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Cole Connor
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The Dungeon
Joined March 2020
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Shibari Study Group 🪢
Part 1/3
At the first Shibari study group session, Rope Master CoolGuy (@Cool77Guy88) demonstrated his rope work by tying and inverting the subject, Cole.
Co-Dom: @SillyKinksSG
～～～
在第一次绳缚学习小组课程中，绳师 CoolGuy (@Cool77Guy88) 展示了他的绳技，将模特 Cole 捆绑并倒置悬吊。
The Breaking of Adrian Tan
Chapter 3: Gay Bar
——————————
I took a complete break from the club after that night.
Every time the memory surfaced—the weight, the deeper voice, the fact that I had come inside a man while cuffed and blindfolded—goosebumps crawled up my arms. I felt dirty in a way that had nothing to do with the sex itself and everything to do with how thoroughly I had been tricked.
When I met Sarah for dinner and a movie the following week, I held her hand tighter than usual. I watched her laugh at the screen and felt a heavy, sick guilt settle in my chest. I had betrayed her already by selling my body to other women. Ending up inside a man somehow made the betrayal feel worse, even though she would never know.
I kept pretending I was still the same straight university student who studied hard and delivered food to pay his fees. The image felt thinner every day.
The full STI panel came back clean a week later. Negative across the board. The relief was so strong I almost cried in the clinic bathroom.
That same night Mark was out on a booking. Sarah came over. The moment the door locked I pulled her onto the bed and fucked her like I was trying to scrub the other night out of my body. She was soft and familiar and warm. When she took me into her mouth I closed my eyes and tried to lose myself in the feeling.
Instead, the memory of that other mouth returned—hotter, more skilled, more relentless—the way it had edged me over and over. When I felt myself getting close I pulled out of Sarah’s mouth, wrapped my hand around my cock, and came hard into my palm, yet part of my mind was still trapped back in that hotel room.
After she left I was still hard. I lay on my bed and jerked off for almost an hour, chasing something I couldn’t quite reach. When I finally came the orgasm felt small and unsatisfying compared to the one the man had wrung out of me.
I told Mark the next evening. He stared at me for a second, then laughed.
“You don’t know this? Pure gay bottoms have oral skills far superior to most women. I’m bi, so my opinion’s the most neutral—I prefer being sucked by pure gay bottoms.” He grinned and tapped my shoulder. “You know what? I’ll take you to one of the gay bars one of these days. With your look and that body, you can get a free blowjob from the finest gays in town whenever you want.”
“Fuck you,” I muttered, face burning, and threw a textbook at him as he walked out laughing.
But the words stayed with me.
A few weeks later I found myself standing outside a popular gay bar with Mark on a Friday night. Music leaked out onto the street. Neon washed the entrance in pink and blue. My heart was beating too fast.
“Just look,” Mark said. “You don’t have to do anything. If you hate it we leave.”
Inside it was crowded, warm, and loud. Men of every type packed the space—some in tight shirts that showed off gym bodies, some older and sharper in tailored jackets, some younger and openly hungry. Eyes moved over me the moment we stepped in. I felt the attention like heat on my skin.
Mark ordered drinks and kept me close at first, introducing me casually as “my straight roommate who’s just looking.” A few guys still came over. One complimented my arms. Another asked if I was new in town. I answered shortly, uncomfortable, but the attention didn’t feel entirely bad.
After an hour and two drinks I needed the toilet. Mark nodded toward the back. “Go. I’ll be at the bar.”
The restroom was smaller than I expected, three cubicles, two of them occupied. I stepped into the last one, locked the door, and had just started to unzip when someone knocked lightly.
I froze.
A low voice, polite but direct: “You the guy with Mark? The straight one?”
I didn’t answer.
“I can make it quick. No talking after. You just stand there.”
Something in me—the same restless, unsatisfied part that had been circling since that night—made me reach over and unlock the door.
A man in his late twenties slipped in. Lean, well-groomed, dark eyes that flicked once over my face and then down. He didn’t introduce himself. He simply dropped to his knees on the tiled floor, freed my cock with practiced hands, and took me into his mouth in one smooth motion.
