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In the fortieth year of an excruciatingly ordinary life, Carson Thorrau went to sleep in a hotel in Brussels and woke up snug and warm in his own bed. The only anomaly was that he was on the wrong side... and he was missing his cock.
It was a good thing he and his wife had a fair-sized house, with no close neighbors to hear him cursing himself through a fit of terrified outrage. Eventually Carson had the good sense to stumble into the bathroom and look in the mirror. His wife, Gemma, looked back.
"What the fuck?!" he demanded, in her voice. The blank image of her had no answer.
For a while he just sat there on the bathroom floor, staring in disbelief at her body. Getting used to the strange sense of vertigo that came from looking at her from the inside rather than the outside. Shifting his weight around, prodding at his chest, and firmly avoiding paying any attention to what was between his legs. His phone— her phone, really—started ringing at some point, but he ignored it.
Eventually, he crawled his way out of his dazed fugue. At least, enough to remember that Gemma had tennis in about twenty minutes. Not knowing what else to do, and sweating with the irrational terror that someone might guess what had happened to him if Gemma changed her habits at all, Carson grabbed her stuff and left. Her phone sat abandoned on the bedside table, with twenty missed calls from "Hubby" blinking on the screen.
Tennis practice, Carson had assumed, would be easy. He'd played in college, and he wasn't that rusty. Except that in college he'd been completely used to how long his arms were.
"Not quite," chuckled Paul, Gemma's trainer. "You seem kind of off today, is everything alright?"
Carson fumed silently for several minutes, swinging his racket a lot harder than was strictly necessary. At one point he almost beaned a teenager the next court over right in the head. Eventually Paul caught the ball and slung his racket over his shoulder. "I think maybe we should call it for the day," he said. There was a twinkle of amusement in his eyes that made Carson bristle. He knew how to play, damn it!
"Fine," he grumbled.
"After all, you seem a little... distracted." Paul crossed the court, stopping just a little too close to Carson. To Gemma. "Want to talk about it over coffee?"
Carson's eyes narrowed. "Why not?" And if Paul tried anything, well, he was having a really bad day. Beating the shit out of this jackass might be cathartic.
They walked all the way to Paul's car in silence. Carson began to wonder if he was imagining things, that this was actually just friendly concern—hadn't Gemma said the guy was gay? He relaxed a bit and buckled himself into the passenger seat. And then, as he started the car, Paul leaned over and kissed him.
It was so sudden, so familiar, that he didn't have time to react before it was already too late. Carson let out a startled yelp, and the moment his lips parted Paul thrust his tongue into his mouth. He jerked away. Straightened himself up, drew breath to scream and rage at this filthy bastard that thought he could force a kiss on Gemma—
"Don't worry," Paul said with a grin. "Nobody can see us from here."
Dread curdled in the pit of Carson's stomach. Suddenly he wasn't so certain Paul had forced anything. Maybe he was just a creep, just delusional, and maybe he wasn't. The only way he could find out...
"Let's go," he said.
Like a fucking idiot, Carson was still expecting a cafe. Right up until they parked in the driveway of a tidy house in Fairfield. While he was still sitting there, stunned and staring, Paul walked around and opened his door for him.
"Nice place."
Paul gave him an odd look. "Yeah, I know. Come on, let's get that coffee I promised you."
Fifteen minutes later, Carson was sitting on a cushy white sofa with a mug in his hand, gripping it tightly to hide his shaking hands. She'd been here before—he'd asked to use the bathroom, and Paul had laughed at him when he asked where it was.
"You could get lost in a paper bag, Gem."
The coffee got cold while Carson struggled to think of the right leading questions. This couldn't be right—there had to be some explanation for why this was happening. A deep friendship Paul had misunderstood, perhaps, or... or a presumptuous ex, maybe, not...
"So," Paul said, putting an arm around his shoulders. "What's up with you? I haven't seen you play that badly in years."
Years. Because Paul had been coaching her for over a decade. Gemma... she wouldn't do that to him. She wouldn't. There had to be some way to be sure, but he couldn't just ask. The thought of this man realizing that Carson had been walking around in a woman's body all day? He'd rather die.
"Is this the same blend we had the first time I came here?" Carson asked, tipping his mug. "I can't remember."
