Note: This chapter takes place before the Vanishing, any and all women here no longer exist in the main story.
Date: May 16th, 2015, 6:44 AM
Location: Hawthorne Mansion (Pre-Vanishing)
The morning light crept through the massive floor-to-ceiling windows of the Hawthorne mansion's east wing, casting long golden stripes across the marble floors and the scattered debris of a party that had raged for three full days.
Theodore Hawthorne, freshly eighteen and the sole heir to the Hawthorne fortune, lay sprawled across the largest leather couch in the main living room. His body was still in the clothes he had worn to his birthday party, a rumpled designer shirt that was untucked and stained with what could have been champagne or something less identifiable. His hair was a mess, dark strands sticking up in wild directions, and his eyes were glassy and unfocused, still carrying the remnants of the potent cocktail of substances he had consumed over the past seventy-two hours.
The party itself had been legendary. His father, Darwin Hawthorne, had reluctantly handed over the keys to the family's 12 million dollar yacht, a gleaming white beast of a vessel that had been the centerpiece of a three-day floating bacchanal that had drifted through the coastal waters off the Texas coast. The guest list had been a who's who of wealthy nepo children, models, influencers, and the kind of hangers-on who attached themselves to money like barnacles to a ship. The yacht had been stocked with enough alcohol to float a small navy and enough drugs to keep an entire city partying for a week.
The party had been busted by the coast guard after someone overdosed on molly and had to be airlifted to a hospital. The authorities had arrived in force, their boats cutting through the water with flashing lights and blaring sirens that had shattered the carefully constructed illusion of invincibility. But Darwin's lawyers had been on the scene within hours, waving their expensive credentials and making the whole thing disappear.
The overdose victim had survived, the charges had been dropped, and the party had continued on land for another full day before finally sputtering out like a dying flame.
Through it all, Theodore had been a passive observer. The drugs had hit him hard, harder than he had expected. He had spent most of the party glued to the couch in the mansion's main living room, staring at the massive flat-screen television that had been playing some nature documentary about dragonflies on mute while the chaos of the party raged around him. His body had been present, but his mind had drifted somewhere else entirely, lost in a haze of chemical fog that made everything feel distant and unreal.
He had not fucked anyone at his own birthday party. The thought still lingered in his mind, a quiet, nagging disappointment that he could not quite shake.
He had been surrounded by willing bodies, beautiful people who had thrown themselves at him with the kind of desperate enthusiasm that only came from proximity to money and power. And he had done nothing. He had just sat there, staring at the television, unable to muster the energy or the interest to do anything except exist.
That was not how Theodore had imagined his eighteenth birthday would go. He had dreamed of this day for years, of finally achieving the age of legal adulthood, of being able to wield the power that came with his name and his family's fortune.
The Hawthornes were one of the most influential families in the state, their name opening doors that remained firmly shut to everyone else. Darwin Hawthorne had built an empire of lobbying and influence, a web of connections that stretched into every corner of government and business. He was the kind of man who could make a phone call and change the course of an election, who could smile at a senator and make them forget their own principles.
But Darwin Hawthorne was not a good man. He was not even a decent man.
He was the kind of father who appeared at his son's birthday party for exactly fifteen minutes, long enough to make a speech about legacy and responsibility, before disappearing to mingle with more important people.
He was the kind of man who had never once attended a school play or a soccer game or a parent-teacher conference. He was the kind of man who measured success in dollars and influence, who saw his son as nothing more than an extension of his own legacy.
The mansion itself was a monument to his father's ambitions. Even back then, before the expansions and the second pool and the twelve-car garage, the Hawthorne mansion was an imposing structure.
It sat on forty acres of prime Texas real estate, surrounded by manicured lawns and security fences and the kind of privacy that only came from extreme wealth. The main house was a sprawling Mediterranean-style estate with terracotta roofs and arched windows and a grand entrance that could have swallowed a smaller house whole. The interior was a mix of old-world elegance and modern excess, marble floors and crystal chandeliers and furniture that cost more than most people's homes.
But the mansion was also a revolving door. Darwin Hawthorne was not a picky man when it came to his sexual appetites. He was a man of endless appetites and near-endless pockets, and his dick had found its way into holes that had no business being filled by a married man with a family.
