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The infuriating thing about Dee and Dennis (well, one of them anyway) is their knack for pretending like the big things in their lives never happened – like they’re living out a sitcom where the consequences and lessons learned in one week magically disappear in the next – and it’s driving Charlie crazy. You fuck somebody in their home, you goddamn talk about that shit after. You share a wink; you make an off-hand joke; something. What you don’t goddamn do is pretend like it never happened.
It's been two weeks. Two weeks since the twins came over and fucked him back to good health. Two weeks since they made out in his apartment, right in front of him. Two weeks since he had his dick sucked like it was made of vodka and crack - or whichever vice Dennis and Dee are into these days. He’s tried to deny it and tried to move past it, but the truth Charlie can't escape is that he fucking liked it. And now it’s all he can fucking think about. Ever since that night, he’s spent more mornings than he can count waking up with a boner and then trying to beat off before Frank wakes up, because it’s probably really fucking wrong to rub one out while thinking about your roommate’s kids blowing you while the guy’s sleeping next to you, and–
Shit, it sounds even wronger when he thinks of it like that.
Charlie isn’t sure why that night has gotten under his skin, but ultimately comes to the conclusion that it’s like that time he and Dee tried that delicious (totally not human) racoon meat of Frank’s. It gave them a hunger that couldn’t be quenched. And sure, the hunger was really just a ravenous tapeworm dicking around in their intestines, but in the end, hunger is hunger, man. You’ve got to feed that shit or die.
So Charlie does the only logical thing he can do: He gets to work.
11 p.m. on a Friday
He’s high as shit on all the usuals: a little glue, a lot of beer, and some sweet, sweet weed scored from Duncan (Charlie never met a downer he didn’t go apeshit over), and utterly enthralled with the antics of a lone pickle slowly drying out on the coffee table, when Dennis and Dee come blowing in. Don’t even knock – typical. He knows he’s supposed to say something and like, acknowledge their presence, but that pickle is so goddamned hilarious. Where’d it come from? What’s to become of it? Wh-
“Yo, earth to Charlie. Hello?”
Finally tearing himself away from Steve (Yes, Steve. It had a face; of course he was gonna name it), he blinks a few times and casts a sideways glance at the twins, who look thoroughly annoyed that they had to wait a whole fifteen seconds before being noticed.
“Oh, hey, what’s up with you guys?” he asks.
“We don’t have dick going on.” Dennis stretches out next to Charlie and helps himself to a beer. “Mac’s off on some gay-ass fitness shit–”
“– and Mr. Codependent here can’t be by himself for more than five minutes,” Dee finishes with a smirk.
“Yeah, well I’m not gonna spend my Friday night with this one,” Dennis says, strained laughter failing to cover up the glare he gives her, “so we thought we’d see if you and Frank had something cooking.”
Charlie already knew all of this, of course. He’d orchestrated it perfectly, right down to procuring a shitload of literature about a Muscle Hustle Men’s Workout Weekend – verifiable catnip for Mac – and finding a way to get the other half of the Gruesome Twosome out of the apartment for a while.
“Ah, well Frank’s gone for the weekend, dude,” Charlie says. “One of his game hunts or some shit. But he left me here with Steve, so I guess we can all hang out if you want.”
They follow Charlie’s dopey gaze to the filthy coffee table, where Steve’s “mouth” has dried into a grotesque pucker. It vaguely resembles The Scream.
Dennis laughs. It’s genuine, because the veins in his neck aren’t dangerously close to popping anymore. “Jesus, how much have you had, man?”
“Enough,” Charlie grins.
“Is that so?” Dee drops her gym bag and joins them on the sofa, nestling in close and draping her arm across Charlie’s shoulders.
They’re so goddamn easy to manipulate. It’s beautiful.
“Yeah,” Charlie says with an exaggerated yawn, “should probably turn in soon before I pass out.”
Dennis sucks in his lower lip and smirks. “Like you can’t handle your substances. Here,” he says, cracking open a beer Dee passes him, “just one more. Sweet Dee and I wanna hang out.”
