions of masturbation being recorded, mild BDSM practices, kink and profanity. 💯 NSFW. AI assisted (plot anchor, editing, research).

Please note: if you are familiar with the first Over story - Over Time - you will already know Ren's older brother, Tyler. If you haven't already met him, his story can be found here

Thanks to , and you know how important your influence has been on this story.

Subscribe

If you get asked for money just hit the no pledge button

If you haven't read the tantric massage scene in Over Whelmed Episode 4B you can find it here. It's intimate and seriously hot.

Over Whelmed Episode 5🔞🏳️‍🌈

BAZ POV✨

“Film it,” he says.

Not a question. Not even a suggestion, really. Just Ren arriving at the logical conclusion before I do and laying it on the table between us like a solved equation.

“You’d be okay with that?” I say.

“He wants to see it,” Ren says. “You said. You said he wanted to.” He pauses. “I want him to see it.”

That last sentence. The way he says it. The wanting in it, absolute and unguarded. It makes me think about Sunday in the wet room and what Saul told me happened with the towel, the way Ren went down on his knees without hesitating. I think about Saul at the kitchen table on Sunday night telling me about it with his jaw tight and both hands wrapped around his coffee cup. I think about what it means that this man wants to be seen by both of us, even when only one of us is in the room. And I’m blown away.

Then I think about the information I dropped while my hands were still on him. That I give Saul these massages - complete. That the prostate is part of the work when Saul needs the whole system, not the polite version. Ren absorbed it in silence. His cock told me the rest. It kicked in my fist like an excited mule.

I only do the full work on Saul when he’s close to the place he used to disappear into. The drugs were bad. The drink that replaced them did not fix the hole. Nothing does, not even this. Since he started training other people’s bodies he’s started treating his own like it belongs to him again. The lingam calms him enough to stay. That’s the part I can give him.

The rest he has to do himself.

We are brothers. We are not strangers to our bodies. We grew up sharing bedrooms and bathrooms. We have watched porn together, brought ourselves off in the same room, gone out to the same clubs, stood in the same scenes on and off stage. And yes, we've even shared a guy, only one night, and few years ago to boot. But considering it all, we’ve done a lot of skin together.

We’ve never done penetration.

That line is still there. And now it looks like we’re going to share Ren across it.

“Okay,” I say.

I pick up my phone. Open the camera. And I think: Saul is going to watch this later tonight and it is going to destroy him in the best possible way, and I am genuinely glad one of us gets to be destroyed cleanly. I am standing in this room holding a phone with a professional expression on my face and unprofessional thoughts hoovering my energy clean out of my system. I will deal with that later. Alone.

“Whenever you’re ready,” I say.

Ren looks up at the ceiling. Then down at himself. Then he wraps his hand around his cock and the foreskin draws back slow under his fingers and I press record while I stand statue still and quieter than snow.

This is the work, I tell myself.

This is absolutely the work.

*****

Today he has to do it himself. The release of energy needs to happen through the slowing, the pacing, the breathing that he has just learned.Besides, Saul and I agreed that we avoid skin on skin as much as we can, which is okay for a personal trainer, but for a masseur skin is my job. And I already gave him a hand job last week. Can’t have him expecting the same every week.

“Not like you do in the dark when you want it over. Like I had it. Slow enough that you can feel the skin move.”

At first Ren’s fingers are clumsy.  Straight to the old pattern: fist tight, chase the spark like the wind is going to blow it out.

I catch his wrist and reset him.

“Foreskin first. You’re uncut. Use it.”

He swallows and does what he is told. He gathers the hood and rolls it forward until the glans hides, then back until it shines again, a swollen plumq, honest in oil and pre-cum. It whispers with a private sound I hope the phone picks up.

My body has been reacting to him since I stepped through the door. Parts of me are painful right now, a wet granite log in my shorts. The wet patch must be visible by mow. Good . He has to see what power he has over me and I want him to see it. The asking for Saul, the gift of being recorded, trusting me... us... like this. Words are meaningless without evidence and right now I'm wearing an awful lot of evidence that I hope he can read.

