I don’t even know why I’m writing this down. Maybe I just need to get it out. Maybe I just need to admit it.

It was supposed to be just another sleepover. Me and my friend, both in our early twenties, wasting the day, gaming, eating junk, laughing too loud. His family was out of the country for the week, off somewhere sunny. He had the whole house to himself. Almost.

The handyman had been staying for a few days, working on the upstairs bathroom and some other repairs. He was older, probably in his forties, with rough hands and that tired, weathered look guys get from years of fixing things.

The French exchange student was still living there too, part of some college program. Adrien was twenty-one, maybe twenty-two, with that calm, polite way some European students had. I hadn’t met him before.

Sometime after midnight, my friend groaned from the couch. "Hey, can you grab a couple sodas from the kitchen?" he mumbled, too lazy to move.

I sighed, got up, and padded into the kitchen. The French exchange student was already there, standing by the counter, pouring himself a glass of water. He glanced up when he saw me, then gave a polite nod.

"’Allo," he said, thick accent curling around every word. "I am Adrien. I stay here for ze exchange. From Lyon."

I blinked, caught off guard, then nodded back. "Uh, hey. I’m… yeah, I’m just crashing here tonight."

Adrien smiled faintly, almost amused. "Eet is… nice to meet you." Then the French exchange student turned and left, bare feet whispering across the floor.

As I grabbed the sodas from the fridge, the handyman walked in from the backyard, wiping his hands on a rag. He had that slow, heavy drawl that made every word feel lazy but sharp.

"Still up, huh, kid?" the handyman said, leaning on the doorframe with a faint smirk.

"Yeah," I muttered.

The handyman glanced at the sodas in my hands, one eyebrow raised. "Big night o' gaming, huh?"

I just nodded. He let out a rough little chuckle and moved past me toward the sink.

I headed back to the living room and handed one of the sodas to my friend.

"Thanks, man," my friend yawned, tossing me a pillow. "You good with the mattress?"

"Yeah, no worries," I said.

My friend gave a lazy thumbs-up and disappeared under his blanket, already half-asleep.

I set up the mattress, pulled on some sweats, and slid under the blanket. Upstairs, a door shut softly. Somewhere in the house, footsteps creaked.

The house went quiet. Too quiet.

I lay there in the dark, eyes closed, my body sinking into the mattress. My breath slowed. Sleep started to pull at me.

Footsteps. A door creaking shut. Silence. Then the blanket lifted.

I wasn’t asleep. Just still. Waiting. Telling myself it wouldn’t happen again.

A body slid in behind me. Sweaty skin, hot and heavy, glued itself to my back. A hand settled on my hip. I didn’t say anything, but not because I didn’t want it. I stayed still because I needed it. I wanted to feel that again. Just lay there, heart pounding.

The body behind me was breathing slow. Deep. His cock pressed against my ass through the sweats. It was already hard.

I should’ve said something. Should’ve moved. But my hips stayed still. My breath caught. My dick pulsed against the mattress, leaking like I wanted it.

The person didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. I had left the door unlocked for a reason. He just moved. His hand slipped into the waistband of my pants, fingers brushing my skin, then wrapping around my dick. I was pathetically hard. My brain screamed, but my body betrayed me. My legs parted a little on their own, desperate.

He tugged my pants down to my knees. Cool air hit my bare skin. Then spit. Wet, fast. His fingers smeared it between my cheeks.

He smelled like sweat and some kind of aftershave. Cheap, sharp. Someone always wore it to church. Or maybe it was from the truck. The scent clung to the sheets. Older. Familiar. My mind tried to place it, circling names I didn’t want to think. My hole clenched tighter instead.

Then the pressure. He shoved his cock between my cheeks and forced his way into my hole like he’d done it before. Not rough, not gentle. Just certain.

I gasped. Bit the blanket. My hole stretched, burned, throbbed. I clenched, and he groaned against my neck.

