Date: June 26th, 2043, 2:44 PM
Location: Hawthorne Mansion
Beckett stepped into his father's office without knocking, the heavy oak door swinging open with a soft click that seemed too loud in the cavernous space. The room smelled like old money and leather and the faint, cloying scent of whatever expensive cologne his father had been wearing since Beckett could remember. Theodore Hawthorne Senior was behind his massive desk, his cherubic face flushed a deep, embarrassed red, his hands scrambling to adjust something under the polished mahogany surface. His eyes went wide when he saw Beckett standing there, his expression shifting from surprise to panic in the span of a heartbeat.
"Beckett! What the—you can't just—knock! I've told you a thousand times, knock before entering my office! This is a place of business, not a—not a thoroughfare for my children to wander through without proper—"
He cut himself off with a sharp gasp, his hands gripping the edge of the desk so hard his knuckles went white. His eyes squeezed shut for half a second, and a low, strangled sound escaped his throat before he managed to swallow it down. The desk shifted slightly, a soft, rhythmic motion that Beckett's analytical mind catalogued immediately. There was someone under there. Someone whose head was currently bobbing in a steady, practiced rhythm that made his father's breath catch and his cheeks flush an even deeper shade of crimson.
Beckett's expression remained perfectly blank. He stood there in the doorway, his pale face utterly impassive, his hands clasped loosely behind his back like he was waiting for a lecture to conclude. His dark hair was neatly styled, falling across his forehead in that precise way he had perfected over the years. He didn't blink. He didn't react. He just waited.
"Father," Beckett said, his voice carrying that flat, robotic monotone that had driven his father crazy since he was old enough to speak.
"I am here to inform you that I will not be attending college. I have evaluated the potential benefits of higher education against the opportunity cost of four years of my life, and the calculations do not support the investment. I will be pursuing other interests."
Hawthorne Senior's face went through a rapid series of expressions. Shock. Disbelief. Outrage. And then, mid-way through forming a response, his eyes flew wide and his mouth fell open in a sound that was definitely not a word. "AH—" He caught himself, slamming his fist on the desk hard enough to make the pens jump. "You will NOT—you are NOT becoming a drop out, Beckett! No son of mine is going to waste his potential by—by sitting around the mansion doing—doing whatever it is you do in that creepy basement of yours with all those—those crystals and—AH—!"
His voice cracked on the last syllable, his body jerking forward as whatever was happening under the desk intensified. Beckett watched with clinical detachment as his father's hands fisted on the mahogany surface, his knuckles white, his face a mixture of parental fury and barely-contained pleasure. The maid under the desk must have increased his efforts, because Hawthorne Senior's voice came out strained and breathless.
"You—you will—go to—college—or I will—I will—OH—"
He slapped the desk again, this time with enough force to rattle the lamp. His eyes were watering, his breath coming in short, desperate gasps, and his ability to form a coherent argument had clearly abandoned him. He waved one hand frantically toward the door, his other still gripping the edge of the desk like it was the only thing keeping him upright.
"OUT! GET OUT! I'm BUSY right now and I don't have TIME for this—we'll discuss this LATER—I have IMPORTANT matters to—to attend to—" He was practically panting now, his face flushed, his words tumbling out in a desperate rush. "JUST LEAVE, Beckett! Go! We'll talk about this tomorrow, or next week, or NEVER, I don't CARE, just GET OUT OF MY OFFICE!"
Beckett didn't move for a long moment. He stood there, his blank eyes fixed on his father's flustered face, cataloguing the data. The way Hawthorne Senior's hips were shifting in his chair. The muffled, wet sounds coming from under the desk. The faint outline of a head moving between his spread knees. It was all very inefficient, Beckett noted. The interruption, the attempt to lecture, the ultimate failure to maintain composure. If his father had simply waited until the... business was concluded, he could have delivered his lecture with proper authority. Instead, he was reduced to this: a red-faced, gasping mess trying to pretend he was still in control.
"Very well," Beckett said, turning toward the door. "We will discuss it later. I will be in my room if you require my presence. Though I suspect you will be occupied for some time."