Paul chuckled. "I don't think we had time for coffee, babe. You had my pants off before we even got to the bedroom."
Carson's breath whuffed out of him like he'd been punched in the gut. He sat there, motionless, his mind spinning itself apart as Paul leaned in to whisper in his ear. "Is this your way of asking for a repeat performance?"
Before he could recover himself, those lips were on him again. A hand cupped his jaw, coaxing his mouth open so that Paul could deepen the kiss, could make sick smacking sounds as he ruined the best thing in Carson's life. Then he moved down, flicking his tongue against Carson's—against Gemma's jaw, her throat, her collarbone.
"It feels like so long ago," Carson gasped, hating the way his breath hitched. Hating how sensitive his skin was, the heat that flared inside him when Paul's teeth grazed his neck. He was going to hit him, was going to fucking kill him, but he had to know how long it had been going on. Had to know if she'd been lying to him on their anniversary last year, when they'd cuddled together in a canoe on lake Champlain to watch fireworks. Or three years ago, when he'd held her through the news that she couldn't have a baby. Or five years ago, when—
"Fuck!" he cried out, as Paul's hands slipped under his shirt. He misinterpreted it as encouragement, and he groaned and rolled his hips against Carson's.
"I knew you weren't wearing a bra. You wanted it so bad today, didn't you?"
His fingers found Carson's nipples. He squirmed, sinking back into the couch while Paul climbed over him. He'd never felt anything like the electric tingling that shot through his entire body with the slightest touch. He couldn't help it—he arched his back and groaned.
"Don't worry, baby," Paul said, pulling Carson's shirt over his head and tossing it aside. He kissed his way down his chest, licking and sucking at each breast until he was panting and shaking. "I'll take good care of you."
"I—" Carson gasped, but before he could get up the breath to shout, Paul was already settling between his legs. They spread without his permission, his body listening to the fingers pinching his nipples instead of his own building horror.
Somehow, when Paul tugged down the yoga pants he was wearing and slipped a hand into his underwear, Carson was still expecting him to pull out his dick. Instead, he felt thick, calloused fingers slide between his folds. Felt how wet it was, how wet he was, how pathetically desperate his body had become. He'd worn briefs, because he couldn't bear to put on Gemma's underwear. They were soaked through.
"Please," he whimpered—and he'd never hated himself more. Begging a man who'd fucked his wife to stop touching his pussy, because he couldn't seem to make himself pull away. He could push Paul off of him, could slap him right across the face, but he didn't. He lay there, trembling, as the man who'd humiliated him tugged his briefs down to his knees.
This time, when Paul kissed him, Carson moaned. His face burned with it, the flush spreading all the way down to his chest where the man was still playing with his nipples. He was so sensitive there. Too sensitive to ignore the hot tongue rolling over his slit, the hint of stubble rasping against his inner thighs.
He had to end this. He had to! But then Paul thrust his tongue inside of Carson and he lost control. His hands fisted in the man's hair, fingers clenching. "Please," he kept on repeating, "please!" And the worst thing was that he wasn't sure anymore whether or not he wanted Paul to stop.
It was too much. Paul put his lips somewhere that made Carson's entire body buck and writhe—and sucked. Hard. Gemma's voice echoed off the walls, cries of desperate, animal pleasure that he'd never heard before. He tried to stop it, tried to clamp down on the sensation that spiraled out of control, before Paul took him apart in a way he could never come back from. But it was too late. He shuddered and moaned, sweat sticking his hair to his forehead. And with a final flick of the man's tongue, he betrayed himself.
"Oh," he whispered. "Oh, god."
Paul propped himself up on his elbows, draping his muscled body over Carson. "I don't think you've ever come that fast before," he teased. "You know you don't have to fake it with me, right?"
"Nnh!" Carson squeezed his eyes shut. They stung with the casual cruelty of it, with shame and embarrassment, because now he knew what Gemma sounded like when she got what she wanted. What he'd never given her. And the really sick thing was that the further his heart sank, the more he thought about what a pathetic fucking sadsack he was, the more his cunt throbbed.
The sound of a button popping open broke him out of his shock. Paul had pushed himself back into a sitting position, reclining languidly against the sofa with his legs spread. Waiting. "Go on, baby," he said, his eyes hooded. "I know how much you love my cock."