That groan, it had a rasp. Not unlike the way the French exchange student sounded when he’d just woken up. Or maybe it was the dry throat I’d heard from the handyman once after mowing the lawn. Could’ve been the handyman. Or maybe just a dry throat.

I didn’t know who he was. And that only made it worse.

His skin was hot and slightly damp. His breath hit my neck with every thrust. His fingers felt thick. Strong. Callused. Like someone who used their hands. Like someone who built or worked with tools.

The handyman had hands like that. So did the French exchange student. So did almost everyone. No. I didn’t want to know. Didn’t want to think about the faded scar I thought I felt on one finger, or the faint scrape of nails that felt too well-kept for a teenager.

He started fucking me. Long, deep thrusts. Slow at first, pulling all the way out, then shoving back in with force. His hips slapped against my ass. The sound filled the room, soft and obscene.

Somewhere in the dark, just feet away, my friend was asleep. Or should’ve been. I strained to hear his breathing, anything. But all I caught was the wet slap of skin, and the quiet, broken flutters of breath against my neck that didn’t belong to me.

I could feel every inch of him. Thick. Hot. Pulsing inside me.

One of his hands gripped my waist. His hand covered my mouth, not to silence me, but to hold me in the moment. I didn’t resist. I moaned into his palm.

I didn’t fight. I didn’t moan. I just took it.

I wasn’t being romanced. I wasn’t being courted. I was being taken, just like I wanted.

He picked up speed. Harder now. Faster. He rammed into me, fucking me like he owned me, like this wasn’t the first time. The mattress creaked beneath us. My ass felt open, slick, claimed.

I should’ve screamed. Instead, I pushed my ass back against him.

I came without touching myself. Just spasmed and spilled onto the sheets while he pounded me through it. It wasn’t clean. It wasn’t soft. It was filthy. And it was exactly what I didn’t know I craved.

He groaned again, deep and low, and buried himself one last time. Whoever he was, he came hard. Deep inside me. Like I was his to fill.

He held still. Then slowly pulled out, a wet sound filling the space between us.

He tugged my sweats back up. Tucked the blanket around me. Then he left.

I heard him walk out. Quiet. Deliberate. No creaking floorboard. No slammed door. Just absence.

A faint scent of motor oil. Like someone had worked on something that day. Or maybe it was hand cream. I couldn’t be sure anymore. Or maybe my imagination.

I didn’t sleep the rest of the night. Just lay there. Shaking. Cum leaking from me.

Wondering who the fuck it was. My friend. The French exchange student. The handyman.

I didn’t sleep for days after.My hole ached every time I sat down. My brain replayed it on loop, the stranger’s hand over my mouth, the way he pulled out, the way I didn’t say no.

I didn’t share it. Not because I was ashamed, but because I wanted to keep it mine. A dirty secret I craved more than I understood. And when I jerked off, I told myself I wasn’t thinking about it. But I was.

Two weeks later, it happened again.

Last time it was the living room floor. This time, I got the guest room. A couch instead of a mattress. A door I could’ve locked. I didn’t.

The sleepover wasn’t even planned. We’d been hanging out since late afternoon, just the two of us, my best friend since forever. Hours of gaming, greasy food, dumb jokes. No talk about staying over, but when it got late, he just said, “Crash here, man,” and that was it.

He passed out early, upstairs in his room. I was left alone in the guest room, scrolling aimlessly, the blue light of my phone casting shadows on the walls.

Then it buzzed.

No contact name. Just a message: "Don’t lock the door."

I stared at it. My heart started pounding. I deleted the message. Turned the phone face down. Tried to breathe normal. Maybe it was a joke. Maybe it wasn’t for me. But my chest knew better. My dick too.

I didn’t lock the door. I wanted it. I left the door open for a reason.

The couch sucked. The blanket scratched. The ceiling fan above spun in slow, useless circles. I stripped to my briefs and lay on my side, wide awake. Listening. Pretending I wasn’t.

After 2 a.m., the hallway creaked. Bare feet. Careful steps. My whole body tensed. The door opened slow. A pause. Then it closed again with a soft click.

