Becoming Chaos
Copyright© 2025 by Lyander Lockhart
Chapter 3 - Part 3
Erotica Sex Story: Chapter 3 - Part 3 - Gabriel Hare is tall, confident-looking, and absolutely clueless about who he really is. College is supposed to be a fresh start, but instead it becomes the place where every assumption he’s ever had about himself gets shattered. Friendships, rumors, desire—especially desire—force him to confront the truth he’s been circling for years: he is queer, deeply and undeniably. This is a story about becoming: becoming bold, becoming messy, becoming wanted, becoming queer. A Chronicle.
Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Consensual Drunk/Drugged Romantic BiSexual Heterosexual Fiction Humor School Cheating Interracial White Male Cream Pie Exhibitionism First Oral Sex Safe Sex Hairy Public Sex
Part 3
When Luna’s text arrived at the coffee shop, my cock went instantly hard.
come over
I left. Lila hugged me outside. Her body pressed against mine and she definitely felt it.
Fifteen minutes later I’m walking into Luna’s apartment.
I smell it immediately. Sex. Fresh.
Luna lies naked on the mattress, legs spread.
Cum leaking out of her pussy. Someone else’s cum, glistening in that thick bush. A lot of it.
My stomach drops. My cock gets harder.
“Who was that?”
“Someone. A friend. My boyfriend. It’s irrelevant to you.”
“Does he know about me?”
“Does Eve know about me?”
My cock twitches.
“That’s different.”
“Is it?” More cum leaks out. “You’re here while she thinks you’re somewhere else.”
“But you just—”
She just fucked someone else. His cum is still inside her. And she’s lying there like it’s nothing.
Women don’t do this. Not the ones I’ve known.
But she does.
“You’re confused. Not because you don’t want to. Because you do, and you think you shouldn’t.”
I can’t answer.
“Door’s right there. Walk out. Go back to pretending.”
I stare at her pussy. At his cum. At the evidence that she did exactly what she wanted.
I want that. Not just the taste. The freedom.
“This is the deal. Do what you want—taste me, taste him, stop pretending there are rules—or leave. But if you leave now, don’t come back.”
I’m walking toward the bed.
“Kneel.”
I kneel. Eye level with her pussy now. Can see everything. Can smell him—sharp, foreign.
“I can’t believe I’m doing this.”
“Stop thinking. Just do it.”
“What are you so afraid of? You already know you’ll like it. Stop making it mean something.”
“Open your mouth.”
I do.
She pulls my face forward. My lips press against her pussy. Against his cum.
“Taste.”
I close my eyes.
Salt. Bitter. Thick.
And it’s just taste. Just texture.
No labels. No categories.
My cock is so hard it hurts and I don’t have to explain it.
I can just want this.
“That’s it. Stop trying to control what it means. Just feel.”
I have to work to get it all. Push my tongue deep. Lick through all that coarse hair.
The texture is thick, viscous. Clings to my tongue. Slides down my throat when I swallow.
I’m so fucking hard.
Luna’s hips start moving. Grinding against my face. I can’t tell anymore if I’m tasting him or her or both.
Everything blurs.
Isabella’s voice: Have you ever fucked a guy?
She was trying to pin me down. Force me into a category.
You walk like you’re on a fucking runway, Gabriel.
Listing evidence. Building a case.
You’re performing straightness for Eve and it’s exhausting.
She was right that I’m exhausted. Wrong about why.
“You’re so good at this. Better than he was. He just fucked me and left. But you—you clean up his mess. You taste him. You let go.”
My tongue works deeper. My nose buries in her bush. I can barely breathe but I don’t stop.
Because I want to.
When she comes, her thighs clamp around my head. She floods my mouth and I swallow it all.
When she releases me, I’m gasping. My face is soaked. I’m shaking.
Not with shame. With relief.
“Take off your clothes.”
I strip.
“On your back.”
