Kota followed Beckett through the winding hallways of the Hawthorne mansion, Corey trailing behind them with that familiar, eager bounce in his step.
They passed the east garage, where Theo’s collection of cars was housed, but Beckett didn’t slow down.
He kept walking.
Kota had long since stopped questioning Beckett’s nudity.
It was just part of the package, like the monotone voice and the crystal obsession and the complete lack of social awareness.
They reached the west garage, a section of the mansion Kota had never been to before.
The doors slid open automatically, and Kota’s eyes went wide.
The space was massive, easily twice the size of the east garage.
Rows upon rows of cars stretched into the distance, gleaming under soft overhead lights.
Porsches.
Lamborghinis.
Ferraris.
A vintage Aston Martin that looked like it belonged in a museum.
An entire section of custom motorcycles.
A small helicopter parked in the far corner.
Kota stopped counting at twenty.
“How many of these are yours?” Kota asked, his voice flat with disbelief.
Beckett didn’t even pause.
“Four.
The black Porsche SUV we’re taking is mine.
The red Lamborghini in the corner is mine.
The silver Ferrari is mine.
The vintage Aston is mine.
The rest belong to my brothers.
Five are Elliot’s.
Seven are Grayson’s.
The helicopter is shared, though no one uses it.
It’s mostly for aesthetic purposes.”
Corey, who had been silent since they entered the garage, suddenly let out a sound that was somewhere between a gasp and a moan.
His eyes were wide, his mouth hanging open, his hands twitching at his sides.
He walked over to the nearest car, a sleek black sports car with a curved body that looked like it was designed to break speed records, and ran his fingers along the hood with the reverence of a man touching a sacred relic.
“Fuck,” Corey breathed.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck.
I knew they were loaded, but these are fucking nice ass cars.
This is insane.
This is obscene.
This is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen in my entire life.” He turned to Kota, his expression wild with sudden desperate ambition.
“Kota.
I should’ve been trying to marry the Hawthornes.
Forget you.
Forget the band.
I should’ve been working on the twins this whole time.
Or Beckett.
Or Theo.
Anyone with the last name Hawthorne who would have me.”
Before Kota could respond, Corey launched himself at Beckett, wrapping his arms around the naked femboy’s waist and pressing his face against his chest.
“Beckett, baby, please.
Turn me into a housewife.
I’ll be so good.
I’ll clean.
I’ll cook.
I’ll warm your bed every night.
Just give me access to these cars.
Please.
I’m begging you.”
Beckett didn’t react.
His expression remained completely blank, his arms hanging limply at his sides.
“Negative.
My past three boyfriends are all currently involuntary celibates due to being unable to experience pleasure that rivals my own.
My sexual energy is too potent.
It ruins people.
I have chosen a life of abstinence from interpersonal sexual contact for the good of others.
You cannot be my housewife.
It would be irresponsible.”
Corey pouted, still clinging to Beckett’s waist.
“But I don’t care about the sex.
Well, I care a little.
But mostly the cars.
Just give me the cars and I’ll be happy.”
“The cars are mine.
Not yours.
Release me.”
Kota sighed and pulled Corey off Beckett with a firm hand on his collar.
“Alright, enough.
Which car are we taking?
I want to get this over with.”
Beckett pointed toward a massive black SUV parked in the center of the garage.
It was sleek and aggressive, with tinted windows and a low, predatory stance.
The Porsche logo gleamed on the grille.
It looked like it could outrun a police car and outclass every other vehicle on the road.
Corey’s eyes went wide.
He stared at the SUV, his mouth opening and closing, and then he let out a sound that was unmistakably a moan.
“Oh my god.
Kota raised an eyebrow.
“Why the fuck?”
Corey spun to face him, his expression one of pure, unadulterated excitement.
“Kota.
That’s a 2044 Porsche Carou GTR.
Two thousand horsepower.
Zero to sixty in one point eight seconds.
Top speed of two hundred and eighty miles per hour.
Carbon fiber body.
Active suspension.
It’s not a car, it’s a rocket ship with wheels.
This is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.
I would give my left nut to drive this car.
I would give both nuts.
I would give my entire ass, which is saying something because my ass is a national treasure.”
Kota rolled his eyes.
“It’s a car, Corey.
It’s not going to change your life.”
“It already has,” Corey whispered.
He turned to Beckett, his hands clasped together like he was praying.
“Beckett.
Please.
Let me test drive it.
Just for a day.
An hour.
Five minutes.
I’ll do anything.
You can use me as a meat urinal for a week.
Two weeks.
A month.
I’ll be your personal toilet.
I’ll live in the back of this car and let you drive over me.”
Beckett stared at him with the same blank expression.
“The Porsche is my favorite vehicle.
