The House of Thorne Podcast

Fraternal begins with a single, reckless decision—and the kind of connection that was never meant to be tested.Asher and Ezra Hale have always moved through the world in sync. As twins, they share more than just a resemblance; they share instincts, rhythms, and an unspoken understanding that lets them slip into each other’s place without anyone noticing. At Surge—a neon-lit nightclub pulsing with heat, music, and possibility—that connection turns into something far more dangerous.When they both notice Elliot Rhodes, standing just outside the chaos of the dance floor, the moment feels simple. Familiar. The kind of silent recognition they’ve had their entire lives.Then Asher turns it into a game.A bet. First one to win Elliot over takes him home.What starts as competition quickly evolves into something more calculated—and more intimate. Using a shared identity—Hyde—the brothers begin to take turns, stepping into the same role, presenting themselves as one person instead of two. It’s a trick they’ve used before. A boundary they’ve crossed without consequence.Until now.Because Elliot isn’t just another night. He’s perceptive. Grounded. Drawn to something real—even if he doesn’t yet realize it’s coming from two different people.The prologue drops us into the aftermath—raw, immediate, and charged—before pulling back into Chapter One, where the night begins at Surge. The music, the crowd, the bet. The first move. The first lie.And underneath it all, something deeper begins to take shape.Not just between Elliot and the brothers—but between Asher and Ezra themselves.Because this isn’t just about who gets Elliot.It’s about what happens when the line between them starts to blur—and neither of them is willing to step back. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit houseofthorne.substack.com/subscribe