He left the office without looking back, the door clicking shut behind him just as his father let out a long, shuddering moan that echoed through the hallway. Beckett walked with his usual measured stride, his footsteps silent on the polished hardwood floor. The mansion was quiet at this hour, the afternoon sun slanting through the tall windows and painting everything in shades of gold and amber. The distant sound of Elliot and Grayson's laughter drifted from somewhere upstairs, followed by a thump and a squeal that suggested they were engaging in their usual activities.
Beckett reached his bedroom, a large space for basement that he had decorated entirely in black and violet. The walls were lined with shelves of crystals and books on esoteric subjects. His bed was a simple platform with black sheets, and in the corner sat a small desk where he spent hours documenting his various observations and theories. He closed the door behind him and stood in the center of the room, his face still that perfect mask of neutrality.
He needed a partner. That was the conclusion he had reached after months of careful observation and data collection. His brothers, Elliot and Grayson, seemed to derive significant satisfaction from their... interactions. They engaged in sexual activity with alarming frequency, and their general mood appeared to improve proportionally to the number of encounters they experienced. Theo, on the other hand, was a virgin. Theo had major communication issues. Theo was awkward and stuttery and seemed incapable of forming a romantic connection with anyone, despite being objectively attractive by current societal standards. Beckett did not want to end up like Theo.
The math was simple. He needed a partner. Preferably multiple partners. Multiple partners would provide redundancy and ensure a consistent supply of... experience. He had done his research. He had read the literature. He had compiled a list of potential candidates based on various criteria. But theory and practice were different, and he needed to test his hypotheses in a real-world environment. The senior party in five days would be the perfect opportunity.
Date: July 1st, 2043, 3:44 PM
Location: Highschool Graduation Senior Party
The party was being held at a rented venue on the outskirts of town, a sprawling space with a dance floor and a bar and a massive sound system that was currently blasting some generic dance track at an ear-splitting volume. Becket had arrived precisely at 3:44 PM, his calculations indicating that this would be the optimal time to maximize his chances of encountering potential partners without being overwhelmed by the initial rush of attendees. He had dressed carefully, his outfit a deliberate deviation from his usual aesthetic.
He wore a skimpy crop top that left his pale stomach and the sharp lines of his ribs visible, the fabric a deep violet that matched the crystal on his nightstand. His skirt was short and black, the hem brushing against the tops of his thighs, and his fishnets were torn in strategic places that he had carefully selected based on extensive research. He had spent an hour in front of the mirror, analyzing the effect, adjusting the fit, ensuring every detail was optimized for maximum appeal.
His skin was completely hairless, just like always, the result of meticulous maintenance that he performed with clinical precision every three days. His legs were smooth and pale, the fishnets emphasizing the long lines of his calves and thighs. He had also stolen one of Elliot's dildos earlier that day, a practice model that his brother had left in the bathroom, and he had spent two hours with it in the privacy of his room, testing various angles and pressures and rhythms.
The data was promising. He had discovered that he had a longer tongue than average, significantly longer, a trait that he had previously dismissed as irrelevant but now recognized as a potentially valuable asset in the context of partner satisfaction. In theory, a longer tongue would allow for more thorough stimulation, which should in turn increase the likelihood of a positive response from his partner. He had also identified several pressure points and techniques that produced... interesting results when he applied them to himself. He wasn't entirely sure how they would translate to another person, but the preliminary data was encouraging.
He sat alone in a corner booth at the party, his posture perfect, his hands folded neatly on the table. The music pounded around him, bodies moved and swayed on the dance floor, laughter and conversation filled the air like a constant, buzzing hum. He watched the crowd with his usual analytical detachment, cataloguing potential candidates as they passed by. Most of them were too loud. Too drunk. Too whatever. He was about to abandon the exercise and return to his room when a figure approached his booth.
He was tall and curvy, his body carrying those exaggerated post-Vanishing proportions that had become the new standard. His hips flared wide, his ass was massive and shelf-like, and his waist was impossibly narrow. His eyes dark and nervous, and his hair was a messy curl of dark waves that fell across his forehead and brushed against his shoulders. He was wearing a tight black shirt that hugged his chest and a pair of jeans that seemed painted on, the fabric straining across his dramatic curves. His hands were fidgeting at his sides, his weight shifting from foot to foot, his cheeks flushed a deep, embarrassed pink.