The maids, the mechanics, the chefs, the gardeners, the personal assistants, the interns, the lawyers, the lobbyists, the senators' wives, husbands, hell the senators themselves, the senators themselves when the mood struck, Darwin Hawthorne had fucked his way through a significant portion of the state's population.
The staff turnover was constant. Darwin went through maids the way other men went through socks, hiring them for their breasts and their asses and their willingness to be bent over whatever surface was closest. The maids came and went, a rotating cast of faces that Theodore had stopped bothering to learn. They were paid well, forty-five dollars an hour starting pay, a rate that made them willing to overlook the constant groping and the occasional demand for sexual favors. And Darwin was not as bad as the other centimillionaires, they would whisper among themselves. At least he paid on time.
At least he did not hit them.
At least he gave them a day off...
sometimes.
The bar was in hell.
The women who worked in the Hawthorne mansion did not quit. Even when Darwin's hands wandered, even when he cornered them in the laundry room or the pantry or the back of the garage, they stayed.
The money was too good to walk away from. The health insurance was too good to walk away from.
And in a world where women were still expected to smile and nod and keep their mouths shut, there was no better option.
Theodore had grown up watching all of this. He had seen his father's hands on a hundred different maids, had heard the muffled sounds coming from his father's study at all hours of the night, had walked in on scenes that had left him scarred and confused and aching for something he could not name. He had learned that power meant getting what you wanted, no matter the cost. He had learned that money meant never having to apologize. He had learned that his father's love was conditional, transactional, something that had to be earned through obedience and success.
And now Theodore was eighteen. Now he had the keys to the kingdom. Now he was ready to use the power that his father had taught him to crave.
The thought settled over him like a heavy blanket, warm and suffocating at the same time.
He had spent his entire life watching his father get away with things that would have destroyed anyone else. He had watched him destroy lives and careers and marriages without a second thought. He had watched him treat people like objects, like things to be used and discarded. And he had hated it. He had hated every single moment of it.
But now, lying on the couch in the aftermath of his own failed birthday party, Theodore could feel the hatred curdling into something else. Something darker. Something that looked an awful lot like acceptance.
His father had been right all along. The world was a brutal place, and the only way to survive was to be more brutal than everyone else. The only way to win was to stop caring about the people you trampled in the process. (Ayanokoji ahhh mf 😭😭😭)
Theodore closed his eyes, letting the weight of his new understanding settle into his bones. He was eighteen now. He was an adult. He was the heir to one of the most powerful families in the state. And he was going to use that power.
He was going to abuse it. He was going to take everything that had been denied to him and he was going to make it his. He was going to be worse than his father. He was going to be so much worse.
The thought should have frightened him. It should have made him feel sick. But all he felt was a cold, quiet certainty. The path was clear. The path had always been clear. He had just been too young to see it before.
Theodore Hawthorne Senior, as he would one day be known, stretched his arms over his head and let out a long, slow breath. The party was over. The guests were gone. The mansion was quiet.
But his new life was just beginning.
---
He wandered through the mansion's hallways, his bare feet silent on the cold marble floors. The house was huge, a labyrinth of rooms and corridors that he had explored a thousand times as a child. But tonight it felt different. Tonight it felt like his. Every door he passed was an opportunity, every closed room a mystery waiting to be uncovered.
He found the first one in the kitchen. A femboy, maybe twenty years old, with soft brown hair and wide, nervous eyes. He was wearing the standard staff uniform, a crisp white shirt and black pants that did nothing to hide the dramatic curve of his hips or the shelf-like projection of his ass even without post vanishing causing it.
He was cleaning the counter, his back to Theodore, his body swaying with the motion of his arm.
Theodore approached silently, his footsteps making no sound on the tile floor. He reached the femboy's side and grabbed a huge handful of his ass, fingers sinking deep into the plush, yielding flesh. The femboy gasped, his body jerking forward, his hand flying to his mouth to stifle the sound.
"Theodore! I didn't see you there—I didn't know you were—"
"Shh," Theodore murmured, his hand squeezing harder, his thumb pressing into the deep cleft between the femboy's cheeks. "Don't make a sound. Just keep cleaning. Pretend I'm not here."
The femboy's breath hitched, his body trembling as Theodore's hand roamed over the curve of his ass, squeezing and kneading with possessive, hungry pressure. He obeyed the command, his hand resuming its motion on the counter, but his movements were shaky and unsteady.