V.Thomas -It was an online thing.This Londonboy needed support.I needed someone to ‘have my back’.I sent him a direct message.My heart dead as I waited for a reply.And his heart?Didn’t miss a fucking beat.He replied straight away - turning my ‘something’ into a ‘nothing’.Always happy to lend a voice :)After this I told him I’d take a bullet for him.But deep down - I knew I wanted to take something else.R. Adrian Thorne -It wasn’t about heroics.It was a message sent too late at night and typed too carefully. The kind that pretends to be casual but lands heavy. I saw his name light up my screen and didn’t hesitate. I never do with him. There are people you answer when you have time, and there are people you answer because time doesn’t matter.He said he needed backup. A voice. Support.What he needed was steadiness.So I gave it.Not because I was collecting something. Not because I expected interest on the loan. I answered because I knew he needed my help, because I could hear it between the words he didn’t write. He overthinks when he feels exposed. He gets loud when he feels uncertain. That night, he was both.And when he thanked me, it shifted. Not because of the gratitude—but because of the weight behind it. He said he’d take a bullet for me, and he didn’t flinch when he said it. People don’t reach for language like that unless something in them is already leaning too far forward.That should’ve told me what was coming.Two weeks later - me pretending to be in the city for something else.Me pretending my offer of a drink was just ‘casual’.To discuss ‘the girl’ problems that pushed him nightly to a bar called The Liberty.Airport - Taxi - Hotel - Shower - Taxi.Thinking about him the whole time.Trying not to touch myself.Trying to save my energy.Wondering if my intentions were pure as I got ready to repay all the good deeds this man had done for me.By the time I was halfway through my third rum and coke, I’d convinced myself I’d been right. The jukebox wheezed through something nostalgic. The bartender barely looked up. I checked my phone once, then again, already composing the teasing reply I’d send about his imaginary visit.Then someone stepped into the empty space beside me.Close enough that I caught his cologne before I saw his face.Even then, I refused to let my brain land on the obvious. This was Philadelphia. Men drift in and out of places like this every night—salesmen, drifters, boys pretending to be men. I told myself he was just another body filling a stool.Before all of this, before today, I’d told him about the girl—the one who left clean and quiet and took more with her than I’d admit. I’d told him about the nights that followed. The way I’d been trying to outdrink my own self‑pity. He’d said he had my back. Said it like it was a fact, not a favour.The bartender wandered over, towel slung over his shoulder, not bothering to look up. “What’ll it be?”The voice beside me answered before I could turn.“I’ll have what he’s having.”There was no hesitation in it. No London lilt softened by travel. Just him. Solid. Certain.I looked up slowly, half expecting the illusion to break.It didn’t.“You?” I said, the word thinner than I intended.He held my gaze without blinking. “Me.”“What are you doing here?” I asked. There was an edge in it I didn’t bother to hide.He didn’t look away. Didn’t smile either. “There once was a guy who never knew love until a girl broke his heart,” he said, quiet and steady. Like he was reciting something already decided.I huffed out a breath that almost passed for a laugh. “You came all the way here…for me?”“For you?” he repeated, tilting his head slightly. “I said I’d take a bullet for you. This seemed like it required less anaesthesia.”The bartender set his drink down. We clinked glasses without ceremony, without breaking eye contact.Before getting to the city.Before sitting next to him.I had felt so brave and alive.This great Londonboy.My repayment plan so clear in my head and so stiff in my pants.But as our lips touched glass.Tasting coke.Tasting rum.I felt young and inexperienced.So long since another’s flesh had entered my mouth.So long since I had felt who I really was.My cock and brain confused and excited.I needed something to settle my nerves. With my hoodie still up and my sunglasses still insanely on in that dark bar - I acted. I took a glass emptying gulp.And then placed my hand on his denim thigh.The jukebox stopped playing.The world around us stopped playing as realisations were realised.This simply wasn’t a drink and a shoulder for tears anymore.He stayed close. Close enough that his knee pressed into mine, deliberate now. The silence between us wasn’t awkward; it was charged. Me trying to understand the scale of what he’d done. Him letting me sit in it.Then his hand settled on my thigh.Not tentative. Not playful. Firm. Certain. Like he’d crossed the ocean and had no intention of standing at a distance.“I don’t really know what to say,” I admitted, lifting my empty glass to signal for another. My voice didn’t sound like mine.He leaned in just slightly. Close enough that I felt the warmth of his breath near my ear.“Tell me what you need.”Five words.Not flirtation. Not boasting.An offer.And that was the moment I understood this wasn’t about drinks. It wasn’t about heartbreak. It wasn’t even about the promise he’d made.It was about me choosing whether to let him keep it.Walking three blocks with a hard-on was easy with him. Eye contact and smiles as he pointed out favourite pizza haunts and record shops with shutters down.I slid the shirt free and our chests collided. Skin to skin. Man to man. It felt less like heat and more like memory—something old waking up inside both of us. Then he sank to his knees, deliberate, steady, guiding my legs apart with quiet intention. I leaned back into the sofa cushions, breath unsteady, trying to will myself sober—not from the alcohol, but from the magnitude of it—so I could stay present for what was unfolding between us.My bravado and passion faded just a little as he revealed his cock.Then he leaned in, closing the distance with intent, and the heat of his mouth wrapped around me in a way that stole the air from my lungs. The sound that left me wasn’t planned—a low, rough exhale that told him he’d found the rhythm without needing direction. My hand slid to the back of his neck, not forcing, just holding him there, letting the moment sharpen and stretch until there was no room left for anything but sensation.I was somewhere else at this point. The Garmin on my wrist announcing ‘workout’ mode as my hand, mouth and imagination when crazy. One hand to the base - spare fingers slipping to balls while my other hand held him firm. Directing the action to my jaw.He reached down, shoved his sweats past his hips and wrapped his hand around his own aching cock. He worked himself hard and fast, like he refused to be left behind.I still think about that moment a lot.The moment when he came.The moment we came.The Favour connecting and destroying us.Ruining and rebuilding a friendship at the same time.His mouth stripped of confidence as he came in mine.“Fuck—I’m cumming,” he had gasped.And I didn’t flinch.I held his cock and eyes firm as I took his load deep.Unloading my own cum with my own fist.Feeling triumphant and alive.Two loads delivered by this…London…….boy.The Favour now repaid in full. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit houseofthorne.substack.com/subscribe

This is a free preview of a paid episode. To hear more, visit houseofthorne.substack.comChapter Thirteen is about what remains when the intensity fades.In the quiet aftermath of the shower, Rhys and Maddox stay close—no urgency, no performance, just presence. The chapter slows deliberately, letting touch become care: drying each other off, standing skin to skin, allowing the weight of what just happened to settle without rushing toward the next thing.This is where honesty surfaces. Maddox admits his fear—that he’s built a life around the wrong things, that the only place he still feels fully himself is here, with Rhys. The confession isn’t dramatic; it’s raw, exhausted, and unmistakably real.Rhys doesn’t answer with certainty or plans. He answers with closeness. With stillness. With the recognition of what negative space has meant in his life—the absence that shaped him, the hollow he organized everything around. And for the first time, he feels that space filled.Chapter Thirteen closes not on sex or spectacle, but on belief: the quiet, tentative conviction that this isn’t distraction or escape. It’s the beginning of something allowed to exist in the open.🎧 Content note: Explicit sexual content earlier in the episode; emotional intimacy; mature themes.

