The door was left ajar, as requested. My last chance to pull out of this. No chance. I pushed it open—just enough to step inside. The hallway was dimly lit, shadows stretching along the floor, pooling in the corners. The silence was deliberate. No one greeted me at the door, and that silence was its own instruction. The only sound was the soft hum of something distant—a slow, rhythmic beat, almost like a pulse—coming from deeper in the house. My skin prickled with a strange awareness, like I’d already crossed into their atmosphere. I left the door closed behind me, and moved forward.

They waited in the next room.

I stopped at the threshold. One sat in a leather armchair, legs crossed, sipping something from a short glass, his eyes scanning me slowly. The other stood nearby, arms folded, posture straight and deliberate. Their age, their presence—it wasn’t just physical. It radiated control. Confidence. Intention. The kind that didn’t need words to be understood.

The rug beneath me was thick, textured, grounding. One of them walked a slow circle around me, the soft tread of leather soles brushing the floor with an almost taunting patience. From behind, I heard a drawer open. Something soft rustled. A quiet click. A hum. I didn’t turn—I wasn’t told to—but my body reacted instinctively. My back straightened, breath catching. Anticipation is a kind of touch, too, and in that moment I was wrapped in it.

When the first toy made contact, it wasn’t painful. It was gentle—rubber or silicone, smooth, dragging lightly down my spine. But the way they wielded it… they knew exactly how to make my nerves light up. It was a warm-up, I realized. A warning.

They positioned me with practiced hands. Bent forward over the low ottoman, arms stretched out, not restrained but placed, which somehow felt more binding. There’s a difference between being tied and being held in position by sheer command. One of them adjusted the angle of my hips with an insistent grip—firm, not rough. The message was clear: I was theirs to arrange. I felt exposed, every breath deepening that sense of being open to their interpretation.

A cool drop of something slick touched the base of my spine. Oil, maybe, or lube—it glided down slowly, collected in the curve of my back before one of them followed it with the pad of a finger. A toy pressed against me, just the edge of it, testing. Not yet entering. Just teasing. The other one whispered in my ear, low and close: “Breathe.”

And I did. Each breath like a surrender. Each moment like a held note.

They alternated—one keeping a hand firm between my shoulder blades, the other working me open in slow, measured steps. It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t gentle either. It was deliberate. They took their time not because they had to, but because they could.

At one point, a blindfold slipped over my eyes. The world disappeared. I felt a shift in the air when they moved. Every tiny detail—leather creaking, the scent of sweat and cologne, the buzz of a toy warming in their hands—suddenly became magnified. My balance between submission and awareness tipped further into surrender.

There were moments of silence broken only by the occasional word: “Good.” “Stay.” “More.” Their tone never changed—it didn’t have to. They were calm. In control. They didn’t dominate through volume; they did it through presence, and it filled every inch of the room.

They positioned me—rougher now, without ceremony, but still with precision. One of them gripped my jaw, firm, tilting my head up. The other dragged me back, lower. I was placed between them, body stretched taut: one behind, one in front. The term for it flickered through my mind—spit roast—and though I’d heard it, even imagined it before, nothing had prepared me for how it would feel.

My body was theirs now, in full. I was suspended between them, every inch claimed, every opening used. Where before there had been patience, now there was hunger. Their rhythm was punishing. Relentless. I was taken—not asked, not eased—but consumed. Pushed to match their pace or be broken by it. My breath caught again and again, not just from motion but from shock—the sheer force of being filled, stretched, pulled.

They didn’t speak, but they growled, low and satisfied. I heard breathless muttering above me—praise, maybe, or possession. Behind me, a hand slapped across my hip, hard enough to echo. My body rocked between them, caught in rhythm, like I was some living instrument they played together. I lost track of time, of thoughts, even of sound—except for them. Their bodies. Their breath. Their control.

And still they kept going.

I felt sweat slick on my skin, felt the sting where skin met skin, the deep ache of being held that hard, that deep. Every thrust drove the air from my lungs. I wasn’t just submitting—I was unraveling under the weight of them. I could feel one hand wrapped in my hair, holding me steady, while another dug into my waist, anchoring me as I was split apart and drawn back again.

I was used, completely—but never neglected. Their roughness didn’t lack precision. I was still being handled, not mindlessly, but masterfully. And inside that wild rhythm, I found a kind of surrender that left me lightheaded. Hollowed out. Rebuilt.

Behind me, his rhythm faltered first—just slightly, just for a breath—and then he drove deeper, with a shudder that vibrated through both of us. I could feel it in the way his fingers dug into my waist, in the stuttering force of that last thrust. He gave in. Fully. And I felt it—not just the weight of his release, but the release of him, something deeper than physical. Something primal. Spent.

Seconds later, the one in front of me let out a broken sound—half-curse, half-moan—and pushed forward, fingers tightening in my hair. His breath was hot against my cheek as his whole body tensed, and I could feel the tremor that rolled through his thighs, the tremble of restraint finally unraveling. He used me until the last shiver passed through him—slow, pulsing waves that left him sagging just slightly, still inside me, head bowed.

The silence that followed was thick. Charged. I remained in position, held between them, body trembling, chest rising and falling like I’d run miles. They didn’t speak. They didn’t need to. Their hands, still on me, were softer now. Slower. One brushed a thumb along the back of my neck. The other’s palm cupped the curve of my hip, grounding me.

I felt full, in every sense of the word. Claimed. Saturated with their presence. Marked by the way they’d each unraveled inside me—physically, yes, but more than that. They hadn’t just taken me. They had poured themselves into me. And I had let them.

When I finally collapsed forward onto the rug, they followed—one on each side. I was kissed, just once, behind the ear. A warm towel was pressed to my lower back. A whisper: “You did well.” I closed my eyes.

And I believed it.