Just one more – please. Charlie could put away another sixer without so much as stopping to belch, but if they wanted to believe he’s entirely cunted, all the better. “Sure, man. But just the one.”
There’s no such thing as “just one more” where the Gang is concerned, however, and one quickly turns into “Oh shit, when did you guys get here?” – which turns into slurred jokes, overloud laughter and, sometime later, stifling silence.
“Hey, Charlie,” Dee says after throwing back the rest of a beer and letting loose a bone-shaking belch, “let’s play a little game.” Her fingers graze the back of his neck as she plays with his hair, and she’s fixed him with that wild look the rats get from time to time.
“What kind of game?” he asks.
Dennis nips at his earlobe, and Charlie is smacked with the overpowering scent of booze and fancy cologne; it’s not entirely unpleasant, but in all honesty, Dennis could do with a lesson from Mac on cologne layering. “We like to call it ‘How loud can Charlie scream?’”
They watch him with wide, shiny eyes, their hands creeping over his body to touch and entice and possess, like twin spiders about to wrap up their prey.
After a moment’s hesitation – can’t look too eager, after all – Charlie unzips pants. “That’s a shit title for a game, but alright. Have at it,” he says, motioning to his dick with all the flair of a QVC salesman showing off a piece of cheap costume jewelry.
But neither of the twins makes a move; in fact, the groping stops cold and Dennis merely chuckles. “Ah, no buddy, you don’t understand. That’s not how the game works.”
Charlie wonders if he’s seriously misread the situation. Fuck, maybe he really did hallucinate all that shit before. “I thought this was like last time. You guys do your thing and-”
“Shhhhh,” Dee hisses softly in his ear.
“See, Charlie, that’s not really fun for us,” Dennis explains. “We’ve done that already. What Dee and I need is the struggle. The fear. We need a little danger to get off. Well – not really danger for us, but you get the idea.”
“That’s fucked up, dude,” Charlie says, his words sliding together like smudged ink. The whole apartment seems to be on a tilt, and suddenly he’s falling without even moving and the lights are going dim. Hold on, this shouldn’t be happening. He’s not that high; he knows his limits. Right? Did they slip him something?
Oh, shit.
****
It’s like one of those dreams – the ones that leave you squirming against your pillows and waking up utterly in need of a fucking cold shower or Jesus or whatever the fuck your particular relief takes. When Charlie fades in, light poking through his subconscious like pinholes through cardboard, he’s immediately aware of just how fucking hard he is, and just how much he needs to get off. Like, right the fuck now.
But it’s quickly apparent that he’ll be getting no satisfaction anytime soon. He’s laid back on the futon, stark naked, his hands bound overhead with what he’s fairly certain are zip ties. Jesus Christ, Dennis came prepared for this. It’s a little surprising just how easily the twins took the bait, but fuck – this was not how Charlie had planned it.
There’s no time to dwell on any of that, though. Not when there’s a couple of jackals making a meal of his dick. Rather than devour him together like the last time, they seem to have settled on taking turns. When Dennis pulls off, Dee tags in, and her brother sets to stroking himself as he watches the spectacle with a leer that makes Charlie feel far too exposed. Dennis’ dick is way bigger than he imagined – not that he’s actually spent time wondering about it; he’s not Mac, for fucksake – and Charlie is all too glad that Dennis is on the other side of the room and nowhere near his asshole.
Dee’s hair grazes Charlie’s thighs with every bob of her head and it’s fucking all he can do not to beg them to let him come. He’s thankful as shit that at least he can see this time, and Christ, what sight it is. Dee’s reddened lips wrapped around his dick, her cheeks hollowed and chin glistening with spit. The obscene sounds she’s making offer more than enough evidence that she’s enjoying every second of sucking him off, and that glorious fact makes Charlie all the more eager to come. He’d give anything to have use of his hands and hold her in place – to properly fuck her mouth and watch her eagerly take it – but he’s bound to something behind him that he can’t see, and can only whine and wriggle in frustration.