This is a free preview of a paid episode. To hear more, visit houseofthorne.substack.comChapter Twelve lingers in the morning after—and refuses to rush past it.Rhys wakes to sunlight, soreness, and Maddox’s weight beside him, the physical proof of what finally happened still written across his body. What follows is domestic, intimate, and unguarded in a way the story hasn’t allowed before: shared hunger, naked laughter in the kitchen, fruit eaten with bare hands, the quiet awe of seeing someone you’ve wanted for decades moving easily through your space.But the chapter doesn’t stay gentle for long. Desire resurfaces with urgency, carrying twenty years of restraint straight into the present. In the shower, memory and reality collide as their bodies pick up where adolescence was interrupted—no hesitation, no distance, only need. What unfolds is raw, relentless, and deeply physical, a reckoning that feels less like indulgence and more like reclamation.This bonus chapter is about catching up—not just sexually, but emotionally. About letting the body say what words never could. About what happens when time collapses and longing finally gets to finish its sentence.🎧 Content note: Explicit sexual content; intense physical intimacy; mature themes.

This is a free preview of a paid episode. To hear more, visit houseofthorne.substack.comChapter Eleven begins at the threshold—and crosses it.Maddox stands in Rhys’s doorway, unguarded and honest in a way that immediately unsettles them both. What he admits wanting—distraction, escape—lands with unexpected weight, echoing patterns Rhys recognizes too well. The past and present overlap, and before either of them can step back, Maddox is inside the brownstone.What follows is physical, urgent, and long deferred. Years of restraint collapse into touch, into need, into bodies finally allowed to take up the space they’ve been circling for decades. This chapter is raw and unfiltered—desire no longer imagined, negotiated, or avoided, but fully acted on.The intensity doesn’t end with release. In the aftermath, something quieter emerges: connection without pretense, presence without apology. Maddox speaks plainly about the years he’s spent feeling half-alive. Rhys, finally still, asks for something he’s never asked for before—not passion, not reassurance, but continuity.Chapter Eleven closes not on uncertainty, but on decision. Maddox stays. The silence between them, once empty and unbearable, becomes something shared—and full.🎧 Content note: Explicit sexual content; emotional intimacy; mature themes.

This is a free preview of a paid episode. To hear more, visit houseofthorne.substack.comChapter Ten brings Rhys home—and then refuses to let him stay comfortable there.The chapter follows Rhys’s return from Charleston to New York: the airport, the flight north, the slow reentry into a life he’s built with care and control. His brownstone greets him like a museum of success—quiet, curated, familiar—and unbearably empty. What he brought back with him isn’t nostalgia or closure, but Maddox: the memory of his body, his presence, and the truth that something fundamental has been disturbed.Alone in his home, Rhys confronts the negative space directly. He rereads his old journal, tracing the origin of the longing he never outgrew. He recognizes the patterns he used to survive—achievement, motion, anonymous sex—and, for the first time, chooses not to reach for them. He deletes Grindr. He sits with the silence. He admits, aloud, that he doesn’t want to do this alone anymore.The chapter closes with interruption. Just as Rhys begins to believe he’s choosing stillness, the doorbell rings. He expects food. What he gets is Maddox—standing on his stoop, present, unguarded, and unmistakably real.Twenty years of distance collapse into a single moment.🎧 Content note: Explicit sexual content; emotional intimacy; mature themes.

This is a free preview of a paid episode. To hear more, visit houseofthorne.substack.comChapter Nine is about interruption.As Rhys prepares to leave Charleston, the weekend already closing in on itself, he packs with intention—ready to return to the life he knows how to manage. The reunion is over. The questions feel unanswered but contained. Departure promises control.Then there’s a knock at the door.Maddox stands on the other side—unexpected, unplanned, and suddenly real. There’s no time to prepare, no space for strategy. Thought falls away, and what replaces it is instinct. Twenty years of restraint, deferral, and unanswered what ifscollapse into the present moment.What follows isn’t imagined or rehearsed. It’s immediate, physical, and irrevocable. The thing Rhys has carried internally for decades finally takes form—not as fantasy, but as reality.Chapter Nine is the pivot point of Negative Space: the moment when absence gives way to presence, and the past—long held at a distance—steps fully into the room.🎧 Content note: Explicit sexual content; emotional intimacy; mature themes.

