Cal sat up, knees drawing closer, chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. He looked at me, waiting for my verdict—the final word on whether this became memory or reality.
“Dom. Are we doing this?”
I let my gaze drift over both of them, savouring the electric anticipation
“We’re doing this,” I said finally, my voice calm, slow, absolute.
I reached for the wine, pouring myself a glass. “Good. Then here’s your first instruction, Cal, worship him. I want to see you undress him. Take your time. Make him feel it.” I sank into the wide armchair at the foot of the bed, glass in hand, settling back to watch the scene unfold—heat and control winding through my blood.
Cal’s breath shivered in his chest, but he moved without hesitation. He stood in front of Ethan, eyes roving up and down, as if recalibrating who this man had become. Ethan was taller than either of us—built like a truck now, his arms and chest broad enough to block the lamplight, the new tattoos slashing black across tan skin and muscle. His hands trembled faintly at his sides as Cal stepped in close, the intimacy of it almost startling.
Cal reached up, hands gentle, starting with the hem of Ethan’s shirt—already half-off, but Cal slid it from his shoulders, letting his palms map the shape of Ethan’s body as he exposed every new inch of skin. Ethan’s muscles rippled beneath the touch, the tattoos coming into sharper focus: lines, script, symbols marking time and loss, some raw and jagged, some almost beautiful.
Cal pressed a kiss to Ethan’s collarbone, lips brushing over a faded scar. Another to his shoulder, following the line of ink.
He knelt—slowly, careful of his own injuries—his mouth trailing lower as he moved. His hands found the button of Ethan’s trousers, working them open, letting them drop slowly over Ethan’s hips, revealing black boxer-briefs stretched taut over thighs so thick the fabric threatened to give. Ethan’s cock was still soft, but as Cal pressed his face into the hollow of Ethan’s hip, mouthing at the sensitive skin, it began to swell—thickening, lengthening, a physical answer to the attention.
I took a slow sip of wine, watching them both. Cal’s mouth worked along the line of Ethan’s boxers, breathing in his scent, tongue tracing the waistband, hands kneading his ass and thighs as if he could memorise him by touch alone.
He pressed a kiss just above the bulge of Ethan’s cock, then another, slower, his tongue peeking out to taste sweat and anticipation.
Cal pressed up to meet Ethan’s mouth, hungry, searching, tongues tangling. Ethan bent down, letting Cal claim him, letting Cal show him what it meant to be worshipped, to be wanted not for what he could survive, but for who he was.
“Enough,” I said softly.
Both of them froze.
I let the silence stretch, savouring the way Ethan’s breathing hitched, the way Cal’s shoulders lifted with each shallow breath. I shifted in the chair, deliberately, spreading my legs just enough to make it clear I was settled in for this.
“Ethan,” I said, voice calm, dangerous. “You’ve been worshipped. You’ve been seen. Now I want to see what you do when I take the leash off.”
Ethan’s head snapped up. His eyes were dark, blown wide with hunger and restraint held too long.
“Take control,” I continued. “Do whatever you want with Cal. Strip him. Touch him. Use him. Just remember one thing—he’s not yours to break. He’s mine. And he wants this.”
Something feral broke loose in Ethan.
He moved like an animal finally released from a cage—fast, decisive, all that pent-up need pouring out of him at once. He grabbed Cal by the open shirt, hauling him up hard enough to make Cal gasp, their bodies slamming together chest to chest. Ethan’s mouth crashed into Cal’s, kissing him like he was starving.
Cal moaned into it, hands flying up instinctively before stopping himself, fingers curling in the air as he remembered the rules. Ethan growled low in his chest at the sound, a rough, pleased noise, and bit Cal’s lower lip hard enough to make him whimper.
“Fuck,” Cal gasped. “Ethan?—”
Ethan didn’t answer. He shoved Cal backward until the backs of Cal’s knees hit the edge of the bed, then dropped his headand dragged his mouth down Cal’s exposed throat, over his collarbones, teeth scraping, tongue soothing.
I shifted in the chair, my own cock already hard, my hand sliding down my thigh as I watched. The sounds filled the room—Cal’s broken breaths, Ethan’s rough exhalations, skin slapping against skin.
Ethan’s hands were everywhere. Gripping Cal’s hips. Digging into his sides. Thumbing over the bandages on his ribs with unexpected care before squeezing again, harder, possessive. He dropped to his knees suddenly, forcing Cal to spread his legs, and pressed his face into Cal’s abdomen, inhaling like he was trying to memorise him.
“You smell so fucking good,” Ethan muttered, voice wrecked.
Cal’s head tipped back. “Please—please?—”
Ethan hooked his fingers into Cal’s waistband and yanked. Cal’s trousers slid down his hips, then his thighs, then pooled around his ankles. Ethan shoved them away, leaving Cal standing there in nothing but tight underwear, cock straining visibly, flushed and leaking already.
I groaned softly, my hand wrapping around myself at last. I didn’t rush it. I stroked slowly, deliberately, enjoying the power of watching them unravel for me.
Ethan rose back up, towering over Cal, hands framing his face. “You’re shaking,” he said, almost reverent.