“That’s it. Slowly. Cover. Expose. Cover. You’re not pumping. You’re putting the energy through the skin and letting it leave the long way.”

His hips want to lift. I can see it in his face. I put my free hand on one thigh and keep him open, keep him visible for the camera, for Saul, for the part of me that is going to have to live with this footage. Every roll of his foreskin is a small filthy theatre: the head appearing, disappearing, the slit winking, a fresh bead dragged down by the hood and spreading around the corona. He makes a noise he tries to swallow. I don’t let him hide that either.

“Look at your hand. You’ve always been able to finish alone. I’m not teaching you that. I’m teaching you not to hurry it now you know how it feels when it’s done to you. Stay in it. As long as you can.”

He slows his fist. Eyes rolling. Sweat beading on the skin of his chest. The phone watches. Up. Pause with the skin covering the head, a soft purse around the glans, pressure from the inside of his own foreskin. Down. The head out in the air again, oversensitive, shining. His other hand finds his balls without being told, then drifts back toward the perineum, a clumsy echo of my earlier press. My mouth opens. The words stay put. Mouth is a thought.

“Yes. There. Don’t stab it. Lean.”

He leans. The slow fist, the riding hood, the dull sweet pressure behind the sac. His cock gets fatter despite the ring.

I want us to bate together. All three of us. Often. The thought lands so cleanly I have to lock my knees. My balls tighten with a threat I might not be able to manage in this room. The wet click of his foreskin carries. I hold my breath and hope the sound reaches the microphone.

His hood swallows the glans whole and he holds it. He knows he is about to go.

“When it builds,” I tell him, “you don’t speed up. You get slower. That’s the release. Not a shot you steal. A tide you stop fighting.”

He does not look like he wants to believe me. His fist betrays him for three fast strokes until I say:

“Slower.”

He groans like a drowning man who missed the life raft. But he obeys.

Three days are in his fist. The foreskin crawls forward and stays, palm sealing over the covered head, squeezing through the skin because if he touches the glans raw he will lose the last scrap of control he has left. His thighs shake. The ring is a tight, mean circle at the root, holding everything in: blood, heat, the load he has not been allowed to spend, so his cock looks angry above it, dark, swollen, pent up and ready to kick the door down.

I see the twitch before the flow.

“Eyes on me, Ren.”

He looks into my eyes.

When it hits, it doesn’t rise. It breaks. A smooth wave. He moans like he’s afraid to enjoy the euphoria slamming through his body. It’s a broken sound of anguish and relief. And I have it on the phone. Forever.

The first pulse slams into the closed hood with nowhere to go, a thick hot flood trapped between skin and head, leaking through the tip like a silver thread.

The second forces the gathered tip open and spills over his knuckles in a heavy rope, then another, then another, three days emptying through a hole too small for how much of him has been waiting. His hips jerk against his own slow hand. The ring keeps him locked in the orgasm, shaking, still hard, still pulsing, liquid welling out of his own foreskin in sticky threads while he cups the head and takes it, because today that's the only way he’s allowed to cum. The camera catches it. Shaky, maybe. I am flesh. I am in heat for this man. Saul will have to be grateful for the camera work regardless.

He continues staring at me, glassy, vacant, chest heaving.

“Perfect, fucking perfect. Beautifully slow. In your own hand. Thank you.”

****

Subscribe

Share

Then I do the part the camera doesn’t get to see.

Warm cloth first. Not a wipe-and-done. I bring the skin forward before I clean anything, gathering the hood back over the head so the glans is not left out in the air raw and shocked. Cum is pooled under there, slick, cooling already. I clean the inner mucosa the way you clean something precious, something that was never meant to be scrubbed. The cloth traces along the grain of him, no rubbing the exposed nerve if I can help it. He flinches anyway. A small sound. I wait. I do it again until the cloth comes away clean.

Oil on the inner skin. Thin. Then the hood drawn forward and held there with my palm so he can feel covered while his pulse is still slamming in the shaft. I keep that hold. I let him have the dark and the wet and the protection the skin was built for.

