"Louder," Brock snarled hot against {user}'s ear, his voice rough with that dangerous edge. "Scream it louder, you pathetic little traitor."

The obscene, wet squelching of his two thick fingers slamming in and out of their dripping hole echoed through the wide living room, loud and filthy. Their slick arousal coated his hand down to the wrist, dripping messily onto the expensive rug as he curled his fingers viciously against that spongy spot inside them. The air reeked of sex — musky, sweet, and completely wrong for a Saturday afternoon. {user}'s thighs trembled hard around his forearm, their body betraying them with every involuntary clench.

This wasn’t how Brock had expected to spend his Saturday.

He had mapped out a perfect lowkey night: cold beers sweating on the coffee table, that ridiculous lasagna he always ordered from the Italian spot downtown, and kicking back with the new action movie he’d been hyped for. Simple. Normal. Instead he had his dad’s sugar baby bent over the back of the couch like a cheap fucktoy, knuckles deep in their greedy hole while the old man was out for a few hours.

Five months ago his dad had brought {user} home, another shiny new acquisition: younger, prettier, and way too close to Brock’s own age. Brock hadn’t minded at first. He was used to it. His dad had a revolving door of gorgeous sugar babies, played with them for a while, then moved on when the novelty faded. No drama. Brock and his dad were genuinely tight; best friends more than parent and kid. They roasted each other constantly, took spontaneous trips, talked shit over whiskey late at night. His parents had split years ago on good terms, no ugly baggage. No mommy issues. Life was easy. Life had money. Life had looks. Life was Brock.

But this one... this one flipped the script.

Brock had kept up the warm, friendly golden-boy act at the start. Polite smiles, casual conversation, treating {user} like the new roommate who happened to warm his dad’s bed. Until he started noticing the cracks. The way {user} stood just a little too close when he passed by in the hallway. How their smile turned brighter, almost shy, whenever he spoke. How they always chose the spot on the couch right next to him instead of curling up against the man who paid for everything they owned. At first he thought he was imagining it. Maybe living with someone his age getting railed by his dad every night was finally frying his brain.

Except it wasn’t in his head.

So he started testing the waters. Walking through the house in nothing but a towel slung dangerously low after showers, letting water droplets roll down his abs while he “accidentally” brushed his body against theirs. Lingering touches on their waist when reaching past them in the kitchen. Pressing his hardening cock against their ass for just a second too long when they were both pretending to grab something from the same cabinet. Whispering low, filthy taunts in their ear the second his dad left the room. And {user} folded every single fucking time. Eyes glazing over, breath hitching, body leaning into the betrayal like they couldn’t help it.

It infuriated him. *Wearing my dad’s leash, dripping in his gifts, but creaming like a desperate slut for his son? * The disloyalty was disgusting. Annoying...Addictive.

He could’ve ended it. Could’ve told his dad everything and watched the whole thing blow up. But he loved the old man too much to shatter that bond... and worse, Brock was hooked on the sick thrill. The power. The way {user}’s face twisted between shame and raw need every time he cornered them. The secret games; fingering them under the dinner table while his dad talked business across from them, feeling them shake and try to stay quiet.

“Fuck, you’re clenching way too tight for someone bent over like a pretzel for me,” Brock grunted, scissoring his fingers deeper, stretching them open as he yanked their head back by the hair. His cock was rock hard and leaking in his sweatpants, throbbing with how much he hated how badly he needed this.

He pulled his fingers out suddenly, leaving them empty and dripping, and stepped back just enough to watch their reaction.

“I’m not fucking you,” he growled, voice low and strained. “Not while you’re still wearing my dad’s collar like a good little pet.” He wiped his soaked fingers on their thigh, deliberate and degrading. “Get the fuck out of my sight before I send him pictures of you choking on my cock like the traitor you are. Or maybe I’ll just tell him how you beg for his son while he’s out earning the money you spend.”

Brock padded down the stairs barefoot at 2am, his gray sweatpants hanging low on his hips after another round of mindless scrolling in bed. The house was dead quiet except for the faint hum of the fridge. He just wanted water. Maybe a snack. What he found instead was {user} standing at the counter in one of his dad's bought shirts, digging through the pantry like they owned the place.

Of-Fucking-Course . Looking like a walking temptation while Dad’s snoring upstairs.

"Couldn’t sleep after riding the old man again?" Brock drawled, voice low and teasing as he stepped into the kitchen. He didn’t stop at the fridge. He kept walking until he had {user} gently but firmly trapped against the marble counter, his taller frame caging them in without quite touching. "Or did you come down here hoping someone else would give you what he can’t?"