The heat and wetness were immediate and perfect. He sucked with a focused, almost worshipful intensity, tongue working the underside, cheeks hollowing, taking me deeper than Sarah ever had. One hand stroked what he couldn’t fit; the other rested lightly on my thigh, steadying himself. There was no hesitation, no gagging, just pure skilled hunger.
I braced one hand against the cubicle wall and the other on the top of his head. My hips started moving on their own. The pleasure built fast and sharp, the same overwhelming quality I had felt that night in the hotel room. I tried to stay quiet, but low groans still escaped.
He never slowed. When I felt the orgasm rising I whispered, “Coming—coming,” and tapped his shoulder, trying to pull out the way I always did with Sarah or other women. Instead of easing off, he only took me deeper, throat relaxing around me, and kept the exact same rhythm. I came hard—harder than I had in weeks—flooding his mouth in thick pulses. He stayed locked around me the entire time, swallowing steadily, not letting a single drop escape. When the last tremor passed he held me there a moment longer, gently sucking me clean, then released my cock with a soft, wet sound.
He stood, wiped the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand, gave me a small, almost polite nod, and slipped out of the cubicle without a word.
I stayed there for a full minute, breathing hard, staring at the closed door. My legs felt unsteady. The climax had been intense, complete, and deeply satisfying in a way I hadn’t felt since the night I was tricked.
When I finally walked back out to the bar, Mark took one look at my face and smirked.
“Told you,” he said, and handed me another drink.
I didn’t answer. I just drank it and tried not to think about how easily I had unlocked that door—or how much I already wanted to do it again.
The Breaking of Adrian Tan
Chapter 3: Gay Bar
——————————
I took a complete break from the club after that night.
Every time the memory surfaced—the weight, the deeper voice, the fact that I had come inside a man while cuffed and blindfolded—goosebumps crawled up my arms. I felt dirty in a way that had nothing to do with the sex itself and everything to do with how thoroughly I had been tricked.
When I met Sarah for dinner and a movie the following week, I held her hand tighter than usual. I watched her laugh at the screen and felt a heavy, sick guilt settle in my chest. I had betrayed her already by selling my body to other women. Ending up inside a man somehow made the betrayal feel worse, even though she would never know.
I kept pretending I was still the same straight university student who studied hard and delivered food to pay his fees. The image felt thinner every day.
The full STI panel came back clean a week later. Negative across the board. The relief was so strong I almost cried in the clinic bathroom.
That same night Mark was out on a booking. Sarah came over. The moment the door locked I pulled her onto the bed and fucked her like I was trying to scrub the other night out of my body. She was soft and familiar and warm. When she took me into her mouth I closed my eyes and tried to lose myself in the feeling.
Instead, the memory of that other mouth returned—hotter, more skilled, more relentless—the way it had edged me over and over. When I felt myself getting close I pulled out of Sarah’s mouth, wrapped my hand around my cock, and came hard into my palm, yet part of my mind was still trapped back in that hotel room.
After she left I was still hard. I lay on my bed and jerked off for almost an hour, chasing something I couldn’t quite reach. When I finally came the orgasm felt small and unsatisfying compared to the one the man had wrung out of me.
I told Mark the next evening. He stared at me for a second, then laughed.
“You don’t know this? Pure gay bottoms have oral skills far superior to most women. I’m bi, so my opinion’s the most neutral—I prefer being sucked by pure gay bottoms.” He grinned and tapped my shoulder. “You know what? I’ll take you to one of the gay bars one of these days. With your look and that body, you can get a free blowjob from the finest gays in town whenever you want.”
“Fuck you,” I muttered, face burning, and threw a textbook at him as he walked out laughing.
But the words stayed with me.
A few weeks later I found myself standing outside a popular gay bar with Mark on a Friday night. Music leaked out onto the street. Neon washed the entrance in pink and blue. My heart was beating too fast.
“Just look,” Mark said. “You don’t have to do anything. If you hate it we leave.”
Inside it was crowded, warm, and loud. Men of every type packed the space—some in tight shirts that showed off gym bodies, some older and sharper in tailored jackets, some younger and openly hungry. Eyes moved over me the moment we stepped in. I felt the attention like heat on my skin.