Only then the ring. I oil it where it sits mean at the root and ease it forward, over the shaft, careful of the sac, and slide it off. Blood finds a new path. He makes a noise that is almost a sob and a breath as I wrap the ring in the cloth and put it away. Out of sight. Out of the argument his body is still having with gravity.

I take a clean towel to the rest of him: belly, thighs, the mess on his knuckles, and then I do the thing I haven’t let myself do all afternoon. I sit on the edge of the table and pull him up against my chest.

He comes into me like he has been waiting for a wall. Not sex. Not performance. Weight. His face finds the hollow under my collarbone and stays there, breath wet against my skin, and his hands — God, his hands, they clutch the back of my shirt and don't let go. He holds on. Actually holds on. Taking comfort out of me like this is allowed.

I’ve given him last week. I’ve given him today. I’ve given Saul years of this work. Nobody has ever folded into me like this afterwards and meant it. My throat goes tight in a way that has nothing to do with the jockstrap.

He smells like oil and sweat and his own cum and the ylang-ylang in the blend. He smells like he already belongs to me. I don’t say that. I put my mouth in his hair instead and breathe, and let him shake through the last of it against my ribs.

“That good, huh?” I say, very quiet.

He nods into my chest. The nod moves through both of us.

I wrap my arms around him the way you wrap a person, not a client, and I hold the line I have been holding all day. I salute the strength of my willpower.

*****

I don’t let him stand up fast. I say so out loud, because his brain will try to tidy this into something small, a parcel he can leave on the table with the oil.

“Stay. Water first. Then food. Then clothes. Then we sit down like people.”

He makes a face that wants to be a joke and hasn’t got the strength. I get the bottle from the counter and put it in his hands and watch him drink. Then the chocolate I keep in my bag for moments when adrenaline drops and blood sugar is likely to follow. He’ll feel that as cold and as guilt if I let him. I don’t.

“Your chemistry just spent itself,” I say. “This is not a prize. Drink. Eat. Then we talk.”

I break a piece and he takes it from my fingers without looking at me, which is somehow more intimate than the film.

I talk while he eats, because the quiet after a first load in three days can turn into a hole if you let it.

“Your body just spent a lot. The high drops. Sometimes now, sometimes later. If it does, it can feel like you’ve done something wrong, or like you’re empty, or like you want a hard hand to make the feeling make sense. You haven’t done anything wrong. You’re not empty. If it hits, you must tell someone. Tell me. Or Saul. It doesn’t matter which one of us. You don’t sit in it on your own letting it happen. The drop can be nasty if it gets grip.”

He nods. He is still against me. His choice. A moment so rare in Ren’s life of needing personal space that I’m honoured he’s still there. I don’t think my words are sinking in though, but that’s okay. They’re in the room. He heard the shape of them.

I get him dressed slowly. Spare clothes from a locker in the gym. Underwear first, careful of the skin I have just put away. Soft shorts. Ordinary fabric over a body that has been holy and filthy for over an hour. He lets me do the buttons he would normally do himself. That is the affection again, leaking out of him in small permissions. A vest over his head like he’s five years old again.

We go through to the kitchen. I put the kettle on. He sits at the table like a man who has remembered he has bones. Sunlight has moved across the floor since he was face down in the other room. Lunchtime is calling. I make tea the way I make it for myself, find his cookie jar and set both in front of him. A vacant look sits on his face which is both a relief and a worry. It means the lingam did what it’s designed for but it could mean he’s dropping.

“You feel okay?”

He wraps both hands around the mug, blows on the hot liquid and nods.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just trying to process everything. Is it always like that?”

“No,” I say. “Sometimes it’s quieter. Sometimes nobody films it. It’s whatever your body wants to take from it.”

We sit. We talk about the van, about whether he has a delivery in the morning, about the lemon balm I am going to cut for muffins later. Ordinary sentences, on purpose. I watch the shake leave his fingers, the flush on his face return to normal.