Theodore pressed his body against the femboy's back, his crotch grinding against the soft swell of his ass. He was already hard, his tiny cock straining against the fabric of his loose shorts, and he rocked his hips forward in slow, deliberate circles. The friction was exquisite, the heat of the femboy's body seeping through the thin fabric of his uniform.
"You have a very nice ass," Theodore murmured against the femboy's ear, his voice low and rough. "I noticed it earlier. When you were serving drinks. You bent over to pick up a dropped glass and I couldn't stop staring at these beautiful cheeks."
The femboy whimpered, his body trembling as Theodore's grinding grew more insistent. "I—thank you, sir. I appreciate the compliment."
"It's not a compliment," Theodore said, his hand sliding down to grip the femboy's thigh. "It's an observation. And observations need to be acted upon. You understand what I'm saying, don't you?"
The femboy nodded quickly, his voice barely above a whisper. "Yes, sir. I understand."
Theodore pulled away abruptly, leaving the femboy trembling against the counter. He walked out of the kitchen without another word, his heart pounding with excitement. That was just the first. There would be more.
He found the second one in the hallway near the guest bathrooms. A female maid, maybe thirty years old, with dark hair and tired eyes and a body that had clearly been chosen by his father for its curves. She was carrying a stack of towels, her arms full, her massive ass swaying with every step.
Theodore stepped into her path, forcing her to stop. She looked up, her eyes widening when she recognized him.
"Mr. Hawthorne—I mean, Theodore—I'm sorry, I didn't see you there—"
"It's fine," Theodore said, reaching out and placing his hand on her hip. "I was just looking for you. I needed to talk to you about something."
She blinked, her brow furrowing. "About what, sir?"
"About this." He grabbed her waist and pulled her against him, his mouth finding her neck in a wet, aggressive kiss. She gasped, her body going rigid, but she didn't pull away. She couldn't. He was the boss's son. He was the heir to the Hawthorne fortune.
Theodore's hands roamed over her body, squeezing her breasts through her uniform, gripping her ass with possessive, hungry pressure. His mouth worked her neck, sucking and biting, leaving dark marks that would be visible for days.
"Don't make a sound," he murmured against her skin. "Just stand there and let me use you."
She obeyed, standing frozen as he groped and squeezed and humped against her. Theodore's hips moved in frantic, desperate circles, his tiny cocklet grinding against her thigh through the layers of fabric. He could feel the heat building in his groin, the familiar pressure that meant he was getting close, and he pushed harder, faster, his breath coming in sharp, ragged gasps.
He pulled back just before he reached the edge, leaving her trembling and flushed. He straightened his shirt and walked away without a word, his heart pounding with excitement.
The next one was a femboy in the library, a young man with short blond hair and glasses. He was shelving books, his back to the door, his ass presented perfectly as he reached up to place a volume on the top shelf. Theodore crossed the room in a few quick strides, his hand landing on the femboy's ass with a sharp, stinging slap.
The femboy yelped, spinning around, his glasses askew. "Theodore! What are you—"
"Bend over," Theodore commanded, his voice low and firm. "Right now."
The femboy's face went pale, then red. "I don't—I can't—"
"You can," Theodore said, stepping closer and grabbing his shoulder. "And you will. Because I'm telling you to. And because if you don't, I'll tell my father that you were stealing from him. And he'll fire you. And you'll never work in this town again. Understood?"
The femboy's eyes went wide with fear. He nodded slowly, his body trembling, and bent over the desk, his hands gripping the edge, his massive ass presented perfectly.
Theodore pressed up behind him, his hands gripping the soft curves of his cheeks, squeezing and kneading with hungry, desperate pressure. He ground his crotch against the femboy's ass, his cock straining against the fabric of his shorts, his hips moving in frantic, rhythmic circles.
"That's it," he murmured, his voice low and rough. "That's a good boy. Just stay still and let me have my fun."
The femboy's moans were soft and muffled, his body trembling as Theodore's grinding grew more insistent. Theodore was lost in the sensation, the heat and friction and the power of it all. He was finally doing what he had always wanted to do. He was finally taking what he had always been denied.
He pulled back abruptly, leaving the femboy panting against the desk, and walked out of the library without a word. His cock was throbbing, aching with need, but he wasn't done yet. He had eighteen femboys and twelve female staff to get through. He was just getting started.