Mark ordered drinks and kept me close at first, introducing me casually as “my straight roommate who’s just looking.” A few guys still came over. One complimented my arms. Another asked if I was new in town. I answered shortly, uncomfortable, but the attention didn’t feel entirely bad.
After an hour and two drinks I needed the toilet. Mark nodded toward the back. “Go. I’ll be at the bar.”
The restroom was smaller than I expected, three cubicles, two of them occupied. I stepped into the last one, locked the door, and had just started to unzip when someone knocked lightly.
I froze.
A low voice, polite but direct: “You the guy with Mark? The straight one?”
I didn’t answer.
“I can make it quick. No talking after. You just stand there.”
Something in me—the same restless, unsatisfied part that had been circling since that night—made me reach over and unlock the door.
A man in his late twenties slipped in. Lean, well-groomed, dark eyes that flicked once over my face and then down. He didn’t introduce himself. He simply dropped to his knees on the tiled floor, freed my cock with practiced hands, and took me into his mouth in one smooth motion.
The heat and wetness were immediate and perfect. He sucked with a focused, almost worshipful intensity, tongue working the underside, cheeks hollowing, taking me deeper than Sarah ever had. One hand stroked what he couldn’t fit; the other rested lightly on my thigh, steadying himself. There was no hesitation, no gagging, just pure skilled hunger.
I braced one hand against the cubicle wall and the other on the top of his head. My hips started moving on their own. The pleasure built fast and sharp, the same overwhelming quality I had felt that night in the hotel room. I tried to stay quiet, but low groans still escaped.
He never slowed. When I felt the orgasm rising I whispered, “Coming—coming,” and tapped his shoulder, trying to pull out the way I always did with Sarah or other women. Instead of easing off, he only took me deeper, throat relaxing around me, and kept the exact same rhythm. I came hard—harder than I had in weeks—flooding his mouth in thick pulses. He stayed locked around me the entire time, swallowing steadily, not letting a single drop escape. When the last tremor passed he held me there a moment longer, gently sucking me clean, then released my cock with a soft, wet sound.
He stood, wiped the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand, gave me a small, almost polite nod, and slipped out of the cubicle without a word.
I stayed there for a full minute, breathing hard, staring at the closed door. My legs felt unsteady. The climax had been intense, complete, and deeply satisfying in a way I hadn’t felt since the night I was tricked.
When I finally walked back out to the bar, Mark took one look at my face and smirked.
“Told you,” he said, and handed me another drink.
I didn’t answer. I just drank it and tried not to think about how easily I had unlocked that door—or how much I already wanted to do it again.
The Breaking of Adrian Tan
Chapter 2: I Am Not Gay!
—————————————
I was still riding the high from the last few weeks when the manager called me into her private office one evening.
She was a sharp woman in her forties, always perfectly dressed, always calculating. She closed the door, poured two glasses of something expensive, and got straight to the point.
“Adrian. You’re one of our most requested now. The women keep asking for you by name. There’s another market, though. Bigger money. Male clients. High-end. Discreet. One of our VIP regulars has specifically asked about you.”
I smiled and shook my head without hesitation.
“No. I’m straight. I don’t think I could even get hard looking at a male body. Not interested.”
She looked genuinely disappointed. I could tell the VIP had been putting pressure on her. But she also knew she couldn’t force it—not with the amount of bookings I was pulling in. She just nodded, forced a polite smile, and let me leave.
Two nights later I had a new booking. The name on the card was Jasmine, mid-thirties. When I walked into the hotel room she was already waiting—attractive, confident, expensive perfume. She placed a thick envelope on the side table without a word. I recognised the weight of it. Full fee, paid in advance.
I was still wondering how someone that young could afford my rates when she reached into her bag and pulled out a red silk blindfold and a set of furry metal cuffs.
“Put these on.”
I raised an eyebrow, then smiled. “Kinky.”
She didn’t smile back. Just waited.
I put the blindfold on myself. The world went dark. Cool metal clicked around my wrists, then my ankles. Within a couple of minutes I was spread-eagle on the bed, completely secured. The cuffs were solid. No give.