Carson knew he shouldn't—in the same way he knew he shouldn't jump down onto the tracks in the subway. And just like that, there was a dark urge creeping around in the back of his mind, whispering for him to do it. Jerk the wheel to the left. Self-destruct.
He reached into Paul's sweatpants and inhaled sharply. Fuck. Carson wasn't... wasn't small, exactly, maybe just a tiny bit below average. Gemma had always said it didn't matter. And now he drew Paul's dick out into the open and stared, his heart in his throat. It was enormous. Long and thick, with a fat vein pulsing along the underside.
Carson couldn't help making the comparison. Couldn't stop thinking about how worthless a cock like his must look compared to this, how pitiful Gemma must have thought it was. His insides squirmed with envy and shame. But somehow, with that stupid perfect dick in front of him, it felt so good.
"Go on," Paul said. "Kiss it, baby."
And Carson did. He kissed the tip, the shaft, all the way to Paul's heavy balls. He opened his mouth and took it in, sucking and drooling and making an utter mess of himself.
Paul hissed. "Jesus," he grunted. "No teeth, babe."
Carson couldn't even do this right. He whimpered and tried again, and again and again, while Paul threaded his fingers through his hair and guided him up and down.
"Easy does it," he said. "Use your tongue, remember?" And when Carson obeyed like the pathetic fuck he was, "That's it. Good girl."
Carson moaned around his cock, a rush of slick soaking the couch underneath him. It would be filthy when they were done. He wondered how often Paul had to clean it after he fucked Gemma. It was less painful than thinking about his reaction to those words.
But Paul wouldn't let him forget it. "Yeah, baby," he sighed, stroking Carson's hair. "That's my good girl."
This time, Carson couldn't help but cry out. His hips rolled, his bare cunt grinding against the couch. Tears stung at his eyes, but he blinked them away. He wasn't sure why. He had a cock in his mouth that Paul had used to fuck his wife. He'd called him a good girl and Carson had fucking liked it. He couldn't possibly sink any lower by blubbering in front of him.
He held it in anyway, because he had to cling to the few scraps of dignity he had left.
"Alright." Paul tugged gently at his hair. "That's enough. Come on." He guided Carson to his feet. "Let's go to bed."
Carson froze. He—he wasn't going to go that far. He wasn't going to let Paul—!
But just the thought of it, spreading his legs and letting Gemma's other man make him so weak, so pitiful... he couldn't help himself. He started to moan, "Oh god, oh god, oh god!"
Paul growled low in his throat and shoved Carson against the wall. "Fuck, it's like you're trying to drive me insane." He yanked off his shirt and kicked his pants aside. Then he kissed him, hard and forceful, twisting at his nipples until he was panting with desperation.
"Please," he whispered, and this time there was no hiding what he meant. No pretending it meant please, wait or please, don't. Paul muffled him with his mouth, pressing their bodies so close together that he could feel his dick pressed against his belly.
"Don't worry, baby," he whispered, grabbing Carson's hips. "You'll get my cock." In one sudden motion, he yanked Carson off his feet and pressed him hard against the wall. He reacted instinctively. His legs wrapped around Paul's waist, trapping his cock between his thighs, rubbing it into his pussy. Paul lifted him higher, grunting with effort as he struggled to line himself up. And then, Carson felt it. The tip, pressing up against his cunt.
"Fuck," he half-moaned, half-sobbed. "It's so big."
Paul hummed and nipped at his jaw. "You like my big cock, baby?" He rolled his hips forward, pressure building and building at his entrance.
He bit down hard, trying not to answer. But his body did it for him. He made a strangled sound when he felt it press inside. It was so thick, filling up his pussy so perfectly, pressing deeper and deeper until his eyes rolled towards the ceiling and he screamed, "Yes!"
"I'm gonna make you scream." Paul rocked his hips, plunging his cock in and out of Carson. That was enough for him to get exactly what he'd wanted. Because Carson was easy, so fucking easy, he wailed and writhed on that dick like he'd been made for it.
What was left for him to cling to, now? What pride did he have now?