The rest of the night was a blur of groping and grinding and ass slaps. He found a female maid in the wine cellar and bent her over a barrel, grinding against her from behind while his hands roamed her body. He found a femboy in the laundry room and pressed him against the dryer, his mouth working his neck as his hips moved in desperate, needy circles. He found a female chef in the kitchen and pulled her onto his lap, his hands squeezing her breasts and her ass as he humped against her thigh.
Everywhere he went, there were more bodies to use. The femboys and female staff were his to command, his to touch, his to use. And he used them all.
By midnight, Theodore had lost count of how many he had touched. But he didn't care. He was just getting started.
---
Date: May 17th, 2015, 11:44 AM
Location: Hawthorne Mansion, Theodore's Bedroom
Theodore sat in his father's office chair, the leather creaking beneath him as he scrolled through the list of universities on his laptop screen. The Hawthorne mansion was quiet around him, the morning sun streaming through the tall windows and casting long shadows across the mahogany desk. He had finished his gap year three weeks ago, a year of doing absolutely nothing productive, and now his father was demanding he choose a college.
Theodore didn't really care which one. All he needed was a business program that would look good on a resume and a nightlife that would let him fuck every man and woman he wanted. The actual education was secondary.
He clicked through the options with lazy disinterest. Harvard was the obvious choice, the one his father had been pushing since Theodore was old enough to hold a crayon. But Harvard was too far from Texas, too far from the mansion and the staff and the endless parade of willing bodies that had become his primary source of entertainment. He needed somewhere closer. Somewhere with a reputation for loose morals and even looser women and femboys.
His fingers paused over a few of the less prestigious options. State schools with party reputations, community colleges with high dropout rates and even higher STD rates, technical institutes where the students were too drunk to care about who they were sleeping with. Theodore smiled to himself as he selected a handful of options, all of them known for their nightlife and their gold-digging students who would do anything for a taste of Hawthorne money.
He stretched his arms over his head, the joints popping satisfyingly, and stood up from the desk. His body was still tired from the previous night's activities, the endless groping and grinding and ass slaps that had left him both exhausted and exhilarated.
He had worked his way through almost all of the staff by now, femboys and female maids alike, each one more willing than the last. The power was intoxicating, the knowledge that he could have anyone he wanted simply by flexing his family's influence. He had never felt more alive.
He yawned and made his way out of the bedroom, his feet padding softly on the marble floor of the hallway. The mansion was quiet, the usual sounds of the staff moving about their duties noticeably absent. Theodore's brow furrowed. It was nearly noon, and the house should have been bustling with activity. Something was off.
He descended the grand staircase, his hand trailing along the ornate wooden railing, and rounded the corner into the main foyer. His father was there, standing in front of the massive front doors, adjusting the knot of his tie with practiced precision. He was dressed in an immaculate suit, his graying hair slicked back, his posture rigid and commanding. Theodore's father, Darwin Hawthorne, looked every bit the powerful lobbyist he was, a man who had spent his entire life bending the world to his will.
Theodore stopped at the bottom of the stairs, watching his father finish his adjustments. "Going somewhere?"
Darwin didn't look at him. He was too busy examining his reflection in the mirrored surface of the grand hallway clock, straightening his cuffs and smoothing down his lapels. "I have a meeting in Washington. Important clients. Lobbying work. I'll be gone for about two weeks, give or take a few days."
Theodore blinked, processing the information. "Two weeks? You're just going to leave me here for two weeks?"
"You're a grown man now, Theodore. You don't need me hovering over you." Darwin's voice was flat, uninterested, the same tone he used when discussing quarterly earnings or upcoming legislation. "The staff have been paid in advance. Their wages are covered until the end of the month. There's food in the kitchen, liquor in the cellar, and enough money in the accounts to keep you entertained."
"Entertained?" Theodore's voice rose with indignation. "Father, I don't need to be entertained. I'm not a child. I can take care of myself."
"Of course you can," Darwin said, his tone carrying that familiar edge of dismissal. "I hired a babysitter, though. For the duration of my trip."
Theodore recoiled as if he had been struck. "A BABYSITTER?! Father, I am eighteen years old! I am an adult! I can handle myself without some hired nursemaid hovering over me like I'm a toddler who needs his hand held!"
Darwin sighed, the sound heavy and weary, and finally turned to face his son. His expression was calm, almost bored, the look of a man who had long ago stopped caring about the emotional outbursts of his offspring. "The babysitter is already here. They arrived ten minutes ago. It's too late to change my mind now."