She climbed over me. Her weight settled across my hips. Soft lips found mine, slow and deep. Her hands worked the buttons of my shirt open, then slid lower. She pulled my trousers and underwear down in one smooth motion. My cock sprang free, already hard, already leaking.
“Wait for me…” she whispered against my ear.
I nodded.
I heard her footsteps move away, the bathroom door, the shower running. Time stretched. I almost drifted off, the blindfold making everything feel heavier, warmer.
Then a hand closed around my cock.
I groaned at the sudden contact. Soft fingers stroked me back to full hardness, then a warm, wet mouth sank down over the head. She took me deep on the first try, tongue working the underside while she sucked. The skill was ridiculous. Perfect pressure, perfect rhythm. Within minutes my hips were twitching against the restraints and I was breathing hard.
Every time I got close she stopped.
She had pull off, leave me throbbing and neglected, and focus on something else—nipples, inner thighs, the sensitive skin just under my balls—until the edge faded. Then the mouth would return, hotter, wetter, more relentless. She kept me there for what felt like an hour. Sweat was running down my chest and stomach. My cock ached. My whole body was wound tight.
“Oh Mistress… please let me cum,” I finally begged, using the language I had seen in videos, voice rough.
She climbed back over me. I felt her straddle my hips, guide my cock against something tight and hot, then sink down.
“Condom…” I whispered.
“Shhhh.” A finger pressed against my lips.
She took me in one slow, continuous slide. The heat and tightness were intense—almost too much. I thrust up as much as the cuffs allowed, chasing the feeling. She rode me hard, grinding down every time I pushed up. The wet sounds filled the room. I lasted maybe five minutes before the pressure became unbearable.
“I’m coming—fuck, I’m coming—”
She didn’t slow down. She kept riding me through it, taking every pulse as I emptied inside her. A second later warm liquid splashed across my chest and face. She had come with me.
She leaned down and kissed me, deep and claiming.
That was when I first sensed something was wrong.
The body on top of me felt heavy and broad. The chest pressing against mine was flat and solid instead of soft. Even the scent had changed—cologne instead of perfume.
The blindfold was yanked off.
A man in his fifties was straddling me, still seated on my spent cock, breathing hard, eyes dark with satisfaction.
I stared for half a second of pure disbelief.
“FUCK!”
I thrashed. The cuffs held. Metal bit into my wrists and ankles as I tried to twist free.
“Where is Jasmine?! Get the fuck off me, you pervert!”
He didn’t answer. He simply reached down, pulled the blindfold back over my eyes, and leaned close to my ear.
“You’ll still get paid for this. I gave you extra. I had fun. You’re fucking hot.” A low chuckle. “Someone will release you tomorrow.”
Then he forced something soft—probably one of my own socks—into my mouth and sealed it with thick tape. I could still breathe through my nose, but I couldn’t speak. Couldn’t shout. All that came out were muffled, furious sounds while I kept thrashing against the cuffs.
I heard him get dressed. The door opened and closed. After that there was only silence, the cold bite of the metal restraints, and the taste of cloth in my mouth.
I stayed like that all night—spread open, used, furious, and completely helpless.
Mark found me the next morning. The client had apparently messaged the manager after he left and told her to send someone to unlock me once enough time had passed. Mark didn’t say much while he freed the cuffs. He just looked at me with an expression I couldn’t quite read, then helped me sit up and handed me a bottle of water.
I didn’t speak on the way back to the dorm.
I still don’t know what the fuck I’m supposed to do with any of this.
@BadSgBoy1 Thank you 😁
The Breaking of Adrian Tan
Chapter 2: I Am Not Gay!
—————————————
I was still riding the high from the last few weeks when the manager called me into her private office one evening.
She was a sharp woman in her forties, always perfectly dressed, always calculating. She closed the door, poured two glasses of something expensive, and got straight to the point.
“Adrian. You’re one of our most requested now. The women keep asking for you by name. There’s another market, though. Bigger money. Male clients. High-end. Discreet. One of our VIP regulars has specifically asked about you.”
I smiled and shook my head without hesitation.
