Chapter 2

I moved out of Brit’s place and found a small flat near the sawmill where I had been working for almost a year. When still in highschool, I’d already left my mother’s house and lived on my own with a bit of help from my grandfather. I worked part-time while I finished high school.

People couldn’t believe I lived independently, let alone did physical labor for a living. I never made a fuss about it. I guess I didn’t look the part—too soft, too pretty, too clean to be lifting logs and chopping wood. But I loved it. The sweat, the rhythm, the ache in my arms after a long day—it made me feel strong. Real.

I worked out in the gym to carve out some lines on my lean body, ran a few kilometers every morning, and swam laps at the local pool as often as I could. I liked how that made me feel—grounded, focused, real. Not just some twink with big eyes and soft lips.

Brit, and eventually most people I slept with, called me pretty. Never handsome. Probably because I’ve always been small-framed with a baby face, pale blue eyes, and golden hair so light it practically glows in the sun.

I speak softly. I try to be polite. I tend to listen more than I talk. Not because I’m trying to be charming—it’s just how I survived growing up in chaos.

There were no warm family dinners or bedtime stories in my house. My parents were constantly at war, slamming doors, breaking bottles, screaming like animals. Cops came often. Neighbors stared. I learned early on that love didn’t always look like love—and silence, books, and tools were safer than people.

When my dad finally bailed, my mom spiraled. Booze. Random guys. Then she settled on a total piece of shit who made everything worse. Fights. Bruises. Screaming matches at 2 a.m.

So yeah, that’s my origin story. Not tragic enough for a Netflix doc, but fucked up enough that I should probably be in therapy.

Instead, I found my peace in building things. Fixing things. Giving objects the kind of care I never got. By sixteen, I was making decent money doing odd jobs—repairing furniture, assembling baby cribs, restoring old radios. I even made a few dollhouses that people paid good money for. Hands steady, eyes sharp, always focused.

One of my lovers once laughed and called me a “dynamic genius fucktoy.” I mean—rude? Accurate? Maybe both. I took it as a compliment.

Anyway, I know I’m rambling. You probably didn’t come here to read about trauma and toolboxes. You want the sex. The moaning. The wet, raw, unfiltered heat. You want to know how I got from fixing lawnmowers to getting spit-roasted by a hot couple and their friends.

Too much too soon? Dragging on with too little? Bear with me.

I promise, if you keep reading, you’ll be rewarded. You’ll get your filthy little payoff. And who knows—you might even find a few things worth keeping along the way.

Still with me?

Good.

Let’s get on with it, then.

A couple weeks after things ended with Brit, I rushed home from work one day, heart pounding with anticipation. I couldn’t wait to check my phone. A message was waiting for me in my inbox—and not just any message. This one was special. NSFW special. The kind you don’t risk opening at work, no matter how badly you want to.

A few days earlier, I’d joined an adult dating site that specialized in bisexual dating and multipartner swinging. No messing around. Just real people, looking for real, filthy fun. I’d created a profile, uploaded a few nude selfies, and—I’ll be honest—put a lot of effort into it. Presentation matters.

Lucky for me, I’m not just cute. I’m photogenic. I’ve got that soft-but-cut, sweet-but-naughty thing going on, and I know how to use it. Plus, I’m not too bad behind the camera. I used a compact digital cam with a flip screen and remote shutter, set it up on a tripod, and got to work.

Before the shoot, I shaved my chest and trimmed what little body hair I had. Cleaned up my pubes. Shaved my balls. I wanted to look slick, polished, delicious. Then I posed.

The first photo I uploaded showed me leaning against the kitchen counter, abs flexed, cock hard and proud, catching the light just right. The second was ... a bit more daring.

Black fishnet stockings. Matching garter belt. No panties. Another hard-on—bigger this time, glistening with precum. I’d bought the outfit from a site that sells lingerie specifically designed for men. And let me tell you, it was a revelation.

I’d never worn anything like that before. But the second I slipped the stockings up my legs and clipped the garter belt around my waist, I felt electric. If you think a guy in sexy lingerie looks too effeminate, fair enough. Not everyone’s into it. But damn, you should’ve seen me.

The way the fishnets hugged my thighs. The way the garter framed the sharp lines of my V-cut. I looked like the perfect fusion of feminine delicacy and masculine edge—soft and hard in all the right places. I looked ... fuckable. No two ways about it.

I jerked off a few times that day—before and after the photoshoot. It was that kind of experience. Hot. New. Wild.

I blurred out my face before uploading the pics, of course. Then I filled out the rest of my profile: likes, dislikes, kinks, positions, limits, preferences, fantasies ... all of it. Honest and raw. No point pretending to be someone else. If people were gonna want me, I wanted it to be for me.

Then I paid for a month of premium. If I was gonna do this, I was doing it right.

Finally, I started browsing through the couples section—specifically those seeking a man. My heart raced as I scrolled through profiles. I could already imagine the stories behind the faces. The possibilities. The heat.

And then—one of them messaged me.

But I’ll get to that.

First ... you should probably pour yourself a drink.

Because things are about to get a whole lot hotter.

To my surprise, there were lots of swingers near my area looking to hook up with single men. But it didn’t take long before the novelty wore off. I got tired of scrolling through endless close-ups of genitals—flesh with no faces, all looking for one thing: a big dick.

Now, for the record, I’m very happy with mine. Size, shape, personality—he’s a solid ten in my book. My cock is like a good friend. Always cheerful, never complains, lifts my spirits when I’m down, and frankly, gets me into the kind of trouble that makes life worth living. Sure, he’s impulsive. Sure, he’s reckless. But hey—I’m young, hot, and full of ... well, you know.

Still, I wasn’t looking for genitals searching for genitals. I wanted heat, yes—but also connection. Playfulness. Maybe even chemistry. So I tossed my phone on the bed and went to fix something to eat, already half-resigned to the idea that the whole thing was just a waste of time.