I lie down. The sheets are still damp from him.
Luna straddles me but doesn’t sink down. She plants her hands on either side of my head. Arms straight, muscles flexed.
“This is called Amazon. Watch.”
She lowers her hips, takes my cock inside her.
Then she fucks me.
I can’t move. Can’t thrust. Can only lie there and take it.
And it’s a relief.
I don’t have to lead. Don’t have to control. Don’t have to perform.
I just have to be here.
Watch her face above me—focused, certain.
Watch her tits swaying—heavy, pierced.
Watch her muscles flexing—strong, deliberate.
It feels like freedom.
Luna fucks me harder. Her pussy clenches. I can feel everything mixed together.
“You taste so good with him still in you.”
She laughs. “I know.”
When I come, it’s violent. Like she’s extracting something I didn’t know I was holding.
She keeps riding through it until I’m completely empty.
Then she climbs off.
My cum leaks out of her—mixing with his—onto the sheets.
She lights a joint. Smokes.
“How do you feel?”
“Light. Like I don’t have to be anything.”
She nods. Passes me the joint.
We smoke. The high settles in.
“You spend so much energy trying to fit into boxes that were never made for you.”
I don’t say anything.
“You don’t have to. Not here.”
Eventually: “You can go now.”
I dress slowly.
“Luna—”
“Get tested.” She exhales smoke, not looking at me.
The words land strange.
“What?”
“Get tested. Three to five days for results.”
Casual. Matter-of-fact.
And then it hits me.
I never asked. Never asked if she was clean. If he was clean. Never asked anything.
Just wanted. Just tasted. Just let her fuck me.
Without protection. Without questions.
My blood goes cold.
“Luna—”
“Door’s that way.”
I leave. Not walking. Running.
My hands shake getting to my car. Can’t get the key in at first.
What did I just do?
I drive to the health center.
“I need to get tested. For everything. Now.”
The nurse hands me paperwork.
I fill it out with shaking hands. I lie on every line.
She takes my blood. I watch it fill the vial.
“Results in three to five days. We’ll call if anything comes back positive.”
Three to five days.
I drive back to my dorm. Shower. Scrub my face until it hurts. Brush my teeth until my gums bleed.
Sit on my bed and stare at my phone.
An hour later, it buzzes.
Luna: Relax.
Rage rising.
Luna: We’re clean. Both of us.
Luna: But you needed to sit with it. To understand what happens when you try to control everything except the one thing that actually matters.
Luna: You spend so much energy managing how people see you, performing the right version of yourself, fitting into boxes. But you didn’t ask about safety. Didn’t protect yourself. Didn’t control your desire.
Luna: That’s what happens when you try to control everything else. Eventually you stop controlling the things that could actually hurt you.
Luna: Stop trying to control what you are. Start controlling what you do. Or one day you’ll make a mistake that actually costs you something.
I read them three times.
She scared me on purpose. To teach me something.
I should block her.
But she’s right.
I’ve been so busy controlling my image, my performance—that I didn’t protect myself.
Just wanted. Just took.
And if she hadn’t been careful?
I’d be fucked.
I save her messages.
Stop trying to control what you are. Start controlling what you do.
Two days later, I’m at Eve’s place.
Dinner ready. Candles lit. That floral scent she likes, sweet and a little too deliberate.
We eat. She talks about practice, her band, roommate drama. I listen. Ask questions. Laugh at the right moments. I notice how easy it is to do that. How automatic.
After dinner, she leads me to her bedroom. Kisses me soft and sweet.
I kiss her back the same way. Slow. Gentle. The way she likes.
We undress each other carefully. I touch her the way she needs—soft, attentive, making sure she feels wanted. Making sure nothing feels rushed. Or off.
When I push into her, she moans my name. Wraps her legs around me.
For a split second, my body hesitates. Not refusal. Just a hitch. Then it settles, remembers the rhythm.