“No. I’m straight. I don’t think I could even get hard looking at a male body. Not interested.”
She looked genuinely disappointed. I could tell the VIP had been putting pressure on her. But she also knew she couldn’t force it—not with the amount of bookings I was pulling in. She just nodded, forced a polite smile, and let me leave.
Two nights later I had a new booking. The name on the card was Jasmine, mid-thirties. When I walked into the hotel room she was already waiting—attractive, confident, expensive perfume. She placed a thick envelope on the side table without a word. I recognised the weight of it. Full fee, paid in advance.
I was still wondering how someone that young could afford my rates when she reached into her bag and pulled out a red silk blindfold and a set of furry metal cuffs.
“Put these on.”
I raised an eyebrow, then smiled. “Kinky.”
She didn’t smile back. Just waited.
I put the blindfold on myself. The world went dark. Cool metal clicked around my wrists, then my ankles. Within a couple of minutes I was spread-eagle on the bed, completely secured. The cuffs were solid. No give.
She climbed over me. Her weight settled across my hips. Soft lips found mine, slow and deep. Her hands worked the buttons of my shirt open, then slid lower. She pulled my trousers and underwear down in one smooth motion. My cock sprang free, already hard, already leaking.
“Wait for me…” she whispered against my ear.
I nodded.
I heard her footsteps move away, the bathroom door, the shower running. Time stretched. I almost drifted off, the blindfold making everything feel heavier, warmer.
Then a hand closed around my cock.
I groaned at the sudden contact. Soft fingers stroked me back to full hardness, then a warm, wet mouth sank down over the head. She took me deep on the first try, tongue working the underside while she sucked. The skill was ridiculous. Perfect pressure, perfect rhythm. Within minutes my hips were twitching against the restraints and I was breathing hard.
Every time I got close she stopped.
She had pull off, leave me throbbing and neglected, and focus on something else—nipples, inner thighs, the sensitive skin just under my balls—until the edge faded. Then the mouth would return, hotter, wetter, more relentless. She kept me there for what felt like an hour. Sweat was running down my chest and stomach. My cock ached. My whole body was wound tight.
“Oh Mistress… please let me cum,” I finally begged, using the language I had seen in videos, voice rough.
She climbed back over me. I felt her straddle my hips, guide my cock against something tight and hot, then sink down.
“Condom…” I whispered.
“Shhhh.” A finger pressed against my lips.
She took me in one slow, continuous slide. The heat and tightness were intense—almost too much. I thrust up as much as the cuffs allowed, chasing the feeling. She rode me hard, grinding down every time I pushed up. The wet sounds filled the room. I lasted maybe five minutes before the pressure became unbearable.
“I’m coming—fuck, I’m coming—”
She didn’t slow down. She kept riding me through it, taking every pulse as I emptied inside her. A second later warm liquid splashed across my chest and face. She had come with me.
She leaned down and kissed me, deep and claiming.
That was when I first sensed something was wrong.
The body on top of me felt heavy and broad. The chest pressing against mine was flat and solid instead of soft. Even the scent had changed—cologne instead of perfume.
The blindfold was yanked off.
A man in his fifties was straddling me, still seated on my spent cock, breathing hard, eyes dark with satisfaction.
I stared for half a second of pure disbelief.
“FUCK!”
I thrashed. The cuffs held. Metal bit into my wrists and ankles as I tried to twist free.
“Where is Jasmine?! Get the fuck off me, you pervert!”
He didn’t answer. He simply reached down, pulled the blindfold back over my eyes, and leaned close to my ear.
“You’ll still get paid for this. I gave you extra. I had fun. You’re fucking hot.” A low chuckle. “Someone will release you tomorrow.”
Then he forced something soft—probably one of my own socks—into my mouth and sealed it with thick tape. I could still breathe through my nose, but I couldn’t speak. Couldn’t shout. All that came out were muffled, furious sounds while I kept thrashing against the cuffs.
I heard him get dressed. The door opened and closed. After that there was only silence, the cold bite of the metal restraints, and the taste of cloth in my mouth.
I stayed like that all night—spread open, used, furious, and completely helpless.
