Elliot’s phone buzzed on the kitchen counter. He glanced at it, then back at the eggs sizzling in the pan. His boyfriend, Nate, was still asleep, sprawled across their bed, one leg tangled in the sheets. The text was from Casey. “Meet me at the shop. 10. Got something to show you.” Elliot’s stomach tightened. He hadn’t seen Casey in months, not since that night at the bar when their conversation got too close to something neither of them named. He typed back, “Busy today.” A lie. The shop was Casey’s tattoo parlor, a gritty little place downtown where Elliot had gotten his first ink , a jagged line across his bicep that Casey had traced with steady hands.
He flipped the eggs, cursing when one yolk broke. Nate hated runny eggs. Elliot’s mind wandered to Casey’s hands again , calloused, precise, always smelling faintly of antiseptic. He shook the thought away. He was with Nate. Had been for two years. They had a life: shared Netflix binges, arguments over whose turn it was to do dishes, quiet mornings like this. But Casey’s text sat there, a splinter in his brain. He plated the eggs, left a note for Nate , “At the gym” , and grabbed his jacket.
The tattoo shop smelled like ink and leather. Casey was behind the counter, sketching on a tablet, his short black hair falling over one eye. He looked up, and his grin was sharp, like he knew something Elliot didn’t. “You came.” His voice was low, rough from years of smoking. Elliot shrugged, hands in his pockets. “Said you had something to show me.” Casey’s eyes flicked over him, lingering just long enough to make Elliot’s skin prickle. “New piece. For you, maybe.” He gestured to a sketch: a wolf, all sharp angles and bared teeth. “Fits you,” Casey said. “Restless. Hungry.”
Elliot snorted, but he felt the words settle in his chest. He wasn’t restless. He had Nate. A good job at the bookstore. A routine. But Casey’s gaze was relentless, peeling back layers Elliot kept buried. “You still with that guy?” Casey asked, leaning closer. His flannel shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, showing a glimpse of chest hair. Elliot nodded. “Yeah. Nate.” Casey’s lips twitched, not quite a smile. “He treat you right?” The question wasn’t innocent. Elliot’s jaw tightened. “He’s fine.” Casey raised an eyebrow but didn’t push.
They talked shop for a while , tattoos, music, the new coffee place down the street. Safe topics. But the air felt charged, like the moment before a storm. Casey moved to the back room, motioning for Elliot to follow. “Got a new chair. Better for longer sessions.” Elliot hesitated. The back room was small, private. He thought of Nate, probably awake now, eating those shitty eggs. Guilt gnawed at him, but his feet moved anyway.
The chair was black leather, reclined like a dentist’s. Casey patted it. “Try it out.” Elliot sat, the leather creaking under him. Casey stood close, too close, adjusting the headrest. His fingers brushed Elliot’s neck, and Elliot froze. “You’re tense,” Casey said, his voice softer now. “Something on your mind?” Elliot’s mouth went dry. He could smell Casey’s skin , soap and something sharper, like metal. “Just work,” he lied. Casey’s hand lingered, a thumb grazing the edge of Elliot’s jaw. “Bullshit,” Casey said, but he was smiling.
Elliot’s heart pounded. He thought of Nate’s laugh, the way he’d kiss Elliot’s forehead before bed. He thought of Casey’s hands, the way they’d felt when he got that tattoo, steady and sure. Shame curled in his gut, but there was something else too , a rush, like stepping off a ledge. Casey leaned in, his breath warm against Elliot’s ear. “You don’t have to do anything,” he said. “But you’re here.” Elliot’s hands gripped the armrests. He didn’t move. Not yet.
“You ever think about it?” Casey asked, pulling back just enough to meet Elliot’s eyes. His gaze was unflinching, like he could see every lie Elliot had ever told himself. “About what?” Elliot’s voice was rough, barely his own. Casey’s smile was slow, deliberate. “You know what.” Elliot’s mind raced. He could leave. Walk out, go home, make things right with Nate. But his body felt heavy, tethered to the chair, to Casey’s voice. “I don’t cheat,” he said, more to himself than Casey. Casey nodded, stepping back. “Sure. But you’re still here.”
The room felt smaller now, the air thick with everything unsaid. Elliot’s phone buzzed in his pocket. Probably Nate. He didn’t check. Casey watched him, waiting, like a predator who knew the prey would come to him eventually. Elliot’s thoughts were a mess , guilt, want, fear, thrill. He stood, unsteady. “I should go.” Casey didn’t stop him, but his eyes followed Elliot to the door. “Come back when you’re ready,” Casey said. It wasn’t a question.
Elliot walked out into the cold, his breath visible in the air. His phone buzzed again. He ignored it. His mind was on Casey’s hands, his voice, the wolf sketch that felt too much like a mirror. He wasn’t going home. Not yet.