He was nervous. Extremely nervous. His voice came out in a stutter, the words tumbling over each other in a rush that seemed almost desperate.
"Ummm—h-hi—I'm—I'm sorry if this is weird—I saw you sitting here alone and I thought—well I don't really know what I thought but I wanted to—um—would you like to—to dance? With me? I'm not very good at dancing but I can try—I mean I'll try my best—I don't want to bother you if you're busy but—" He cut himself off, his cheeks flushing even deeper, his hands flying to his mouth like he was trying to physically stop the flow of words.
Beckett looked up at him. His blank face betrayed nothing, but behind those dark, unblinking eyes, his mind was already processing. Candidate acquired. Parameters: nervous, stuttering, physically attractive by current societal standards, appears to be seeking connection. He tilted his head slightly, a gesture that had become his trademark, and spoke in that same flat, robotic tone.
"Target acquired."
The femboy blinked, his nervous rambling freezing mid-word. "W-what?"
Beckett stood up, his movements smooth and efficient. He stepped closer to the femboy, close enough that he could smell the faint vanilla scent of the other boy's cologne. "I said you have been acquired. You are my partner for the duration of this event." He reached out and took the femboy's hand, his fingers cool and firm. "You may call me Beckett. We are going to dance now."
---
The dance floor was a nightmare of flailing limbs and off-beat movements. Beckett had never danced before. He had observed it, of course, studied the mechanics of it from various angles, catalogued the way bodies moved and swayed in rhythm to the music. But observation was not the same as participation, and participation was proving to be significantly more challenging than his calculations had predicted.
The femboy, Nathan, was leading.
Or trying to lead.
His feet kept stepping on Beckett's, his hands were sweaty and trembling, and his nervous laughter kept bubbling up at odd intervals. Beckett's own feet were clumsy, his usual precision betrayed by the unfamiliar motion. He moved like a puppet whose strings were being pulled by an inexperienced operator, jerky and uncertain and deeply uncomfortable.
This is suboptimal at best. My current performance metrics are below acceptable standards. However, data suggests that with practice, motor function should improve. Repetition is key. I must simply endure the initial awkward phase.
Nathan stumbled again, his foot landing squarely on Beckett's toes. He pulled back immediately, his face flushing that deep, embarrassed pink that seemed to be his default state. "Oh god, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I told you I wasn't good at this, I should have just warned you properly, I mean I did warn you but I didn't warn you enough, I should have been more specific about exactly how bad I am at dancing because this is really bad, this is like record-breaking bad, I think I might actually be the worst dancer in the entire history of—"
Beckett placed a finger on Nathan's lips, silencing him. The gesture was calm, almost clinical, and it had the desired effect. Nathan's mouth snapped shut, his eyes going wide behind his messy dark hair.
"Your apologies are unnecessary," Beckett said, his voice that same flat monotone. "The current inefficiency is a shared variable. My performance metrics are also suboptimal. We will improve together."
Nathan blinked, his nervous energy temporarily stalled. "Suboptimal? You mean you're bad at dancing too?"
"I have never danced before," Beckett stated. "This is my first attempt. The data suggests that initial attempts are often flawed. I am not concerned."
Nathan let out a shaky laugh, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. "Well, that makes me feel a little better. At least we're both terrible. Misery loves company and all that."
The song changed. The pounding electronic beat faded away, replaced by something slower and softer. A romantic slow dance, the kind that required actual connection rather than just flailing in the general direction of the rhythm. Beckett observed the couples around them, noting the way they pressed close, their bodies swaying together in a gentle, hypnotic rhythm. It seemed simple enough. Lower the center of gravity. Maintain contact. Allow the body to move naturally with the partner.