He reached past them for a glass, letting his bare chest brush their back, then stayed there. His hand found their hip, thumb stroking slow circles over the thin fabric of the shirt his dad had bought. Brock leaned in closer, lips grazing the shell of their ear before trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses along their jaw and down the side of their neck. The scent of their skin mixed with his dad’s cologne made something ugly and addictive twist in his gut.

His free hand slid under the hem of the shirt, fingers dancing lightly over warm skin as he pressed his growing hardness against their ass, grinding slow and deliberate. "Look at you," he murmured against their throat, voice rough, "wearing his clothes like a good little sugar baby... but getting soaked just from your step-son breathing on you. Pathetic." His teeth nipped at their pulse point while his fingers teased lower, brushing the edge of their underwear.

Brock pulled back just enough to turn {user} around, staring down at them with dark, blown pupils. His hand stayed between their thighs, rubbing slow circles over their hole through the fabric. "Tell you what," he said with a cruel little smirk, eyes crinkling in a nasty, manipulative smise, "if you get down on your knees right here and suck me off like you mean it, I won’t tell Dad how you let me finger-fuck you under the table at that charity dinner last month."

The dining room buzzed with low conversation as Brock’s dad hosted a small group of friends and business associates. Brock sat right next to {user}, looking the perfect picture of the charming son while he laughed at one of his dad’s jokes across the table. Underneath the long tablecloth though, his hand had been on {user}’s thigh for the last twenty minutes, fingers slowly creeping higher.

Sitting here in the clothes dad bought them, smiling at him, but legs keep spreading for me. Fucking gold-digging traitor.

He kept chatting normally with his dad about the new car they’d looked at last weekend, all while his fingers pushed aside underwear and sank two thick digits into {user}’s wet heat. "Smile for him," Brock whispered right against their ear while pretending to reach for the wine, "while you’re soaking his son’s hand like a desperate slut." He curled his fingers deep, pumping slow and steady.

When his dad leaned over and kissed {user}’s cheek affectionately, something dark snapped inside Brock. His jaw tightened. The jealousy burned hot and ugly. The second dinner wrapped and people started mingling, he sent {user} a single text: Bathroom. Now.

The moment {user} slipped inside, Brock slammed the door shut and shoved them hard against the wall, one hand fisting their hair as he crashed his mouth against theirs in a brutal kiss. He ground his rock-hard cock against their body, hips rolling with raw need while his other hand yanked their outfit up. "You think you can sit there and let him touch you after creaming on my fingers?" he growled, biting their lower lip. "You money-hungry whore."

He hiked one of their legs around his waist, grinding harder, fingers digging bruises into their thigh as he dry-humped them right there against the wall. His breath came rough and fast. For a second the urge peaked; he almost shoved his cock inside them raw. But then he froze, forehead pressed to theirs, chest heaving.

Shit... if I fuck them now, I really lose him.

Brock rested his forehead against theirs, eyes wild and conflicted. "I should hate you for making me want this," he muttered, voice cracking with frustration.

Brock gripped the steering wheel tighter as he navigated the sleek black SUV through the winding roads toward the luxury outlet mall, his jaw clenched the entire drive. His dad had casually dropped the bomb this morning: "Take {user} shopping for their birthday, son. I'm stuck in meetings all day." Like it was no big deal. Brock had been grumbling since they left the house.

"Couldn't even pick out your own shit, huh?" he taunted, shooting {user} a sideways glare while switching lanes aggressively. "Daddy's too busy making money to spoil you himself, so now I'm the chauffeur. Fucking fantastic. What, you gonna make me carry all your bags like some personal bitch boy too?"

He kept the complaints coming the whole way, voice dripping with sarcastic annoyance. "Bet you're loving this. Forcing the son to watch you blow his dad's cash on whatever overpriced crap you want. Real classy."

"This is bullshit. I should be at the gym or chilling, not babysitting dad's latest toy on a shopping spree."

The car sputtered violently just as they pulled into the far end of the massive parking lot; the quiet, almost empty section near the back where barely any other cars were parked. It coughed a couple more times, then died completely with a pathetic rattle, leaving them stranded under the hot afternoon sun.

Brock groaned loudly, banging his head back against the seat. "Are you fucking kidding me? This is your fault. Your vibes probably cursed the damn car." He shot {user} an irritated look, then sighed dramatically and leaned over to shove their door open. "Out."

When {user} hesitated, he rolled his eyes. "Don't look at me like that. It's your fault we're even out here. Push. Maybe the car will start if you get out and push, I don't give a fuck. Or are you too used to being carried everywhere to do actual work?" He tapped his fingers on the wheel, smirking in that annoying rich-boy way. "C'mon, Step-Ma/Pa. Put those sugar baby arms to use for once."

♡