This is a free preview of a paid episode. To hear more, visit houseofthorne.substack.comChapter Eight opens with distraction—and follows it through.Still in Charleston, Rhys reaches for what has always been reliable: anonymity. A Grindr conversation unfolds slowly, unexpectedly different from his usual transactional encounters. Words come first. Precision. Curiosity. The kind of connection that sneaks up on him before he realizes he’s already invested. Against his better judgment, he goes.The encounter itself is explicit, physical, and unguarded. It delivers exactly what it promises—release, sensation, the temporary quieting of everything he doesn’t want to think about. And yet, even in the middle of it, Rhys becomes aware of what’s missing. The body is present. The history isn’t.Later, he returns to the public face of the weekend—reunion events, conversations with classmates, shared memories smoothed over by time. He participates. He performs. He lets himself be seen in all the ways that are safe. But the private truth lingers underneath: the things he reaches for when he’s trying not to feel, and the things that refuse to stay buried.Chapter Eight is about substitution—what we use to fill the gaps, and how even the most effective distractions leave a shape behind.🎧 Content note: Explicit sexual content; adult themes.

This is a free preview of a paid episode. To hear more, visit houseofthorne.substack.comAlone in his hotel room after the field day, Rhys drifts into a dream where Maddox appears fully realized—naked, present, and wanting. The dream is explicit and immersive, collapsing twenty years of restraint into sensation. In this space, there are no interruptions, no social rules, no consequences—only the version of Maddox Rhys has carried in his body for decades.The encounter unfolds with an intensity that feels inevitable, as if the dream itself is built from everything that was denied in waking life. Time bends. Boundaries dissolve. Desire is allowed to complete its arc.But the chapter does not end in fantasy. Rhys wakes alone, the physical ache of the dream still lingering, and is forced to confront what the dream reveals rather than what it provides. The line between imagination and reality has thinned—and the cost of crossing it is no longer abstract.Dreams Made Flesh is not fulfillment. It is exposure. A reminder that what the mind has been rehearsing for years can no longer stay contained.🎧 Content note: Explicit sexual content; mature themes.

This is a free preview of a paid episode. To hear more, visit houseofthorne.substack.comChapter Six finds Rhys in motion—physically busy, emotionally stalled.He starts the day with an anonymous Grindr hookup, using sex the way he always has: contained, efficient, and safely disconnected. It offers momentary relief, but no answers.From there, he throws himself into the reunion—games, group activities, easy laughter. He participates fully, stays visible, keeps moving. It’s easier to stay occupied than to sit with what’s unresolved.This chapter places private avoidance beside public performance, showing how both can coexist—and how neither actually quiets what’s waiting underneath.🎧 Content note: Explicit sexual content and mature themes.

This is a free preview of a paid episode. To hear more, visit houseofthorne.substack.comChapter Five is a reckoning in motion.It opens in the quiet tension of a hotel hallway, where Rhys finally comes face to face with Maddox—away from the crowd, away from witnesses, with nowhere to hide behind small talk. What follows is a conversation that has been deferred for twenty years: careful at first, then increasingly direct.This chapter is buil…

This is a free preview of a paid episode. To hear more, visit houseofthorne.substack.comChapter Four shifts from reflection to exposure.Rhys arrives at the reunion late, stepping into a ballroom already humming with noise, music, and half-remembered faces. The setting is public now—bright lights, name tags, forced laughter—and the safety of solitude is gone. Every step forward feels weighted, every familiar face carrying the possibility of recognition or misrecognition.This chapter captures the unease of reentry: who people think you are, who you used to be, and who you’ve become in the years between. Conversations skim the surface. Old dynamics flicker and disappear. Rhys moves through the room acutely aware of his body, his history, and the fact that he is no longer observing from a distance—he’s inside the frame.Maddox hasn’t appeared yet. That absence becomes its own presence, sharpening every moment and tightening the air. The question isn’t whether they’ll see each other—it’s what will happen when they do.Negative Space continues its slow escalation here, trading memory for proximity and replacing private reckoning with public uncertainty.🎧 Listener note: This episode contains mature themes and emotional tension.

Some stories sneak up on you. This one came in hot — meant to be a quick one-off, and somehow became my most-read, most-shared, most-utterly-unhinged story to date.It starts with two college boys in trouble.Jordan Hale: responsible, rule-following, not here to make friends.Chase Evans: prankster, golden boy, and 100% chaos in an orange vest.What follows is a weekend of community service gone completely off the rails — full of glitter, spray paint, tension, banter, and the kind of back-of-the-truck hookup that changes everything.It’s funny. It’s campy. It’s filthy in the best ways.And somewhere between picking up trash and making a mess of each other, it becomes a love story you won’t forget.🛑 Content Warning: High heat. Low inhibitions. Emotionally charged chaos. Listener discretion advised. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit houseofthorne.substack.com/subscribe