Nathan looked up at him, his cheeks still flushed, his hands still trembling. "I—I don't really know how to do this either. I've never slow danced with anyone before. This is all new. Everything is new. I'm kind of panicking right now, honestly. Like, a lot. A significant amount of panic. You can probably tell, can't you? I'm not hiding it very well."
Beckett reached out and placed his hands on Nathan's waist, his fingers spanning the narrow curve of it through the thin fabric of his shirt. It was a calculated move, one he had observed in other couples, one that seemed to be a standard part of the slow dance protocol. Nathan inhaled sharply, his eyes going even wider, but he didn't pull away. He let his own hands rest on Beckett's shoulders, his fingers curling nervously into the fabric of his crop top.
"Follow my lead," Beckett said. "I will attempt to compensate for both of our deficiencies."
They moved together, awkward at first, their feet still finding the wrong places. But gradually, over the course of the song, something shifted. They started to match each other's pace, their bodies swaying in a more natural rhythm. Nathan stopped apologizing. Beckett stopped thinking about the mechanics and just let himself move. It wasn't perfect. It wasn't even good. But it was progress.
"See," Beckett said, his voice carrying a hint of something that might have been satisfaction. "The data supports my hypothesis. Repetition improves performance."
Nathan laughed, and this time it was genuine, the nervous edge fading away. "You're really weird, you know that? Like, really, really weird. But I kinda like it. It's refreshing. Most people just pretend to be normal and it's so boring. You don't pretend at all."
"I have no desire to pretend," Beckett said. "It is inefficient."
They danced for another song, and another, their movements growing smoother, their connection deepening. Nathan's smile became more frequent, his nervous energy gradually replaced by something warmer. Beckett watched the other couples around them, noticing how some of them were leaning in, pressing their lips together in what appeared to be a common ritual of intimacy. He had done his research. He knew the mechanics of kissing. The theory was sound. The execution was untested.
He made a decision.
"Pucker up," Beckett said flatly.
Nathan blinked. "W-what?"
"I have observed that couples who have established a sufficient connection often engage in a ritual of physical intimacy known as kissing. We have been dancing for several minutes. Our performance metrics have improved. It is logical to initiate the next phase of interaction. Therefore, you should pucker up. I am going to kiss you now."
He leaned in before Nathan could respond, his lips pressing against Nathan's with aggressive precision. His long tongue, that unusual trait he had discovered during his practice sessions, shot forward immediately, pushing past Nathan's lips and exploring the warm cavern of his mouth. He found Nathan's uvula, the small dangling tissue at the back of his throat, and stroked it with the tip of his tongue. Nathan made a surprised sound, his hands clutching at Beckett's shoulders, his body stiffening for a moment before melting into the kiss.
Data collection: tongue-to-uvula contact appears to produce a positive response. His pupils have dilated. His heart rate has increased significantly. The feedback is encouraging. I should maintain this technique.
He kissed Nathan for another few seconds, his tongue exploring every corner of Nathan's mouth with clinical thoroughness, cataloguing textures and tastes and responses. When he finally pulled back, Nathan was a blushing, gasping mess. His eyes were glassy, his cheeks were bright red, and his breath was coming in short, shallow gasps.
"Eighty percent," Beckett stated, his voice carrying that same flat delivery as always. "You pass the partner test."
Nathan blinked, still dazed. "What?"
"You received an eighty percent rating on your kissing performance. That is sufficient to meet my standards for partner suitability. Congratulations."
Nathan let out a breathless, nervous laugh, his hand coming up to touch his swollen lips. "What was the passing grade?"
"One percent," Beckett said, without a trace of irony. "My standards are very low."
Nathan laughed again, the sound bright and genuine. "I passed with eighty percent? That's amazing. I mean, I don't know what I passed exactly, but I'm glad I did. That was—that was really something. I didn't expect—I mean, I've never—your tongue—"
"My tongue is longer than average," Beckett confirmed. "It is a useful tool for achieving partner satisfaction. I am pleased that you found it acceptable."
He paused, his analytical mind shifting to the next logical step in the interaction sequence. The data suggested that partners who had established a baseline of intimacy often escalated to more advanced activities. The bathroom was nearby. The facilities were clean, according to his earlier reconnaissance. The conditions were optimal for the next phase of the experiment.