I fuck her the way I always fuck her. Steady. Controlled. Making sure she comes first. Being the kind of lover she thinks I am.
She comes, clutching at my shoulders, making those sounds I know by heart.
I follow after. Eyes open. Watching her face. Making sure I don’t miss anything.
“God,” she breathes. “You’re so good at this.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” She curls into my side. Traces patterns on my chest. “I love this. Being with you.”
Not I love you. But close enough that it presses in the same place.
“Me too,” I say.
She falls asleep against me, satisfied. Happy. Her breathing evens out quickly, like nothing in the world is unresolved.
I lie awake.
Staring at the ceiling in the dark.
And that’s when it hits.
Not guilt. Not regret.
Annoyance.
A sharp, restless irritation that has nowhere obvious to go.
I can still feel the shape of her body against mine. Still smell that floral sweetness. Everything about this is correct. Clean. Easy.
And somehow that makes it worse.
I think about Luna and feel heat rise in my chest. Not desire this time. Something tighter. Meaner.
She had no right.
No right to pull that shit.
No right to scare me like that and call it a lesson.
I replay her messages in my head and feel my jaw clench.
Stop trying to control what you are. Start controlling what you do.
Fuck that.
Easy thing to say when you don’t have to deal with the fallout. When you get to play philosopher after fucking whoever you want and leaving other people to clean up the mess.
She knew exactly what she was doing.
She wanted to see if I’d flinch.
And I didn’t.
That’s what bothers her.
I shift slightly so Eve doesn’t wake. She murmurs in her sleep and presses closer, trusting, unguarded.
This is real. This is tangible. This is something I can manage.
I don’t need Luna’s games. I don’t need her rules or her tests or her fucking experiments.
Whatever she thinks she taught me, she’s wrong.
I close my eyes.
Tomorrow I’ll do what I always do. Keep things steady. Keep them clean. Keep them contained.
If Luna wants chaos, she can keep it.
I’m not the one who needs fixing.
I go to Claire’s office on Wednesday.
Same narrow space. Same books stacked in uneven towers. Same sense that everything here has weight because it’s been earned.
She’s reading when I arrive. Doesn’t look up immediately.
“Come in. Shut the door.”
I do.
She slides my essay across the desk. “The Thebes section was good. You actually engaged with the structure instead of romanticizing it.”
“Thanks.”
“Walk me through it. What did you write about the Sacred Band?”
I settle into the chair. “One hundred and fifty pairs. Lovers. They fought together.”
“And?”
“And they were organized that way on purpose. Not hidden. The whole army knew.”
“Why does that matter?” She leans back, watching me.
“Because other Greek cities didn’t do it that way. Athens had relationships between men, but they were supposed to be temporary. Educational. The older man teaches the younger one, then it ends.”
“Right. Pederasty. Erastes and eromenos. Hierarchical. Time-limited.” She taps the desk. “What made Thebes different?”
“They paired equals. Lovers of the same age. And they put them in formation together. Made it part of the military structure.”
“Why would they do that?”
“The theory was that men fight harder when their lover is watching. You can’t retreat. Can’t show cowardice. Not when the person who knows you best is right there beside you.”
She nods. “And it worked. The Sacred Band was undefeated for thirty-three years. Three hundred men in a hundred and fifty pairs. They broke Sparta’s power at Leuctra.”
“Until Philip of Macedon.”
“Chaeronea. Three thirty-eight BCE. Philip wiped them out. All three hundred died in place. Didn’t retreat. Didn’t break formation.”
“Because they couldn’t,” I say. “Not with their lovers beside them.”
“Or because they chose not to.” She looks at me. “That’s what matters. It wasn’t magic. It wasn’t destiny. It was discipline and choice. They chose each other. Every day. In front of everyone. And when it came time to die, they chose that too.”
I don’t say anything.
“The Sacred Band only works because everyone involved accepts the framing. Visibility is the price.” She pauses. “You can’t step into that kind of structure and pretend it doesn’t define you.”