Theodore's jaw dropped. "You can't be serious. You can't just spring this on me without even asking. I'm your son, not some property you can just pawn off on whoever you want."
"You're my son, which is exactly why I'm doing this. You've been... erratic lately. The party, the staff complaints, the rumors I've been hearing. I don't have time to deal with your behavior right now. So I hired someone to keep an eye on you while I'm away."
Theodore's hands clenched into fists at his sides. "I don't need someone to keep an eye on me. I'm perfectly capable of managing my own life without your interference. I'm not some helpless child who needs a caretaker. I'm a grown man, and I refuse to be treated like I'm five years old."
Darwin shrugged, utterly unconcerned. "The decision is made. The babysitter is here. They'll stay in the east wing guest room and make sure you don't do anything stupid while I'm gone. Try to be civil."
"Civil?" Theodore sputtered, his voice cracking with outrage. "You want me to be civil? After you've just insulted my intelligence and my maturity? You assume I can't be trusted to be alone for two weeks without someone watching me? What even is the point of—"
He stopped mid-word.
The foyer was suddenly very warm.
Standing just behind Darwin, leaning against the wall with an expression of pure, casual amusement, was the most dangerously attractive person Theodore had ever seen. Even in the pre-Vanishing world, where women and femboys existed side by side, this person stood out like a beacon in the dark.
He was a femboy, unmistakably so, with a body that seemed designed to drive men to madness. His ass was massive, barely contained by a pair of baggy black parachute pants that sagged low on his hips and did nothing to hide the generous curve of his cheeks. His hips flared wide, his waist was impossibly narrow, and his legs seemed to go on forever.
He was covered in jewelry. Chains and rings and studs and piercings that caught the light and sparkled with every movement. A silver chain hung around his neck, disappearing into the neckline of his croptop hoodie. The hoodie itself was black, with big white letters emblazoned across the chest: "Fuck Me." The crop top was short, leaving his midriff exposed and showing off a flat, toned stomach that made Theodore's mouth go dry.
His hair was choppy and long, falling in messy waves around his face, with the bottom sections dyed a vibrant purple that looked almost electric in the morning light. His bangs were choppy too, falling over one eye in a way that made him look both mysterious and completely unapproachable. A lollipop stick protruded from his lips, and his tongue, impossibly long and pink, was wrapped around the candy with the kind of casual expertise that came from having a lot of experience with things in his mouth.
The femboy's eyes found Theodore's. He winked, slow and deliberate, and pulled the lollipop out of his mouth with a wet pop. His tongue darted out, tracing a slow circle around the candy, and he smiled a smile that was equal parts invitation and challenge.
"Heyyyyy, cutie," the femboy drawled, his voice low and smooth and dripping with promise. "Names Neelson. I'm your new babysitter."
---
Theodore's feet carried him through the mansion's labyrinthine hallways with practiced ease, his mind still reeling from the encounter in the foyer. Neelson. The name echoed in his head like a warning bell, accompanied by the image of that impossibly long tongue wrapped around a lollipop and those knowing eyes that seemed to see right through him. He needed to get away. He needed to think. He needed to find somewhere Neelson wouldn't follow.
He ducked into one of the smaller living rooms on the first floor, a cozy space tucked away near the back of the mansion that was rarely used by his father's guests. The room was decorated in warm earth tones, with plush sofas and a massive flat-screen television mounted on the wall. Theodore collapsed onto the nearest couch, grabbing the remote from the coffee table and flicking through the streaming options with frantic, unfocused movements. He needed a distraction. Something mindless. Something that would let him forget about the femboy with the purple hair and the knowing smile.
He settled on a movie called "Chuds Vs Chads: The Revenge," a ridiculous action comedy about a group of misfits fighting against a horde of arrogant jocks. It was stupid and loud and exactly what he needed. He pressed play and sank deeper into the cushions, his eyes fixed on the screen as the opening credits rolled.
The door creaked open.
Theodore's heart dropped. He didn't need to look to know who it was. The soft footsteps, the faint jingle of jewelry, the subtle shift in the air that seemed to announce Neelson's presence like a herald. Theodore kept his eyes fixed on the television, his body tense, his jaw clenched.
"Heyyyyy, cutie," Neelson's voice drifted across the room, low and smooth and dripping with that same teasing amusement. "Whatcha watching?"