I didn’t turn. Didn’t breathe.

The air shifted. The couch dipped behind me.

No words. Just presence. Heat. A heavy body pressing against my back. The smell of sweat and skin, sharp and masculine, hit me like a wave. A breath against my neck. My briefs tugged down, inch by inch, peeling past my hips.

I let it happen.

He kissed my back first. Then lower. Then again, wetter. His tongue trailed between my cheeks, slow at first. Teasing. Testing. I flinched but didn’t move away.

Then he licked me.

Long, wet strokes. Flattened tongue, dragging up and down. Then a flick. Then another. I gasped into the pillow. My thighs clenched, but he just pried them wider. Took his time.

He ate my hole like he owned it.

Slurping. Breathing hard through his nose. His fingers gripped my ass tight, spreading me open while he devoured me from behind. His tongue pushed in deeper, twisting, curling. He spit on it. Went back in. My hips bucked into the couch.

I moaned out loud. Didn’t even try to hold back.

Then louder. And louder.

I forgot there were others in the house. Forgot someone might hear. I just whimpered into the pillow, humping into the cushion like a slut, every sound raw and involuntary.

Then something thicker. A finger. Slick with spit. He pushed it in slow, let me stretch around it. I arched my back and clutched the pillow like a lifeline.

My eyes caught movement.

Thin streaks of light from the street filtered through the slats in the blinds, painting the wall in pale lines. Just enough to see my own body, the twitch of my legs. But not enough to see his face. If it even was a stranger.

A second finger joined the first. He fucked me with them, deep and crooked, searching for my spot and when he found it, I nearly screamed. My whole body locked up, cock jerking against the couch.

A third finger stretched me wider. He spit again, rubbed it in. I was a mess. Dripping. Moaning. Pushing back on his hand like I needed it.

Then his mouth wrapped around my cock.

Hot. Wet. Greedy.

He sucked like he meant it. Tongue swirling under the head, then flattening as he bobbed down. Deep. Then up again, slurping. His fingers kept working me open, knuckles-deep, milking me from the inside.

I couldn’t take it.

I cried out again. Loud. Didn’t care. My cock throbbed, and I came hard, unloading in his mouth while my hole spasmed around his fingers. He didn’t stop. Swallowed every drop. Kept sucking, slow and deep, like he wanted every last pulse.

Then he pulled back.

Fingers slipping out, gentle, wet. My ass clenched around nothing. I whimpered. He pulled my briefs up over the mess. Tucked the blanket around me. Brushed my hair back with his fingers, slow and weirdly soft.

Still no words. And then he just left.

I lay there in the dark, heart racing, cum drying on my cock. My ass felt open. Sensitive.
But something was different. That mouth, familiar, but not the same. The rhythm was slower. Less urgent. His body heavier, but more careful. Even the way he touched my hair, it was softer.

There were only three others in the house. Adrien, the quiet French exchange student. The handyman, older and always smelling of tools and metal. And my friend, who claimed to be out cold upstairs.

Why did it turn me on not knowing? Why did I want it to happen again?

It didn’t happen the next night. Or the one after that. But I kept thinking about it. Replaying the sounds. The heat. The way my body had just given in.

So when my friend tossed me the sleeping bag again a few nights later and said I could just crash, I didn’t hesitate.

I ended up on the floor again, this time in his room, sprawled on that same sleeping bag next to his bed.

He passed out fast, headphones in, snoring softly with his back to me.

I stared at the ceiling, heart pounding, cock already stiff under the blanket. Every creak in the house made my breath hitch. I didn’t even try to sleep. My whole body was tight with anticipation. Like I knew. Like part of me had been waiting all night.

Just past 3am, it happened. Again.

Soft footsteps. Slow. Careful.

The door creaked open, then closed with a click. I didn’t move. Didn’t need to.

Breath warmed the back of my neck. Hands slid onto my hips.