“Fuck, Dee,” he pleads, “let me come. Please, Dee. Ah, shit, that’s good. Fuck.”
He lifts his hips to try and angle himself further into her mouth, in hopes that she’ll take him down to the balls and let him come at fucking last. Just a little more warmth, a little more tongue would get him there, but she digs her fingernails into his hips instead and continues at her own torturous pace. Goddamn bitch.
After what feels like an eternity of the twins bringing him to the brink and then leaving him hard and aching for minutes on end, he learns that begging is no use and instead tries to keep his cool in an attempt to fool them. He’s close – far closer than he lets on. Fuck, that’s it. Oh, fuck. That familiar pleasure builds, coils like a spring. Building, building–
Before he can finish, Dee pulls off Charlie’s dick with a wet pop and gives him a quick smack on the cheek to keep him from nutting before they’re ready. “Not yet, cocksucker,” she chides. “You know what might be really fun?” she says, meeting Dennis’ eyes with a flash of malice. “Let’s spitroast this bitch.”
Charlie giggles in spite of the agony he’s in, her words rolling around his head like those little lotto balls that that lady with the nice tits is always showing off after the channel 3 news. “Frank’s got some meat in the fridge,” he hears himself say. It sounds oddly muffled, like he’s underwater. “Don’t over-roast mine, though. And put some jelly beans on the side.” His vision goes murky again; it’s like trying to see through a coffee pot.
As usual, his rambling goes unacknowledged. Dennis huffs and rolls his eyes. “Are you kidding me? He’s a goddamn biter, Dee. I’m not sticking my dick anywhere near his mouth.”
“Well goddammit,” Dee pouts. “I brought the strap-on for nothing?”
“I told you, Dee, this isn’t about getting off right now. We fuck with Charlie a little bit and the experience of that – that’s what’s gonna get us off. Not ripping his asshole like goddamn tissue paper. That’s not sexy. No one’s getting off on that.”
Dee thinks for a moment. “Well, what if you take the, uh, back half? Be real gentle and shit. I’ll jam the thing in his mouth; I don’t care. I’m feeling like I just want to fuck something,” she says, thrusting her hips for crude emphasis.
There’s a pause, as Dennis considers the proposition. “That could work.”
****
When Charlie opens his eyes again – wait, when the fuck had he closed them? – he’s on his hands and knees and Dee is yanking his head back by the hair so that he’s looking right up at her. She’s wearing nothing but her underwear and a harness, with a big purple cock bouncing between her legs. Fuck, that's a good look on her.
“Open wide, cocksucker,” she grins, shoving the intimidating appendage in his mouth without the slightest bit of gentility.
The taste of the rubber is kind of nice, and Charlie’s got practically no gag reflex (something Mac has marveled over ever since they were kids), so all things considered, he’s not terribly fussed by the whole ordeal. But when a pair of hands that aren’t Dee’s grip him by the hips, Charlie remembers that Dennis is here too, and he suddenly feels an awful lot like one of those helpless horror movie bimbos who don’t realize the murderer is right fucking behind her until it’s too damn late. Given the choice, Charlie would almost rather take his chances with the axe murderer. But surprisingly enough, Dennis doesn’t plow ahead with the same reckless brutality as his sister. Instead, he spreads Charlie’s cheeks and begins to diligently work his ass with spit-slicked fingers. Goddammit, they packed zip ties and no lubricant? Fucking dickbags.
He’ll give him this, though: Dennis is a fucking pro. His slender fingers delve inside with relative ease, and really, Charlie thinks, having a couple fingers jammed in his ass isn’t near as uncomfortable as it ought to be. When they’re swiftly removed, Charlie can’t help but whine at the sudden absence, but he barely has time to consciously remember how to breathe before Dennis pushes inside. If Sweet Dee’s big fake boner hadn’t been jammed halfway down his throat, Charlie would have screamed loud enough to wake the third-floor neighbors.