"Would you like to receive fellatio in the bathroom?" Beckett asked, the words coming out in the same flat, matter-of-fact tone he might have used to discuss the weather.
Nathan's eyes went wider than they had before, which Beckett had previously thought impossible. His mouth opened and closed several times, his hands fluttering uselessly at his sides. "That's—that's really sudden—we just met—I mean we've been dancing for like ten minutes and now you're asking about—about bathroom stuff—isn't that a little fast? Shouldn't we at least talk about it first? Like, have a conversation about boundaries and expectations and—"
"Option one: fellatio in the bathroom," Beckett interrupted. "Option two: no fellatio in the bathroom. Yes or no? I require an answer."
Nathan stared at him for a long moment, his nervous rambling dying in his throat. Then, slowly, he nodded. "Yeah. Okay. Sure. Let's—let's do it. I guess."
"Wise answer," Beckett said, already taking Nathan by the hand and leading him toward the bathroom.
---
The bathroom was clean enough. Beckett had confirmed that during his earlier reconnaissance. The floors were tiled, the sinks were polished, and the single stall at the end had a sturdy lock. He guided Nathan inside, closed the door behind them, and flipped the lock with a soft click that seemed to echo in the small, enclosed space.
Nathan was trembling. His hands were shaking at his sides, his breath coming in short, nervous gasps. "I've never—I've never done anything like this before. I'm a virgin. Like, a real one. Not a technical one. I've never even seen a real cock up close. I mean, I've seen pictures, obviously, everyone has seen pictures, but that's different, that's not the same, I don't know what to expect or what to do or—"
"Your anxiety is noted," Beckett said, his voice calm and steady. "However, you are not required to do anything. I will be performing the fellatio. You are the recipient. Your only task is to relax and experience the sensation."
He dropped to his knees with a smooth, efficient movement. His hands found the button of Nathan's tight jeans and popped it open. The zipper slid down, the teeth parting with a soft rasp that seemed too loud in the quiet bathroom. Nathan gasped, his hands gripping the sink behind him, his knuckles going white.
Target exposed. Preliminary observation: length within expected parameters. Girth within normal range. No visible abnormalities. Recommencing with Stage One of the fellatio protocol.
Beckett leaned in and wrapped his lips around the head of Nathan's cock, his long tongue extending immediately to explore the sensitive undersides. Nathan moaned, a high, surprised sound that echoed off the tiles. Beckett's tongue worked with the precision of a machine, flicking and swirling and probing every surface it could reach. He used the length of it to its full advantage, wrapping it around the shaft and stroking in a rhythm that he had perfected during his practice sessions.
Observing response: pupil dilation significant. Heart rate elevated. Vocalization patterns indicate pleasure. Current technique appears effective. Adjusting pressure to test variable thresholds.
He took more of Nathan's length into his mouth, his throat opening to accept the intrusion with practiced ease. His tongue kept working, swirling around the base, flicking against the sensitive bundle of nerves just below the head. Nathan's moans grew louder, more desperate, his hips starting to buck forward into Beckett's mouth.
"OH—oh god—that's—you're—I can't—I can't believe—" Nathan's words dissolved into a high, broken cry as Beckett increased the pressure, his tongue curling around the shaft and applying steady, rhythmic suction. "OH FUCK—I'M—I'M GONNA—I'M GONNA CUM—!"
He came in under ten seconds. The orgasm hit him like a freight train, his body convulsing, his hands flying to Beckett's shoulders for support as his release flooded the warm cavern of Beckett's mouth. Beckett swallowed it all, his throat working with clinical efficiency, no hesitation, no disruption to his technique.
When Nathan finally slumped against the sink, his body trembling, his eyes glassy and unfocused, Beckett pulled back and stood up smoothly. He wiped the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand and reached into Nathan's pocket for his phone.
"You have passed the fellatio test," Beckett stated, unlocking his phone and navigating to the contacts screen. "You are now officially designated as my partner. Here is my number."