I do not allow others to drive it.
The risk of damage is unacceptable.”
Corey dropped to his knees, clutching at Beckett’s thighs.
“Please, baby.
You know I’m good for it.
I’m a great driver.
I’ve never crashed a car in my life.
Well, I’ve never crashed a car badly.
Well, I’ve never crashed a car with someone else in it.
Well, I’ve never killed somone by crashing a car with someone in it.
That’s basically the same thing.
Please.
I’ll do anything.”
Kota grabbed Corey by the collar again and dragged him toward the SUV.
“Enough.
We’re not test driving anything.
Get in the back seat.”
Corey didn’t resist.
In fact, he seemed to interpret the manhandling as flirting, because he let out a low, pleased hum as Kota shoved him into the back seat.
“I like a rough Kota.
You should be rough more often.
It suits you.
It really does.”
Kota ignored him and climbed into the passenger seat.
Beckett slid behind the wheel with the same calm, robotic precision he did everything else.
He pressed a button on the dashboard, and the windows instantly tinted, the interior dimming into a cool, private darkness.
Kota turned to Beckett, his patience fraying.
“Alright.
Spill it.
What was so important that you had to drag me out here?
And Corey?
Why the fuck is Corey here?”
Beckett pulled the SUV out of the garage and onto the long driveway.
His voice, as always, was flat and emotionless, like he was reading from a textbook.
“First, I am announcing that the Arch-Anal Coalition of Seminal Indulgence will resume regular sessions starting next Monday.
I have been recovering from the flu, which has delayed our rituals for several weeks, but I am now well enough to facilitate.
Monday sessions will commence at eight PM sharp in Unit 11D.
Attendance is mandatory.”
Kota groaned.
“Fine.
Monday sessions.
Got it.
What else?”
“Second, we have updated our ritual requirements.
The volume of seminal fluid required per session has been increased.
It must equal two hundred and fifty milliliters.
This can be produced by you alone, or by a combination of all participants.
The choice is yours.”
“Two hundred and fifty milliliters?
That’s—that’s like a cup of cum.
That’s impossible.
No one can produce that much in one session.”
Corey, from the back seat, let out a low, delighted laugh.
“I love a challenge.
Two hundred and fifty?
That’s nothing.
We’ve got this.
I’m already brainstorming positions.”
Kota turned to glare at him.
“You’re not helping.”
“Who said I was trying to help?
I’m trying to get fucked.”
Beckett continued as if they hadn’t spoken.
“Third, the ritual will now require additional components.
Each participant must submit to a minimum of three consecutive orgasms without pause.
Each orgasm must be achieved through a different method.
Anal stimulation, oral stimulation, and manual stimulation are the minimum requirements.
Additional methods are encouraged.
You must also maintain eye contact with each participant at the moment of climax.
Failure to comply will result in incomplete attunement and the need to repeat the ritual.”
Kota stared at him.
“Eye contact?
During the entire thing?
That’s—that’s insane.”
“It is necessary for proper vibrational exchange.”
Corey leaned forward between the seats, his eyes bright.
“I can do eye contact.
I’m great at eye contact.
I’ll stare into your soul while you’re inside me.
It’ll be beautiful.
Romantic, even.”
Kota shook his head.
“This is ridiculous.
What else?”
“Fourth, the ritual will be performed in complete darkness.
Sensory deprivation enhances the connection to the astral plane.
You will be blindfolded.
Your other senses will sharpen to compensate.”
“Blindfolded?
In the dark?
How are we supposed to do anything?”
“By trust.
By intuition.
By the guidance of the crystals.
The monolith will provide ambient energy.
You will adapt.”
Kota was about to argue further when Beckett’s words from earlier suddenly registered.
He took a deep breath and made his decision.
“Fine.
I’ll agree to all of this.
The sessions.
The volume.
The blindfolds.
Everything.
But on one condition.”
Beckett’s eyes flicked to him in the rearview mirror.
“What condition?”
“You have to join.
Not just facilitate.
Participate.
You have to be part of the ritual.
Fully.
Or I walk.”
Beckett was silent for a long moment.
The SUV hummed along the road, the tinted windows hiding them from the world.
When he finally spoke, his voice was carefully measured.
“You do not understand what you are asking.
My past three boyfriends are currently involuntary celibates.
They are unable to experience pleasure that rivals my own.
My sexual energy is overwhelming.
It ruins people.
If you engage in sexual relations with me, you may never be able to derive pleasure from anyone else.
Not Theo.
Not Sebastian.
Not Corey.
Not anyone.
Only me.
That is my curse.
That is why I abstain.”
Kota’s eyes narrowed.
He leaned forward, his jaw set, his gaze locked on Beckett’s blank face.
“Bring it on.” (aura?)