Theodore's mouth went dry. He tried to form words, but his voice came out as a strangled stutter. "I—it's—it's called Chud Vs Chads: The Revenge. It's about—it's about this group of—of misfits who—"
"Cool, cool," Neelson interrupted, already moving toward the couch. "Sounds interesting. Mind if I join?"
Before Theodore could respond, Neelson had slid onto the sofa beside him, his body settling close enough that Theodore could feel the warmth radiating from his skin. The femboy's massive ass pressed against Theodore's thigh, the fabric of those baggy parachute pants doing nothing to hide the plush curve of his cheeks. Theodore's breath caught in his throat.
"So what's it about?" Neelson asked, his voice casual, as if he hadn't just invaded Theodore's personal space with the grace of a predator stalking its prey. "Like, the actual plot. I wanna hear you explain it."
Theodore swallowed hard, forcing his eyes back to the screen. "Well, it's—it's about this group of outcasts who—they're tired of being pushed around by the popular kids, so they decide to fight back. But it's not just a simple revenge story. It's actually a really clever satire of—of social hierarchies and the way people use status to—to—"
"Fascinating," Neelson breathed, leaning in closer. His shoulder brushed against Theodore's arm, and Theodore felt his whole body tense. "Keep going. I love when people are passionate about stuff."
Theodore's brain scrambled for words, his usual eloquence abandoning him completely. "Well, the main character, Chud, he's—he's this really relatable protagonist because he's not just fighting the Chads, he's fighting his own insecurities. And the way the movie uses the action sequences to—to explore his internal struggles is just—it's really brilliant, actually. The director has this whole philosophy about—about how violence can be a metaphor for—"
He kept talking, the words spilling out in a rambling stream of consciousness. Neelson nodded along, his eyes wide and attentive, asking follow-up questions that made Theodore feel like his opinions actually mattered.
"So the Chads are supposed to represent societal expectations?" Neelson asked, his voice carrying that tone of genuine curiosity. "Like, the pressure to conform?"
"Exactly!" Theodore's voice rose with enthusiasm. "And Chud's rebellion isn't just about defeating them physically. It's about breaking free from the whole system. The final fight scene, where he—"
"Wait, wait, wait," Neelson interrupted, leaning forward with exaggerated interest. "The final fight scene. Tell me more about that. I love a good climactic battle."
Theodore launched into a detailed analysis of the movie's third act, his hands gesturing wildly as he explained the symbolism behind each blow and the thematic significance of the soundtrack choices. Neelson listened intently, his chin resting on his hand, his eyes never leaving Theodore's face.
"And the way the director uses slow motion during the pivotal moments—" Theodore was mid-ramble, his voice rising with excitement, when Neelson let out a long, theatrical yawn.
"Mmm, I'm getting kinda tired," Neelson said, his voice soft and sleepy. Without waiting for a response, he shifted his body and lay down, his head settling directly onto Theodore's crotch. The warmth of his cheek pressed through the thin fabric of Theodore's shorts, and Theodore felt his entire body go rigid.
He tried to think about anything else. The movie. His father. The weather. Anything except the soft weight of Neelson's head on his lap and the way his breath was ghosting across his thighs. But his body had other ideas. His tiny cocklet was already stirring, hardening with embarrassing speed, pressing against the fabric of his shorts.
Neelson sat up slowly, his eyes finding Theodore's with that same knowing smile. His gaze dropped to the obvious bulge in Theodore's shorts, then back up to his face.
Theodore's face burned. "What?"
Neelson leaned in close, his lips brushing against Theodore's ear. "I know what you want," he whispered, his voice low and teasing.
Theodore gulped, his throat dry. "What—what do you think I want?"
Neelson pulled back, a wicked grin spreading across his face. "You want," he said, drawing out the words with theatrical suspense, "a nice, hot... PIZZA POCKET!"
He stood up abruptly, crossing the room to the counter where an air fryer sat gleaming under the morning light. Theodore watched in stunned silence as Neelson opened the freezer and pulled out a box of what looked like the fanciest hot pockets he had ever seen, gourmet pizza pockets with names like "Truffle Mushroom" and "Four Cheese and Prosciutto." Neelson placed a few of them in the air fryer, set the timer, and leaned against the counter with a satisfied smile.