Elliot didn’t go home. His feet carried him back to the tattoo shop, the bell above the door jangling as he stepped inside. Casey was still there, wiping down the counter, his movements slow, deliberate. He looked up, not surprised. “Knew you’d be back,” he said, tossing the rag aside. Elliot’s throat was tight. He didn’t trust himself to speak. Casey locked the door, flipped the “Closed” sign. The click of the lock was loud in the quiet.
Elliot’s phone was off now, stuffed deep in his pocket. Nate’s texts , three of them, unanswered , burned in his mind. “Where you at?” “You okay?” “Call me.” Guilt was a weight in his chest, but it wasn’t enough to stop him. Casey moved closer, his boots scuffing the floor. “You sure about this?” he asked, voice low. Elliot nodded, jaw clenched. He wasn’t sure. Not even close. But the pull was stronger than the doubt.
Casey led him to the back room again. The leather chair was still there, but Casey didn’t point to it. Instead, he pushed Elliot against against the wall, not hard, but firm. Elliot’s breath caught. Casey’s hands were on his shoulders, pinning him. “Tell me to stop,” Casey said, eyes locked on his. Elliot didn’t say anything. His heart was a drum in his ears. Casey’s lips curled, just a little. “Thought so.”
Casey kissed him, rough and unyielding. Elliot’s hands fisted in Casey’s flannel, pulling him closer. It wasn’t soft, wasn’t sweet. It was teeth and stubble and the faint taste of cigarettes. Elliot’s mind screamed , Nate, home, promises , but his body leaned into it, hungry. Casey’s hands slid under Elliot’s shirt, calluses scraping his skin. “Fuck, you’re warm,” Casey muttered, breaking the kiss. Elliot didn’t respond. He couldn’t. His brain was static.
Casey tugged Elliot’s shirt off, then his own. His chest was broad, dusted with dark hair, a faint scar running along his ribs. Elliot stared, his fingers twitching to touch. Casey noticed, smirked. “Go ahead.” Elliot’s hand moved before he could think, tracing the scar. Casey’s skin was hot, his breathing steady. Elliot’s was not. “You’re thinking too much,” Casey said, grabbing Elliot’s wrist. “Stop it.”
They moved to the chair, Casey pushing Elliot down onto it. The leather was cold against his back. Casey knelt between his legs, unbuttoning Elliot’s jeans with practiced ease. Elliot’s breath hitched as Casey’s fingers brushed him, deliberate, teasing. “Relax,” Casey said, but it wasn’t a request. He tugged Elliot’s jeans down, then his boxers. Elliot felt exposed, raw. Casey’s eyes flicked up, meeting his. “You’re fucking gorgeous,” he said, voice rough. Elliot’s face burned. He didn’t know how to take that.
Casey’s mouth was on him then, hot and wet. Elliot gasped, gripping the armrests. It was fast, intense, no buildup. Casey’s tongue moved with purpose, no hesitation. Elliot’s head tipped back, his thoughts fracturing. Nate’s face flashed in his mind , smiling, oblivious. Shame twisted in his gut, but the rush was stronger, drowning it out. “Fuck,” he muttered, voice shaky. Casey hummed, the vibration making Elliot’s hips buck.
Casey pulled back, wiping his mouth. “You taste good,” he said, standing. Elliot’s chest heaved, his body thrumming. Casey undid his own jeans, shoving them down. Elliot’s eyes widened. Casey was trans, his body a mix of hard lines and something softer , a pussy, slick and inviting. Elliot stared, caught off guard. Casey noticed, raised an eyebrow. “Problem?” Elliot shook his head, too fast. “No. Just… didn’t expect it.” Casey’s grin was sharp. “Good.”
Casey climbed onto the chair, straddling Elliot’s hips. Their skin pressed together, heat against heat. Casey leaned down, kissing Elliot again, slower this time. Elliot’s hands found Casey’s waist, hesitant at first, then firmer. Casey guided one of Elliot’s hands lower, to his pussy. “Touch me,” he said, voice a growl. Elliot’s fingers moved, clumsy but eager, slipping against wet skin. Casey’s breath hitched, his eyes half-closing. “Yeah, like that.”
Elliot’s mind was a tug-of-war. Guilt screamed at him to stop, to think of Nate, to walk away. But Casey’s weight on him, the sounds he made, the way his body responded , it was a drug. Elliot’s fingers moved faster, finding a rhythm. Casey groaned, grinding against him. “You’re good at this,” he said, half-laughing. Elliot didn’t feel good. He felt reckless, alive, fucked up. He wanted more.
Casey shifted, reaching for a condom from a nearby drawer. “You want this?” he asked, holding it up. Elliot nodded, his voice gone. Casey rolled it onto him, his touch firm, practiced. Then he lowered himself, taking Elliot inside. It was tight, warm, overwhelming. Elliot’s hands gripped Casey’s hips, hard enough to bruise. Casey moved, slow at first, then faster, his breath coming in sharp bursts. “Fuck, you feel good,” he said, voice raw.