My body gave in like it had been prepped for this. My back arched. My thighs parted. I felt the sleeping bag unzip around me like a candy wrapper being peeled open. My briefs were dragged down to my knees, exposing my ass to the night air. My cock flopped out, hard and leaking precum already.

I was on my stomach, knees tucked under me, ass lifted slightly. Perfect target. My face pressed into the pillow, my arms useless at my sides.

Then I was mounted. No teasing. No warning. He paused. Just a second. Like waiting for a signal. And I arched my back to give it. Then he slid into me with one long, raw thrust, like we’d both done this before.

I gasped into the pillow, bit the fabric. My hole stretched around him, pulsing. His hips slammed into mine, thighs slapping, the sound obscene in the quiet room. He started fucking me with the same rhythm as before, fast, deep, relentless. Like he didn’t need to find the right angle. He already knew it.

"Fuck," I whispered into the pillow, "use me again…"

But this time, something shifted. There was someone else. Another hand moved into my hair. Fingers combing gently across my forehead. Curious. Almost tender. Then lips brushed the side of my neck. Soft. Testing. Then hungrier.

I moaned. Loud. Too loud. I forgot the house wasn’t empty. Forgot who might hear. All I could feel was the kiss on my neck, the cock inside me, and the heat rising through my chest.

Another hand touched my stomach. Then slid lower. Found my cock. Squeezed it. Started stroking me, firm, fast, like he owned it. I wasn’t just being used by one. There were two of them.

The one behind me grunted, picked up speed. My ass slapped loud against his thighs. The one in front shifted close. I felt his breath on my face. Still no words. Just breath. Then something warm brushed my cheek.

A cock. Hard. Slick. Pulsing. It nudged my lips. I opened my mouth. He slid in.

Now I was stuffed from both ends. My throat filled instantly. His cock tasted like skin, sweat, and that bitter tang of precum, slippery, salty, almost sweet. I gagged as he pushed deeper. He held there, making me breathe through my nose, spit pooling at the corners of my lips.

I drooled around him, gagged again. My jaw stretched wide, my ass stretched wider. My entire body felt pinned, filled, owned.

"God, yes…"I moaned, "just fuck me… fuck me full…"

Then it escalated. The same guy in front of me, he pulled back just far enough to let his spit-covered hand slide between us. His fingers found my cock again. Squeezed. Pumped. Then his mouth.

Hot. Wet. Starving. He leaned down. Sucked me while I sucked him. His tongue slid under my shaft. Then suction. Strong and wet. I twitched. Bucked. Almost screamed.

I was being fucked. Throat-fucked. Sucked off. All at once.

The two of them used me in silence, like it was rehearsed. No one said a word. No one made a sound beyond breath and skin. I couldn’t see either of them. Just faint silver slats of streetlight filtering through the blinds, streaking across the ceiling and wall. Not enough to see faces. Not enough to be sure of anything.

I stopped trying to keep track. I let myself become just a body. Just a fuck. Just a hole. Because I wanted it that way.

"Don’t stop," I breathed, barely audible. "Please don’t stop…"

I came first. No surprise. The mouth on my cock didn’t let up. Lips sealed tight. Tongue lashing. I moaned around the dick in my throat. Loud. Desperate. My whole body seized up. I convulsed and shot deep into that hungry mouth, each spurt ripped out of me by sheer overload.

The cock in my mouth pulled free just in time to unload across my face. Hot streaks hit my cheek, my nose, my lips. It dripped down my chin, soaked the pillow under me.

Then the one inside me let out a grunt, low, raw, and slammed deep. One final thrust. His cock throbbed and unloaded, thick spurts of cum pumping straight into me. I felt it hit deep. So warm it made me gasp. I clenched around him, trapping it inside.

None of them spoke. Hands slipped away. Mouths vanished. The weight left my back. The door opened. Closed.

I lay there trembling, face sticky, jaw aching, throat sore. My hole leaked slow warmth. My chest was wet with spit and sweat. My cock still twitched uselessly, spent.

"Fuck," I whispered again. "What the fuck is happening to me…"

And I still had no fucking idea who either of them were.