"Yes, more, harder, please!" Carson babbled, his words overlapping with the nasty wet sound of that magnificent cock thrusting into his pussy
Paul couldn't have unmanned him so thoroughly if he'd tried. Carson had let him fuck his wife, lick his cunt until he came for him, call him a good girl and put his cock in his mouth. And now he bounced up and down, squealing like a fucking pig for a man he should have hated, the man he was too pitiful to compete with.
There was nothing left. Nothing, except to sink into the horrible thrill of his own helplessness. His own shame.
"It's so good," he moaned. "You make it so good... nobody fucks me like you."
Paul ducked his head to take one of Carson's nipples in his mouth. His back arched, and the words poured out of him like an unstoppable torrent. "You're so much better than my husband!" He heard it in her voice, Gemma saying all the things she must have said to Paul while he fucked her. It poured like molten lead into his ears, settling somewhere in the pit of his stomach to fuel the awful heat inside him. "He's got such a tiny little cock. Such a useless pathetic piece of shit cock."
"I'm flattered, babe," Paul said, grinning a little awkwardly.
"Nobody would ever want that cock."
"Mmh." Paul kissed down his throat, sucked hard on his clavicle. "Can I leave a hickey? You said he was out of town for a while."
"In Brussels." Carson grabbed Paul's shoulders and dug his fingers in. "I'm so glad he's gone. He never made me come, the worthless fuck."
"I do, though." Paul kissed him again, long and hard. "You're my sweet girl. I want to make you feel good."
"I'm your sweet girl! You make me feel good, so good, I'm yours, always yours!"
"That's it." He nipped at her throat. "You're my good girl, so you're gonna shout my name when you come."
Every time he thought he'd debased himself as much as any man possibly could, Carson found new depths to sink to. It made him so hot, so filthy wet, how Paul barely blinked at the way he talked. She must have talked about him all the time. His tiny dick and his clumsy hands and how he could never find her clit, the worthless pussy who could never have satisfied her.
"Paul!" he cried out. "I'm going to—harder, please!"
Paul fucked him harder. Fucked him until he was sure his back would bruise from being slammed against the wall with every thrust, until his throat was raw from screaming, "Paul! Fuck me, Paul, harder! Harder! Please, Paul, fill me up with that big cock!"
And in the end it was just his name, over and over, until Carson convulsed for the second time that day, his pussy clenching and fluttering around that perfect fucking dick.
As the last waves of pleasure rolled through him, Carson's screams turned to whimpers. He couldn't hold back any more. He gave Paul everything. Every last drop of humiliation he could possibly take. Tears spilled hot down his cheeks. For a moment, Paul hesitated.
"Don't stop," Carson sobbed. "Please, fuck your good girl, use her, make her yours!"
Paul's eyes darkened. He gripped Carson tighter, grunting with the force of his thrusts, his movements turning sharp and jerky. It hurt—Carson's pussy was raw and sensitive, and it was all too much, and he kept crying harder and harder. Begging all the while, "Don't stop, please don't stop!"
"You're my good girl," Paul groaned, pressing himself up against Carson. "Fuck all you want, you only come for me. My cock—just me—all— mine!"
Carson's eyes flew open wide. "Oh!" he keened, "Oh!" as he felt the gush of heat deep inside him, of the man who fucked his wife pumping his load into his cunt. Even when he was back in his own body, he would always know that Paul had used him. Marked him. Filled him up and made him his pathetic fucking bitch—
His third orgasm struck him like a lightning bolt. He sobbed and wailed through it, hardly registering the way he collapsed against Paul, the cries that tore at his throat. Violent shudders ripped through his body. His vision blurred.
"Easy..."
Carson lay on the couch, his head in Paul's lap. Still shaking through the last pulses of his orgasm. A calloused hand stroked his hair.
"That's my good girl," Paul told him, kissing him gently on the forehead. "Just take a nap, it's okay. That was pretty intense."
The alternative, staying conscious and aware of what he'd just done, was unbearable. So Carson obeyed Paul for the last time. He closed his eyes and drifted to sleep in his lap.
He woke up in his hotel in Brussels. For one glorious instant, he thought it had all been some horrifying wet nightmare—but then he rolled over, and found the notebook tucked in beside him.
Carson, it read, I don't know what's going on, I woke up here and I tried to call you but you wouldn't pick up—
He tore the rest of the note to shreds.