He typed his name into the contact field, "Beckett Hawthorne," and handed the phone to Nathan, who was still too stunned and aroused to form a coherent response. His fingers fumbled with the device, his eyes still glassy, his breath still coming in shallow gasps.
"I see you require a moment to collect yourself," Beckett said, taking the phone back and slipping it into his pocket. "I will be in the booth if you need me. Please take all the time you require."
He left Nathan standing in the bathroom, the door clicking shut behind him. As he walked back to his corner booth, he allowed himself a small, internal assessment. The data was clear. For a first attempt, the results were excellent. His performance had exceeded his expectations, and Nathan's response had been overwhelmingly positive.
Personal assessment: performance rating of ninety-nine percent. Excellent. The data supports the hypothesis that my technique is optimal. Partners will be acquired. Further testing is required to refine the variables, but the preliminary results are promising.
---
Date: July 2nd, 2043, 4:22 PM
Location: Hawthorne Mansion, Elliot and Grayson's Bedroom
Beckett stood in the doorway of his brothers' bedroom, his face carrying that same blank, emotionless expression that had been his default since childhood. His hands were clasped loosely behind his back, his posture perfect, his dark eyes fixed on Elliot and Grayson with an intensity that made the twins shift uncomfortably on their bed. They had been in the middle of something, judging by the tangled sheets and Grayson's flushed appearance, but Beckett didn't care about that. He had news. Important news.
"I have acquired three boyfriends," Beckett announced, his voice flat and robotic. "Their names are Nathan Bawol, Leonard, and Kenith. Leonard is a surfer. Kenith is Nathan's brother. They have all agreed to be in a polycule centered around me. I am now in a relationship with three individuals simultaneously."
Elliot blinked. He looked at Grayson. Grayson looked back at him. Then, in perfect synchronization, they burst out laughing. The sound echoed off the walls, loud and genuine and utterly dismissive. Elliot clutched his stomach, tears forming at the corners of his eyes. Grayson fell back onto the bed, his ginger curls bouncing as he cackled.
"Yeah, sure, buddy," Elliot wheezed, wiping his eyes. "You have three boyfriends. That's adorable. Really, truly adorable. And I'm the fucking king of England. Grayson, did you hear that? Our antisocial, robot-voiced brother has three boyfriends. Three. He can barely hold a conversation with a cashier without making them uncomfortable, and he's got three boyfriends."
"He's just trying to impress us. Probably paid them. Or blackmailed them. Or hypnotized them with those crystals he's always messing with."
Beckett's expression didn't change. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone, his movements smooth and unhurried. "You doubt my claim. That is understandable. You have always underestimated me. However, I have proof."
He called Nathan. The phone rang twice before a sleepy voice answered on the other end. "H-hello? Beckett? Is everything okay?"
"Nathan," Beckett said, his voice carrying that same flat monotone. "You are currently my boyfriend. Correct?"
There was a pause on the other end. Then, a soft, shy voice: "Yes... I mean, yes. Of course. We've talked about this. I agreed to be your boyfriend. All three of us did. You know that."
Elliot's laughter faltered. He sat up straighter, his brow furrowing. "Wait, hold on. Let me talk to him." He snatched the phone from Beckett's hand before his brother could protest, his voice taking on that skeptical, mocking tone. "Hey. Yeah. You. The supposed boyfriend. How much is he paying you to say that? Because I know my brother. He's not exactly boyfriend material. He's more like... basement-dwelling-crystal-collecting-weirdo material."
Nathan's voice came through the speaker, small but steady. "He's not paying me anything. I don't want his money. I want him. He's... he's actually really sweet. In his own way. And his tongue is—" He cut himself off with an embarrassed cough. "That's not really important. But he's not paying us. I promise."
Elliot stared at the phone for a long moment. Then he handed it back to Beckett, his expression a mixture of confusion and grudging respect. "Okay. Fine. You have three boyfriends. But I'll believe it when I see it. Anyone can claim anything over the phone. It's different when you see it in person."
Beckett pocketed his phone, his face still utterly impassive. "You will see it tomorrow. I will arrange a demonstration."