I stay longer than I stay after a usual Wednesday. Long enough that I make him a sandwich and watch him eat it. Long enough that I am sure I’ve done everything I can to ease the chances of what comes after a day like this: the cold that arrives when the heat has gone, the stupid guilt, the feeling of having been emptied and then left. He's had food and water, he had sugar on the table. He’s clothed and warm and I haven’t rushed out the door to get rid of the concrete lump still in my shorts.

When I finally say I should go, he looks at me like he might ask me not to, and then he doesn’t, because this new Ren is still learning what he is allowed to want in daylight.

At the door he does it again. He reaches. A brief, fierce hold. My shirt in his fists. His forehead against my shoulder. My heart in his hands.

“Thank you,” he says.

Two words. They take me apart more cleanly than the film will take Saul when he watches it later.

“Eat something else before bed,” I say. “And if you feel the slightest drop - you call.”

“I will.”

I almost believe him. I send Saul the video from the car, no caption except the time, and I drive home with the lemon muffin recipe in my head because if I think about the way he held my shirt I’m going to turn around.

*****

REN POV ✨

The house is fine until it isn’t.

I eat toast I don’t taste. I shower and the water is too loud. I put on the same soft shorts and a clean shirt and I sit on the end of the bed with Gloria. I look at my hands like they belong to someone who did something on a table today and then had tea like a person. I can't believe they're the same hands.

For a while I am proud of myself. I stayed slow. I didn’t race it. I said film it and I meant it. I let Baz hold me and I held him back, which I have not done, not like that, not with my face in anyone's chest and my fists in their shirt since… well never.

Then the pride leaks out of me like a slowly leaking balloon and there’s nothing under it.

It starts as cold. Not so much the room but in me. It’s a thin, stupid cold under the skin, and then the thought that I asked them to watch me cum, and that's followed by the thought of why the fuck did I let Baz film it. Then a worry that Saul is going to see it, and then the thought that I wanted him to see it, like at the time it was the most normal thing I could do. And suddenly all my thoughts are not even trying to lie their way into a Iine. They sit on each other. Sunday. The wet room. The oil. My foreskin The ring. The camera. The way I said Saul’s name like a prayer I wanted answered.

Baz told me this could happen. He sat in the kitchen and said if the high drops it can feel like you’ve done something wrong. I’m beginning to understand that now. But knowing it doesn’t stop it. Knowing it makes it worse. I feel embarrassed, stupid, like it shouldn't be happening to me.

I should call Baz. He asked me to. He’s the one who had his hands on me. He is the one who cleaned me, oiled the skin back over, made the tea and… hugged me. Yes I should call Baz.

I don’t call Baz.

When I get like this I want a hard hand. I want someone to tell me i’m being stupid, someone who’ll laugh at my insecurities. I want to be told to breathe, to sit, to stop inventing a crime, to go and play Zelda until I feel better. I tell myself that's the discipline I need. I tell myself Saul is the one who can do that.

It’s ten o’clock. My thumb is already on his name.

He picks up on the second ring.

“Ren.”

Not hello. Just my name, like he was expecting me. I open my mouth and what comes out isn't a sentence. It’s air with a crack in it.

“I’m coming,” he says. “Stay by the front door incase you pass out. Then I can see where you are. Be there in ten.”

°°°°°°°°°°°

✨This story continues in episode 6. Available 15th September to subscribers.✨

Restack this story to show how much you enjoyed it and to help me defy the algorithm 😉

😄 Thank you for reading 🫶

Share

Continued in episode 6

Thank you for reading. Your support means everything. If you are enjoying this, a like or a restack tells me the work is landing, and it helps it find the people who need the tender part as much as the filthy part.

© polli@izonme 2026. All rights reserved.

This beautiful picture is by Roman . Find more of his incredible artwork on his website vault.byroman.me

The poem is one from my collection - ai free and sent to you with love.

Dearest readers,

Apologies, I forgot to mention in my news letter, Polli's Pen, that since I had an overwhelming response to a poem I penned for a picture by , I have been dabbling in the ways of picture poetry.

Once again using one of ‘s gorgeous images, I send you an early Halloween gift.

This is for everyone who loves a monster…

🫶🏳️‍🌈👁️🏳️‍🌈 Polli