Mark found me the next morning. The client had apparently messaged the manager after he left and told her to send someone to unlock me once enough time had passed. Mark didn’t say much while he freed the cuffs. He just looked at me with an expression I couldn’t quite read, then helped me sit up and handed me a bottle of water.
I didn’t speak on the way back to the dorm.
I still don’t know what the fuck I’m supposed to do with any of this.
@zeecatmeow Thank you 😁
The Breaking of Adrian Tan
Chapter 1: The First Booking
———————————————
I never thought I had end up here.
My name is Adrian Tan. Twenty-one, second-year business student, gym four times a week, and until a few months ago the most ordinary straight guy you could meet on campus.
I had a girlfriend—Sarah—who I fucked maybe once a week if our schedules lined up.
I delivered food on a scooter between lectures and gave tuition to rich secondary-school kids in the evenings. The money was just enough to cover fees, dorm rent, and the occasional cheap date. Barely.
I shared a cramped dorm room with Mark. Two years older, openly bi, always smelling of expensive cologne and looking like he had just stepped out of a photoshoot.
One night, after I had come back exhausted from a three-hour delivery shift and still had problem sets to finish, he watched me count the pathetic stack of cash on my desk.
“You’re killing yourself for scraps,” he said, leaning against his bed frame. “I know a better way.”
I laughed it off at first. Then he told me about the club. High-end, private, membership only. Lonely rich women—divorced, widowed, married to men who no longer touched them—who paid serious money for a night with a fit, discreet young guy who could make them feel wanted.
One booking, he said, paid what I made in two weeks of deliveries. Sometimes more. Sometimes they left expensive watches or bags of cash as tips. Sometimes they bought you clothes.
I told him I had a girlfriend. He just smirked. “Doesn’t matter. You’re not dating them. You’re performing. Close your eyes if you have to. Think about Sarah. Or don’t. Just get paid.”
I said no for three days. On the fourth, after Sarah cancelled our date because she was tired and I still had to cover half the semester’s fees, I asked Mark for the number.
The first night I almost backed out. The club was in a converted warehouse on the edge of the financial district—black exterior, soft lighting, private rooms upstairs. A woman in a tight black dress checked my ID, took my measurements, and had me change into a fitted shirt and trousers they provided. No names, no phones, no photos. Cash only, paid upfront by the client through the house.
My first client was a woman in her late forties named Claire, probably not her real name. Diamond earrings, a body kept tight by private trainers, and eyes that looked at me like I was already undressed. She didn’t waste time. As soon as the door locked she pushed me onto the bed, straddled me, and started unbuttoning my shirt with practiced fingers.
I was hard before I even realised it. Not because of her exactly—because of the situation, the money sitting in an envelope on the side table, the fact that this was happening at all. She rode me slowly at first, then harder, talking the whole time about how good it felt to be filled by someone young again. I came inside the condom she insisted on. She came twice. When it was over she handed me an extra stack of notes and told the house she wanted me again next week.
I walked out with more money than I had earned in a month of deliveries and tuition combined.
That became the pattern. Two, sometimes three nights a week. Different women—some older, some closer to thirty, all rich, all lonely in their own ways. Some just wanted to be fucked hard against a wall. Some wanted slow, almost romantic sex while they pretended I was their lover. One liked to suck me off while she was on a conference call with her board. Another made me wear a blindfold and just use my mouth and hands for an hour before she let me inside her.
I stayed hard every time. The body responds even when the mind is calculating bank balances. I thought about Sarah sometimes—her smaller tits, the way she bit her lip when she came—but mostly I thought about the envelope and the silence of the room afterward when I counted the cash.
I kept everything secret. Mark knew, of course, but he was professional about it. We never talked details. I opened a second bank account under a slightly altered name and transferred the money in small amounts. The gifts—watches, a limited-edition jacket, a pair of shoes worth more than my scooter—I kept in a locked suitcase under my bed. Sarah never saw them.
When she started complaining that I was never free, that we hadn’t fucked in two weeks, that I always had some excuse, I gave her the same lines every time.
“Exams are brutal this semester.”
“I’m on the debate team now, extra sessions.”