Theodore stared at him, his mouth hanging open. The heat was still burning in his groin, his tiny cocklet still hard and aching with need, but all of his momentum had been completely derailed. He had been so sure, so certain that Neelson was about to make a move, and instead he had been completely and utterly blueballed.
The whiny, spoiled brat that lived deep inside Theodore's chest surged to the surface. He stormed across the room, his face flushed with embarrassment and frustration, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. He reached Neelson and stopped, looming over the smaller femboy with a glare that he hoped looked intimidating.
"Drop your pants," Theodore demanded, his voice sharp and commanding.
Neelson raised an eyebrow, a slow smile spreading across his face. He reached down, his fingers finding the rope belt that held his parachute pants in place, and untied it with deliberate, unhurried movements. The pants dropped to the floor, pooling around his ankles.
Theodore's eyes widened. Neelson was packing. A rock-hard seven inches, thick and veiny and standing proud against his stomach. It was the kind of cock that Theodore had only ever seen in the movies, the kind that made his own tiny cocklet feel embarrassingly inadequate.
Neelson's grin widened. He took a step closer, his voice dropping into that same low, teasing register. "What now, cutie...?"
---
Thirty minutes had passed...
Theodore was bent over the kitchen counter, his palms pressed flat against the cold granite, his body trembling with every powerful thrust. His shorts were around his ankles, his shirt bunched up around his shoulders, his face pressed against the cool surface. His glasses had been knocked askew at some point during the proceedings, and his hair was a wild mess, sticking to his sweaty forehead in damp strands.
PLAP—PLAP—PLAP—PLAP—PLAP—
The sound was relentless, a wet, rhythmic slap of skin against skin that echoed through the empty kitchen. Neelson's hips snapped forward with brutal efficiency, his seven-inch cock driving deep into Theodore's tight, virgin hole with the kind of practiced precision that came from years of experience. Each thrust made Theodore's body jolt forward, his fingers scrabbling for purchase on the smooth granite.
AHNN—AHNN—AHNN—AHNN—AHNN—
Theodore's moans were high and breathy, completely unlike the commanding, dominant tone he had tried to project earlier. He was a mess, his body trembling with the unfamiliar sensation of being filled so completely, his tiny cocklet bouncing helplessly against his stomach with every thrust. He had never been on this side of the equation before. He had always been the one doing the fucking, the one in control, the one who called the shots.
But now he was bent over his own kitchen counter, getting his virgin hole wrecked by a hung femboy with purple hair and a tongue that could probably reach his own elbow.
UNGH—UNGH—UNGH—UNGH—UNGH—
Neelson's grunts were low and rhythmic, his hips never slowing their brutal pace. His hands gripped Theodore's hips with bruising force, his fingers digging into the soft flesh, pulling Theodore back onto his cock with every thrust. His massive ass flexed with each drive, those plush cheeks clapping against Theodore's thighs with wet, meaty slaps that filled the kitchen.
PLAP—PLAP—PLAP—PLAP—PLAP—
"Fuck, for a stuck-up brat," Neelson grunted, his voice carrying that same teasing edge, "your hole is tight as hell. Must be a virgin."
AHNNNN—AHNNNN—AHNNNN—
Theodore tried to form a response, but the words came out as a broken moan. "F-f-f-fuck... you..."
Neelson giggled, the sound bright and utterly unrepentant. He leaned forward, his chest pressing against Theodore's back, his lips brushing against Theodore's ear. "Nuh uh uh," he whispered, his voice low and teasing. "That's not a very nice thing to say."
He slammed forward, harder this time, his hips driving deep with enough force to make Theodore's vision white out for a second. The new angle hit something inside him, something that sent sparks of pleasure shooting through his entire body.
"AHNNNNNNNN—!"
Theodore came hard, his tiny cocklet spurting thin ropes of cum across the granite countertop. His body convulsed, his hole clenching rhythmically around Neelson's cock as wave after wave of pleasure crashed through him. He had never cum like that before, never felt anything so intense, so overwhelming. His legs shook, his arms gave out, and he slumped forward against the counter, panting and trembling.
Neelson's own climax followed moments later. He buried himself deep inside Theodore's clenching hole, his hips pressing flush against Theodore's ass, and let out a long, shuddering moan as he came. His cock pulsed, thick ropes of cum flooding Theodore's insides, filling him with a warmth that made his whole body tingle.