Elliot’s world narrowed to this , Casey’s body, the creak of the chair, the heat building in his core. Guilt was there, a shadow, but it couldn’t touch him now. He was too far gone.
Elliot’s hands were locked on Casey’s hips, fingers digging into skin. The chair groaned under their weight, leather slick with sweat. Casey rode him hard, each movement sharp, deliberate. Elliot’s breath was ragged, his body coiled tight. Casey’s pussy clenched around him, wet and hot, pulling him deeper. “Fuck, you’re close,” Casey said, voice rough, eyes glinting. Elliot couldn’t speak, couldn’t think. His world was sensation , heat, pressure, the edge of something unstoppable.
Casey slowed, just enough to lean down, lips brushing Elliot’s ear. “You want more?” he asked, teasing, but there was an edge to it. Elliot nodded, desperate. Casey grinned, sharp and knowing, then slid off him. Elliot’s body protested, aching at the loss. “Turn over,” Casey said, patting the chair. Elliot hesitated, mind flickering to Nate , home, waiting, trusting. The guilt was a knife, but the want was stronger. He flipped onto his stomach, the leather cool against his chest.
Casey’s hands were on him again, spreading his thighs. “Relax,” Casey said, but it was a command. Elliot’s face burned, shame mixing with anticipation. He felt Casey’s breath first, warm against his skin, then his tongue, slow and deliberate, circling his ass. Elliot gasped, gripping the armrests. It was intense, invasive, fucking filthy. His mind screamed , this was too much, too far , but his body arched into it, craving more. Casey’s tongue worked him open, relentless, no mercy. “You like that,” Casey murmured, not a question. Elliot’s only response was a choked groan.
Casey pulled back, and Elliot heard the rip of another condom packet. “You good?” Casey asked, voice softer now. Elliot nodded into the leather, unable to look at him. He wasn’t good. He was a mess , guilt, lust, shame, thrill all knotted together. Casey’s hand stroked his back, surprisingly gentle, then he pressed against Elliot, slow at first. The stretch was sharp, burning, but Casey was careful, easing in. “Breathe,” he said, and Elliot did, forcing air into his lungs. The pain faded, replaced by something deeper, fuller.
Casey moved, steady at first, then harder. Each thrust pushed Elliot into the chair, the leather creaking in rhythm. Elliot’s hands scrabbled for something to hold, finding nothing but the edges of his own sanity. Casey’s breath was hot on his neck, his voice a low growl. “You feel so fucking good.” Elliot’s body responded, hips pushing back, chasing the feeling. His mind was a warzone , Nate’s smile, Casey’s hands, the betrayal he couldn’t undo. But the rush was louder, drowning it all.
Casey reached around, fingers finding Elliot’s cock, stroking in time with his thrusts. Elliot’s vision blurred, his body teetering on the edge. “Come on,” Casey said, voice tight, like he was close too. Elliot’s climax hit like a freight train, ripping through him, spilling over Casey’s hand. He gasped, trembling, every nerve alight. Casey followed, a low groan escaping as he stilled, buried deep. For a moment, they were frozen, breathing hard, the air thick with sweat and sex.
Casey pulled out, careful, and Elliot collapsed onto the chair, spent. Casey tossed the condom, grabbed a towel, wiped them both down with quick, practiced motions. “You okay?” he asked, sitting on the edge of the chair. Elliot nodded, but he wasn’t. The high was fading, and guilt was rushing in, cold and heavy. He thought of Nate’s texts, his voice, the life they’d built. What the fuck had he done?
Casey watched him, eyes sharp but not unkind. “Don’t overthink it,” he said, like it was that simple. Elliot sat up, wincing, pulling his clothes back on. His hands shook as he zipped his jeans. “This… it’s not me,” he said, voice hoarse. Casey shrugged, buttoning his flannel. “Sure it is. You wanted it. Own it.” The words stung, but they weren’t wrong. Elliot had walked back here, chosen this, every step of the way.
He stood, legs unsteady, and grabbed his phone. Six missed calls. Nate. His stomach twisted. “I gotta go,” he said, not meeting Casey’s eyes. Casey nodded, no judgment, no promises. “Door’s open if you change your mind.” Elliot didn’t respond. He walked out, the bell jangling behind him, the cold air hitting his face like a slap.
Outside, he turned his phone on. Nate’s last text was simple: “Please come home.” Elliot’s chest ached. He didn’t know what he’d say, how he’d face him. The thrill was gone, replaced by a hollow weight. He started walking, not toward home, not yet. He needed time, space, something to make sense of the mess he’d made. But the truth was stark, unyielding: he’d fucked up, and there was no undoing it.