“Delivery shifts got longer because one of the guys quit.”
She believed me because she wanted to. Because the alternative—that her straight, hardworking boyfriend was getting paid to fuck rich women in private rooms while she studied—was too ridiculous to entertain.
I still fucked her when the schedule allowed. It felt different now. Smaller. Safer. Like coming home to a warm meal after a long shift. I never came as hard with her as I did with some of the clients, and that fact sat in the back of my mind like a quiet betrayal.
The money changed everything. I paid off the rest of the semester. I upgraded my phone. I stopped answering the delivery app. Mark and I still shared the room, but I started looking at nicer off-campus flats for next year. Quietly. Discreetly.
I told myself it was temporary. Just until graduation. Just until I didn’t need it anymore.
But the truth is, the first time a woman older than my mother paid me to bend her over a marble bathroom counter and fuck her until she couldn’t speak, something shifted. Not in who I wanted—I still only wanted women, still only got hard for the female body—but in what I was willing to do for the right price.
I’m still Adrian Tan. Still straight. Still a university student who goes to lectures and pretends to care about group projects.
I just also sell the use of my body to women who can afford to buy it, and I do it well enough that they ask for me by name.
And every time Sarah texts me asking when I’m free, I type the same lie, hit send, and go back to counting the cash.
The Breaking of Adrian Tan
Chapter 1: The First Booking
———————————————
I never thought I had end up here.
My name is Adrian Tan. Twenty-one, second-year business student, gym four times a week, and until a few months ago the most ordinary straight guy you could meet on campus.
I had a girlfriend—Sarah—who I fucked maybe once a week if our schedules lined up.
I delivered food on a scooter between lectures and gave tuition to rich secondary-school kids in the evenings. The money was just enough to cover fees, dorm rent, and the occasional cheap date. Barely.
I shared a cramped dorm room with Mark. Two years older, openly bi, always smelling of expensive cologne and looking like he had just stepped out of a photoshoot.
One night, after I had come back exhausted from a three-hour delivery shift and still had problem sets to finish, he watched me count the pathetic stack of cash on my desk.
“You’re killing yourself for scraps,” he said, leaning against his bed frame. “I know a better way.”
I laughed it off at first. Then he told me about the club. High-end, private, membership only. Lonely rich women—divorced, widowed, married to men who no longer touched them—who paid serious money for a night with a fit, discreet young guy who could make them feel wanted.
One booking, he said, paid what I made in two weeks of deliveries. Sometimes more. Sometimes they left expensive watches or bags of cash as tips. Sometimes they bought you clothes.
I told him I had a girlfriend. He just smirked. “Doesn’t matter. You’re not dating them. You’re performing. Close your eyes if you have to. Think about Sarah. Or don’t. Just get paid.”
I said no for three days. On the fourth, after Sarah cancelled our date because she was tired and I still had to cover half the semester’s fees, I asked Mark for the number.
The first night I almost backed out. The club was in a converted warehouse on the edge of the financial district—black exterior, soft lighting, private rooms upstairs. A woman in a tight black dress checked my ID, took my measurements, and had me change into a fitted shirt and trousers they provided. No names, no phones, no photos. Cash only, paid upfront by the client through the house.
My first client was a woman in her late forties named Claire, probably not her real name. Diamond earrings, a body kept tight by private trainers, and eyes that looked at me like I was already undressed. She didn’t waste time. As soon as the door locked she pushed me onto the bed, straddled me, and started unbuttoning my shirt with practiced fingers.
I was hard before I even realised it. Not because of her exactly—because of the situation, the money sitting in an envelope on the side table, the fact that this was happening at all. She rode me slowly at first, then harder, talking the whole time about how good it felt to be filled by someone young again. I came inside the condom she insisted on. She came twice. When it was over she handed me an extra stack of notes and told the house she wanted me again next week.
I walked out with more money than I had earned in a month of deliveries and tuition combined.
That became the pattern. Two, sometimes three nights a week. Different women—some older, some closer to thirty, all rich, all lonely in their own ways. Some just wanted to be fucked hard against a wall. Some wanted slow, almost romantic sex while they pretended I was their lover. One liked to suck me off while she was on a conference call with her board. Another made me wear a blindfold and just use my mouth and hands for an hour before she let me inside her.