I nod, even as something in me pushes back against the word define.
“You wrote about balance,” she continues. “About wanting intensity without consequence. That’s Libra talking.”
“I thought we were past astrology.”
“We’re never past astrology. You just think we are.” She pulls out a book, flips to a marked page. “Libra sun and moon. Venus in Scorpio. October twentieth, right?”
“Yeah.”
“You see it as destiny,” she says, not looking at me. “That’s the problem. It’s not a map. It’s a warning.”
“A warning about what?”
“About treating patterns like prophecy.” She closes the book. “About choosing the version of yourself that fits the story instead of the one that’s actually true.”
The words sit there longer than I want them to.
“Achilles doesn’t die because he’s brave,” she adds. “He dies because he chose the version of himself that would be remembered. And never looked back.”
I don’t say anything.
“Anyway.” She hands me another book. “For next week. More on Thebes. Less on balance.”
“Got it.”
I stand to leave.
“Your birthday’s Friday,” she says. “October twentieth.”
“Yeah.”
“Happy birthday.”
“Thanks.” I pause at the door. “I’m not celebrating. But if I were, you’d be top of the list.”
She looks at me for a long second. Then: “I’d think about it.”
Not a yes. Not a no. Just Claire.
“Okay.”
I leave.
Walk back across campus thinking about Achilles on Skyros. About the moment he reached for the weapons.
About prophecy and pattern and how easy it is to mistake one for the other.
About choosing the version of yourself that gets remembered.
And about how dangerous it feels to hear that and still want it anyway.
The following night, Eve tells me she’s planning my surprise birthday party.
Not very successfully.
“I wasn’t going to tell you,” she says, already smiling too hard, already failing at restraint. “But I got too excited.”
I look up from where I’m sitting. “A surprise party.”
“I know, I know,” she laughs. “I ruined it. But listen—”
She launches into the details before I can interrupt.
“I booked the bowling alley,” she says. “The one near campus. We can bring our own drinks—rum and coke, Diego’s bringing his flask. I invited everyone. Isabella, Lila, Diego, Lauren, some people from my lacrosse team, the girls from the band. I told people to spread the word around.”
She’s bouncing slightly as she talks, hands clasped together, like she’s holding herself in place.
“It’s going to be perfect.”
She looks so happy saying it. Proud, even. Like this is something she’s accomplished.
And I am touched. I really am.
No one’s ever thrown me a party before. Not like this. Not with people who chose to be there, who actually want to celebrate me. Maggie used to organize birthday dinners at expensive restaurants, invite people she wanted to impress. That was different. That was performance.
This isn’t.
This feels like affection.
Which is what makes it dangerous.
Because she’s invested now. Not just time, but meaning. She’s building this night into something symbolic. Something that says this is who we are. She probably has a gift picked out already. Something thoughtful. Something that will require a reaction.
And I’m barely keeping my head above water.
“That’s amazing,” I say, because there is nothing else I can say. “Thank you.”
She lights up. Leans in and kisses me, quick and warm.
“I want your first real birthday away from home to be special,” she says.
Something tightens in my chest.
Not fear exactly. Expectation.
Later that night, after she’s gone to sleep, my phone lights up.
Come over
Luna.
I stare at the screen.
I’m still angry. Still feeling the panic from sitting in that health center waiting room. Still tasting the fear she made me swallow on purpose.
I type back: Can’t.
The message sends.
I should leave it there.
I don’t.
My fingers move before I can stop them.
Come to my birthday on Friday.
No explanation. No context. Just the invitation.
I stare at what I just sent.
What the fuck am I doing?
Luna doesn’t reply.
The bowling alley is perfect.
Not objectively. The carpet is dated, the shoes smell like decades of disappointment, and the music is whatever passed for popular when I was in middle school. But it’s perfect because it’s mine.