“God, you’re tight,” Dennis grunts. Is that a compliment? He’s guessing it is, mostly because dudes are always saying shit like that in porn.
But Charlie can’t focus on anything but the memory of Dennis stroking his huge cock, and he bristles at the idea that that thing is now skewering his ass like a cheap kebab. Being filled from both ends, hardly able to breathe or move, is like being caught in a wall of sewer water. It’s disorienting and exhilarating all at once – and as terrifying as it is in the moment, Charlie knows he’ll be eager as shit to do it all again.
When Dennis starts to move, it’s fucking agonizing – like the time Charlie fell off the roof when he was 8 and had to pull a bloody shard of glass out of his knee, but like way worse. But as time passes and Charlie starts to get used to the intrusion, it takes on an entirely different feel. It’s almost pleasant – and it’s definitely not killed the boner he’s been suffering with for the entire night.
There’s a hypnotic rhythm to the whole fucked up operation, and after a while Charlie loses all sense of time and discomfort and even pleasure, until Dennis breaks the trance with a series of sloppy, frantic thrusts culminating in a guttural moan that’s punctuated only by Dee’s angry squawking.
“Woah, hey, wait a sec, asshole.” Dee’s thrusting comes to a hard stop, like someone’s slammed the brakes at an intersection. “Did you come? Did you just fucking come?”
“Of course I came,” Dennis scoffs. “Why the fuck wouldn’t I?”
“What happened to getting off later? What the shit, Dennis?” She thrusts once into Charlie’s mouth, the rubber flirting dangerously with the back of his throat. “When exactly am I supposed to get mine, huh?”
“Relax, sis,” Dennis says, his voice smooth as glass as he pulls out with a grunt and gives Charlie a quick smack on the ass. “You can put Charlie to work after we get him off, OK? Jesus, Dee, you can’t just use a guy and leave him hanging like that.”
“Alright, alright – fine,” she concedes, pulling the toy out of Charlie’s mouth and unclipping it from the harness. Holy shit does his jaw ache. “But I swear to God, I better get mine or you’re the one who’s gonna be taking a dick in the ass.”
The voices fade out like they’re at the opposite end of a long and winding tunnel, and Charlie is so goddamn exhausted he doesn’t even try to figure out what they’re talking about anymore. His wrists burn with the memory of the zip ties, his knees fucking ache from being on all fours for so long, and his ass feels like he’s been perched atop a piece of overlarge fruit. But when he’s flipped onto his back and the warmth of Dennis’ hand envelops his dick, it’s all forgotten. Is this it? Are they finally letting him come? He considers offering the golden god a silent prayer.
“Doesn’t that feel good, buddy?” Dennis says. He’s putting on that voice he uses when he’s trying to get Mac to do something he doesn’t wanna do, and now Charlie can see why it’s so goddamn effective. “You like that, baby boy?”
He does. Very fucking much. He isn’t sure if he said as much or not, because he’s on the verge of blacking out again. The only thing he’s certain of is that Dennis is pumping his dick like a madman, and it’s the only fucking thing that exists. It’s as if they’re the lone actors on a stage, bathed in a blinding light while everything else around them is cast in pitch darkness. This is it, the final act. Please don’t stop, please don’t fucking stop, you goddamn cocksucking-
“Fuuuuuck,” he shouts. It’s loud enough the neighbors will have heard, but Charlie doesn’t give a shit. They’ve heard far worse out of Frank and whatever whore of the week he’s brought home. Charlie spurts in Dennis’ hand as Dee watches, and when the last of the spunk is wrung from his cock and onto his bare stomach, he shuts his eyes and murmurs an unintelligible “thank you.” He could sleep for a fucking month.
“Hey, no! No sleeping, dickhole! It’s my turn,” Dee whines from somewhere far away, but it’s entirely too late. There’s really nothing that could make Charlie stay awake now, even the prospect of banging Sweet Dee. “Oh, goddammit," she groans.
The last thing Charlie hears before losing all consciousness is Dennis saying, “It’s fine, sis. I’ll get you off.”