I stayed hard every time. The body responds even when the mind is calculating bank balances. I thought about Sarah sometimes—her smaller tits, the way she bit her lip when she came—but mostly I thought about the envelope and the silence of the room afterward when I counted the cash.
I kept everything secret. Mark knew, of course, but he was professional about it. We never talked details. I opened a second bank account under a slightly altered name and transferred the money in small amounts. The gifts—watches, a limited-edition jacket, a pair of shoes worth more than my scooter—I kept in a locked suitcase under my bed. Sarah never saw them.
When she started complaining that I was never free, that we hadn’t fucked in two weeks, that I always had some excuse, I gave her the same lines every time.
“Exams are brutal this semester.”
“I’m on the debate team now, extra sessions.”
“Delivery shifts got longer because one of the guys quit.”
She believed me because she wanted to. Because the alternative—that her straight, hardworking boyfriend was getting paid to fuck rich women in private rooms while she studied—was too ridiculous to entertain.
I still fucked her when the schedule allowed. It felt different now. Smaller. Safer. Like coming home to a warm meal after a long shift. I never came as hard with her as I did with some of the clients, and that fact sat in the back of my mind like a quiet betrayal.
The money changed everything. I paid off the rest of the semester. I upgraded my phone. I stopped answering the delivery app. Mark and I still shared the room, but I started looking at nicer off-campus flats for next year. Quietly. Discreetly.
I told myself it was temporary. Just until graduation. Just until I didn’t need it anymore.
But the truth is, the first time a woman older than my mother paid me to bend her over a marble bathroom counter and fuck her until she couldn’t speak, something shifted. Not in who I wanted—I still only wanted women, still only got hard for the female body—but in what I was willing to do for the right price.
I’m still Adrian Tan. Still straight. Still a university student who goes to lectures and pretends to care about group projects.
I just also sell the use of my body to women who can afford to buy it, and I do it well enough that they ask for me by name.
And every time Sarah texts me asking when I’m free, I type the same lie, hit send, and go back to counting the cash.
This twink has been in a pretty sadistic mood lately…. So he decided to let off some steam on his toy.
With special thanks to @ColeConnor7!
🖤 - @kai4sub
👺 - @ColeConnor7
🤓 - @highmerosn
It’s really all just fun and games 🤓
🖤 - @kai4sub
The Object 🛋️
Part 3/3
Nothing beats coming home exhausted and having a human foot warmer ready to heat your feet. The object does the job perfectly — and you can tease it until you squeeze the juices right out of him.
🛋️: @kai4sub
～～～
没有什么比累得半死回到家，却有一个人形暖脚器随时准备好给你暖脚更爽的了。这个物件干得非常出色——你可以一直挑逗它，直到把精液从他身上挤出来。
The Object 🛋️
Part 3/3
Nothing beats coming home exhausted and having a human foot warmer ready to heat your feet. The object does the job perfectly — and you can tease it until you squeeze the juices right out of him.
🛋️: @kai4sub
～～～
没有什么比累得半死回到家，却有一个人形暖脚器随时准备好给你暖脚更爽的了。这个物件干得非常出色——你可以一直挑逗它，直到把精液从他身上挤出来。
The Object 🛋️
Part 2/3
Now and then, turn your object into a coffee table, strap a fucking machine to it, and listen to him moan while you crank the speed higher.
🛋️: @kai4sub
～～～
时不时把你的物件变成咖啡桌，给它绑上一台抽插机，听着他一边呻吟，一边把速度越调越高。
@RobertV75750769 @kai4sub He spent about 45 minutes as a human coffee table, with occasional teasing, but he still wasn’t allowed to cum — not until he became the third object. 😈
The Object 🛋️
Part 2/3
Now and then, turn your object into a coffee table, strap a fucking machine to it, and listen to him moan while you crank the speed higher.
🛋️: @kai4sub
～～～
时不时把你的物件变成咖啡桌，给它绑上一台抽插机，听着他一边呻吟，一边把速度越调越高。
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