PLAP—PLAP—PLAP—PLAP—PLAP—
The last few thrusts were slower, gentler, as Neelson rode out the aftershocks of his orgasm. When he finally pulled out, his cock slid free with a wet, obscene pop. Theodore's hole gaped slightly, a trickle of cum leaking down his thigh and dripping onto the floor.
Neelson dropped to his knees behind Theodore, his hands gripping the younger man's hips and turning him around. Theodore's legs were still shaking, his body still trembling with the aftershocks of his unexpected orgasm. His eyes were glassy, his cheeks flushed, his lips parted with shallow, rapid breaths.
Neelson looked up at him, his tongue darting out to trace his lower lip. "It would be a shame if I didn't return the favor," he said, his voice low and teasing.
"After all, you let me have so much fun with that tight little hole of yours. The least I can do is show your cock some attention."
He leaned in, his mouth opening wide, and took Theodore's soft, spent cocklet between his lips. Theodore gasped, his hips jerking forward involuntarily as Neelson's tongue worked its magic. That impossibly long tongue wrapped around his tiny length, stroking and teasing and coaxing it back to life with expert precision.
"I'm sowwy wittle guy," Neelson cooed between sucks, his voice muffled but still carrying that teasing edge. "I've been so busy with your cute little ass that I haven't given you any attention at all. That's so mean of me. So cruel. You must have felt so neglected."
Theodore's cock was already hardening again, the sensitive flesh responding to Neelson's ministrations with embarrassing speed. He tried to push Neelson's head away, tried to regain some semblance of control, but his hands were weak, his arms trembling.
"Let me make it up to you," Neelson murmured, his tongue tracing a slow circle around the head. "Let me show you what a good little cock you have. Such a cute little thing. So eager. So needy."
He took Theodore's full length into his mouth, his lips sealing around the base, his tongue working the shaft with relentless enthusiasm. Theodore's head fell back, his mouth falling open in a silent moan as the pleasure built.
But then something snapped inside Theodore. The humiliation, the loss of control, the way Neelson had completely taken over, it all came rushing back. He grabbed Neelson's head with both hands, his fingers tangling in the purple-dyed hair, and started thrusting into his mouth with savage, aggressive strokes.
Neelson's eyes widened, but he didn't pull away. He stayed there, his throat opening to accept Theodore's frantic thrusts, his tongue still working the shaft even as he was being used.
Theodore came four more times that night. They switched positions constantly, sometimes Theodore on top, sometimes Neelson, sometimes both of them tangled together in a mess of limbs and sweat and cum. The kitchen counter. The floor. The sofa. The stairs. Every surface in that small living room became a battlefield for their endless, desperate fucking.
When they were finally done, Theodore's legs were so weak he could barely stand. He stumbled up the stairs on shaky limbs, his body aching in ways he had never experienced before. He disappeared into his bedroom for a few minutes, and when he returned, he was holding a small velvet box.
He handed it to Neelson without a word.
Neelson opened it, his eyes widening as he took in the contents. A watch. A Patek Philippe, its face gleaming with diamonds, its band made of solid gold. It was the kind of watch that cost more than most people made in a year, the kind of watch that could pay off a mortgage or fund a small business. Easily worth a hundred and thirty thousand dollars.
Neelson let out a low whistle. "Damn, cutie. This is... this is a lot."
Theodore shrugged, his face still flushed, his body still trembling. "Consider it a thanks. For... you know. The service."
Neelson's grin spread across his face, slow and wicked. He slipped the watch onto his wrist, admiring the way it caught the light. "You know," he said, his voice dropping into that low, teasing register, "I didn't fuck you because I wanted a reward. I fucked you because you're a cutie. A bratty, spoiled, adorable cutie who needed to be put in his place."
Theodore's cheeks burned. "I'm not a brat. I'm a grown man."
"Sure you are, cutie. Sure you are." Neelson stepped closer, his body pressing against Theodore's. His hand came up to cup Theodore's chin, tilting his face up until their eyes met. "But now that you've given me such a generous gift, I have to make sure you feel like it was a fair trade. Right?"
Theodore's breath caught in his throat. "What do you mean?"
Neelson's grin widened. "I mean, I'm going to have to fuck you so good that you forget you ever owned that watch. I'm going to make you feel like you got the better end of the deal." He leaned in close, his lips brushing against Theodore's ear. "I'm going to ruin you, Theodore. Completely. And you're going to love every second of it."