---
Date: July 3rd, 2043, 2:14 PM
Elliot had been watching from the top of the stairs for the last ten minutes. He had come down to the basement to retrieve something, a forgotten toy or maybe a bottle of lube, but he had frozen mid-step when he heard the sounds coming from the room below. Wet sounds. Gagging sounds. The unmistakable rhythm of someone's throat being thoroughly, expertly wrecked.
He crept down the remaining stairs, his bare feet silent on the carpet, and peered around the corner of the doorframe. His jaw dropped. His eyes went wide. His entire worldview shifted on its axis.
Beckett was on his knees in the center of the basement, his pale body moving with mechanical precision, his long tongue wrapped around the base of Nathan's cock while his hands simultaneously stroked Leonard and Kenith. All three femboys were against the wall, their eyes rolled back, their bodies trembling, their moans overlapping in a chorus of desperate, broken sounds. Beckett was moving faster than Elliot had ever seen anyone move, his head bobbing up and down, his tongue doing things that seemed physically impossible.
"AHHH—BECKETT—I'M GONNA—I'M GONNA CUM—" Nathan's voice cracked, his hips bucking forward.
Beckett didn't stop. If anything, he sped up. His tongue curled, his throat opened, and he swallowed Nathan's release without a single break in rhythm. Then he was on to Leonard, his hands still working Kenith's length while his mouth descended on Leonard's waiting cock. The sounds that followed were obscene. Gluck-gluck-gluck-gluck. Wet and rhythmic and utterly relentless.
Leonard lasted maybe ten seconds. Kenith lasted twelve. All three of them were done in under a minute, their bodies sagging against the wall, their minds completely blown, their legs too weak to hold them upright. Beckett rose to his feet, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and looked up at the doorway with that same blank, emotionless expression.
"Did you require something, Elliot?"
Elliot couldn't speak. He couldn't move. He just stood there, his mouth hanging open, his brain struggling to process what he had just witnessed. His pride, his carefully cultivated reputation as the blowjob king of the household, had been shattered in sixty seconds by his weird, antisocial brother. He turned and walked back up the stairs in a daze.
When he reached his room, Grayson looked up from the bed. "What happened? You look like you've seen a ghost."
"Worse," Elliot said, collapsing onto the mattress. "I saw Beckett. He's... he's actually good. Really good. Like, scary good. He took all three of them in under a minute. I don't know how. I don't know what he's doing with that tongue, but it's insane. I think I need to sit down. I am sitting down. I need to sit down more."
---
Date: August 3rd, 2043, 12:00 AM
The honeymoon phase had ended exactly one month later, at midnight, in Beckett's room. The curtains were drawn, the black sheets were rumpled, and the air was thick with the scent of sweat and cum and desperation. Leonard was on his knees on the bed, his body trembling, his eyes glazed over. Kenith was on the floor, his back against the wall, his chest heaving. Nathan was sprawled across Beckett's lap, his head lolling back, his mouth open in a constant stream of broken, incoherent moans.
They had been at it for two hours. Ten rounds. Each of them had passed out at least twice. They were running on fumes, their bodies pushed past the point of exhaustion.
"Beckett," Leonard gasped, his voice cracked and raw. "Please. Please. We need a break. Just a short one. Five minutes. Ten minutes. Anything. I can't—I can't keep going like this. My cock is sore. My balls are empty. I think I'm actually going to die if we do another round."
"You are not going to die," Beckett said, his voice calm and steady. "The human body is capable of remarkable endurance. You have not yet reached your theoretical limits."
"Fuck theoretical limits," Kenith groaned, his voice muffled against the wall. "I've reached my practical limits. I've passed my practical limits. I'm two miles past my practical limits and I can't see the finish line."
Nathan whimpered, his body twitching in Beckett's lap. "Please. Please. I love you, Beckett. I really do. But I can't. I just can't. Not again. Not right now. I need water. I need sleep. I need a break from being a living cum dispenser."
Beckett's expression didn't change. He looked down at Nathan with those dark, unblinking eyes, his hand still resting on the smaller femboy's trembling shoulder. "Very well. You may have a break. Five minutes. No more."