No Maggie orchestrating seating arrangements. No networking agenda disguised as celebration. No carefully curated guest list designed to impress the right people.
For the first time in my life, I’m having a birthday party where people actually want to be here.
Isabella and Lila arrive first, forty-five minutes early, with two bottles of expensive rum and one bottle of even more expensive tequila—the kind you don’t bring unless you’re making a statement. The confidence they carry with them makes rules feel like suggestions.
The manager—some guy in his forties with a mustache and a corporate polo—starts to say something about outside alcohol. He doesn’t finish the sentence.
Isabella looks at him.
Just looks.
It isn’t hostile. It isn’t even impatient. It’s the look of someone who already knows how this interaction will end.
She pulls out her wallet and hands him three hundred-dollar bills.
“We’ll be careful,” she says. Not a question. A declaration.
He hesitates long enough to perform responsibility, then takes the money.
That’s the thing about Isabella. She doesn’t ask permission. She doesn’t need to. Money is its own language, and she speaks it fluently.
“Jesus,” I say as they start setting up at our lanes. “How much did you bring?”
Cases of cheap beer and bottom-shelf vodka are already stacked under tables, half-hidden behind ball returns. For the masses. The expensive stuff stays on our scoring table.
“Enough.” She grins. “It’s your birthday. We’re getting fucked up.”
Eve arrives right after, cheeks flushed from the cold, eyes bright. She kisses me without hesitation.
“Happy birthday, baby.”
“Thanks for doing all this.”
“Of course.” She’s beaming, already proud of the night like it’s proof of something. “Let’s finish setting things up.”
Lila arranges the bottles on the scoring table like she’s staging a photograph. Every label turned just right. Caps aligned. Spacing exact. Eve reaches to help, but Lila gently redirects her hand without looking, takes over with quiet efficiency.
“This is too much,” I say, half-laughing.
“It’s not enough,” Isabella counters. “Trust me. By the time everyone gets here, we’ll need more.”
She’s right. She usually is.
Diego shows up next and somehow takes control of the room without announcing that he’s doing it. He checks lanes, shifts chairs, adjusts the reservation, talks to staff like he belongs there. If he weren’t a pre-med student, he’d be an event manager.
He introduces his girlfriend for the first time. Alex. Blonde, easy smile, girl-next-door in a way that feels genuine rather than performed. High school sweetheart energy. She slips into the group like she’s always been part of it, which makes everything easier.
Diego immediately pours shots with the expensive tequila for all six of us, Eve included. She hesitates for half a second—long enough to register—then takes the glass.
“Birthday shot,” he announces. “Can’t start the party without one.”
We take the first round. Isabella doesn’t wait. She pours the second wave before anyone can protest.
“To Gabriel,” she says, raising her glass. “May nineteen treat you better than eighteen.”
We throw them back. The tequila burns. Lila doesn’t even flinch. Control is muscle memory for her.
People start arriving in waves after that. The noise level climbs. Lanes fill. Shoes scrape against the floor. Conversations overlap.
Lauren shows up already competitive, stretching by the lanes like she’s warming up for something she intends to win. Eve barely notices. She’s already pulling me along, efficient and proud, sliding me from cluster to cluster like she’s showing off a finished project.
“These are my band friends,” she says, and suddenly I’m surrounded by girls with asymmetrical haircuts and chipped nail polish, vintage band tees that smell faintly of cigarettes and basements.
“This is Mia.”
“Jess.”
“And this is River,” Eve adds, and River immediately launches into an explanation of their sound—post-punk revival with neo-garage influences—like it’s a thesis they’ve defended before and are prepared to defend again.
I nod. Smile. Ask the right questions. Let them talk. React at the right moments. Make each of them feel, briefly, like they’re the most interesting person in the room.
Eve’s hand stays on my arm the whole time. Not tight. Not possessive. Just there. An anchor. A claim she doesn’t say out loud.