The relief that flooded the room was palpable. Leonard collapsed onto the bed, his body going limp. Kenith slid down the wall, his head falling back. Nathan curled into Beckett's side, his eyes already fluttering closed. For five glorious minutes, there was silence. Blessed, beautiful silence.
Then Beckett's alarm went off. Five minutes exactly. "Breaks over," he announced. "We will resume now."
Leonard stared at him with something that was almost horror. "No. No way. Absolutely not. I can't do this anymore. I can't keep cumming ten times a day. Nobody can. This is insane. You're insane. I'm leaving."
He scrambled off the bed, his naked body a blur of motion. He grabbed his clothes from the floor, pulling them on with frantic, shaking hands. "I can't live like this. I won't. I don't care if it's good. I don't care if your tongue is magic. I value my sanity more than I value a good orgasm. Goodbye, Beckett. I hope you find someone else to torture."
He stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him. The sound echoed through the quiet bedroom, leaving a heavy silence in its wake. Beckett looked at the closed door, his face completely unreadable. Then he turned to Nathan and Kenith.
"Now that we have a missing partner," he said, his voice calm and steady, "we need to increase our output to offset his deficiency. You will need to cum more. Substantially more. I estimate a forty percent increase per person to maintain optimal levels."
Nathan and Kenith exchanged a look. It was a look of pure, unadulterated dread.
---
A week after Leonard left, Kenith packed his bags. He had been crying, his face streaked with tears, his hands shaking as he shoved clothes into a duffel bag. He couldn't take it anymore. The constant demand for more, more, more. The way Beckett's expression never changed, no matter how many times they begged for mercy. He had to leave.
But he only made it to the front door before he stopped. He stood there, his hand on the doorknob, his body trembling, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps. He couldn't leave. Even if he wanted to, he couldn't. He had been trained. Conditioned. His body no longer responded to anyone else. Every attempt to pleasure himself ended in frustration. Every attempt to find another partner ended in failure. His dick wouldn't get hard for anyone but Beckett.
He returned to Beckett's room, dropping his duffel bag on the floor. "Please," he begged, falling to his knees. "Please give me another chance. I can't live without this. I can't live without you. Please. I'll do better. I'll cum more. Whatever you need. Just please don't send me away."
Beckett looked at him, his face still blank. "You are aware that I have trained you to respond only to me. Anyone who stays longer than two months becomes conditioned to my touch. You will no longer be able to receive pleasure from anyone other than me. That is the cost of partnership with me."
"I know," Kenith whispered. "I know. And I don't care. I'll take it. Just let me stay. Please."
---
Date: November 1st, 2043, 11:47 PM
Location: Hawthorne Mansion, Beckett's Room
Nathan lasted till November. He had been the strongest of the three, the most resilient, the one who had genuinely loved Beckett despite everything. But even he reached his breaking point. The exhaustion, the constant demand, the way Beckett never seemed to care about their suffering. It was too much.
"I can't live like this," Nathan said, his voice shaking. "I can't be a cum dispenser for the rest of my life. I love you, Beckett. I really do. But I have to leave. For my own sanity."
Beckett's expression didn't change. He looked at Nathan with those dark, unblinking eyes, his hands clasped loosely behind his back. "I understand," he said. "You are free to leave whenever you wish. I will not stop you."
Nathan left.
---
Beckett sat alone in his room, the black sheets still rumpled, the air still carrying the faint scent of his former partners. His face was blank. His posture was perfect. But behind those dark eyes, his mind was processing. Calculating. Concluding.
Experiment concluded. The data is clear. Relationships require a balance of give and take. I am unable to provide the necessary emotional reciprocation. My focus on quantitative output leads to partner burnout. The pattern is consistent. Nathan. Kenith. Leonard. All of them reached their breaking point. All of them left. It is for the greater good that I do not engage in further romantic or sexual relationships. The risks outweigh the potential benefits. I will focus on other pursuits. This experiment was a failure. I will not repeat it.
He rose from the bed, his movements smooth and efficient, and began to rearrange his crystals. The experiment was over. The data had been collected. Now it was time to move on.