FREE CHAPTER – This chapter is being released for FREEHis breath hitched as teeth grazed his shoulder—not hard, just enough to make him arch.He didn’t pull away. He pushed back.Fingers dug into his hips, steadying him from the side. Rich stood just off the edge of the bed, body angled in, close enough to control each motion without fully joining it. The sheets were half-kicked, the air warm with sweat and friction, the sound of skin on skin filling the quiet. He wasn’t making noise just to be heard; it was instinct, involuntary, pulled from the base of his spine.The mouth at his neck moved lower.He let his head fall forward.And then—A voice, low and steady: “Hold it.”Brookes froze, lips parted, pulse visible in his throat.He blinked once. Then smiled.He kept his knees on the bed, palms flat against the sheets, head lowered—not in submission, exactly, but in posture. Learned behavior. A practiced stillness. The kind that told the watcher: I’m here. I’m waiting. Do what you want.There was a pause.Then the flat click of a buckle behind him, the soft jingle of metal. A hand reached forward and clipped the collar into place.“Good pup,” Rich said, low and deliberate, close enough for Brookes to feel the shape of the words against his skin.Brookes exhaled slowly—steady, obedient, wired from the inside out.Not acting. Not exactly. Just letting the part of himself that craved direction float to the surface and stay there.The mask covered his eyes and muzzle, soft black silicone that clung tight to his face, ears perked upright in silhouette. He’d worn it before, but something about tonight felt more complete. Rich wore only his briefs, a black handkerchief knotted across the lower half of his face and his baseball cap pulled low. The rest of him was skin and intent—quiet strength in bare shoulders and forearms braced against the mattress. Anonymous, authoritative. The look suited him.Brookes’s body stilled even as his mind hummed. He felt the leash attach—a quick metal click—and the subtle tug that followed, just enough to say: mine.“Down,” Rich said.Brookes lowered slowly, forearms to the bed, spine arched, breathing steady through his nose. The mask softened the world. It tunneled his vision, drew every sense inward. He felt more than he saw.A hand drifted down his back. Not urgent. Not cruel. Just present. Reminding.“Eyes on the pillow,” Rich said. “Good. Stay just like that.”The praise hit warm. He didn’t need more. Didn’t want more.He wanted to be seen like this—still, waiting, shaped by someone else’s rhythm.The tug on the leash came again, slower this time, paired with the sound of something shifting behind him.Brookes didn’t move. Just breathed.Good pups waited.He was good at waiting.“You wanna be a really good pup?”Brookes shook his head vigorously, the motion quick and eager beneath the mask.Rich stepped back just enough to hook his thumbs under the waistband of his briefs and pull them down in one smooth motion. His cock sprang free, thick and already hard. He climbed onto the bed with calm purpose, knees framing Brookes’s line of sight.Without a word, Rich unclasped the muzzle section of Brookes’s mask and gently guided his head forward.Brookes moved without hesitation—climbing between Rich’s legs, hands braced on his thighs, mouth open and waiting. He licked the head first, slow and reverent, tasting the salt already rising. Then he sank down, inch by inch, until his lips met skin and his breath hitched through his nose.“That’s it,” Rich murmured, voice thick. “Nice and deep. Just like that.”Brookes moaned in response, the sound muffled by the stretch of cock filling his throat.Rich let out a low sound, almost a sigh, and settled a hand on the back of Brookes’s head—steadying, not forcing.Brookes closed his eyes behind the mask and settled into a rhythm—deep, deliberate, and wet. He sucked with intent, hollowing his cheeks on every pull, his throat stretching to take Rich in until the tip nudged the back and stayed there. Spit pooled at the corners of his mouth, slicking Rich’s cock with more than enough glide. He moaned around it, low and eager, the sound vibrating through Rich’s length.“You like this, don’t you,” Rich said, his voice barely above a whisper. “My good fucking pup.”Brookes whimpered, nodding as best he could, desperate and obedient.He wanted to be used. He wanted to be praised. Every sloppy swallow asked for more. Every tightening of Rich’s grip on his hair gave it.Rich eased him back with a gentle pull, cock slipping free with a wet sound. He ran his thumb across Brookes’s lips, smearing spit. “Turn around,” he said, voice lower now, almost hoarse. “Let me see you.”Brookes obeyed instantly—shifting, crawling forward, then arching down on all fours. He looked back over his shoulder, breath quick, waiting.Rich’s hand slid down the curve of his back, then lower, thumbs spreading him open to reveal exactly what he wanted. He exhaled like it hurt to look.“Fuck,” he muttered. “Look at that hole. Always so eager. Always so fucking open for me.”He pressed his thumbs wider, watching how Brookes shifted into it—breath hitching, thighs trembling slightly under the strain. Rich let his gaze linger, admiring the slick swell, the faint clench like Brookes knew he was being watched and wanted to put on a show.“Stay just like that,” Rich said, voice dropping darker. “Gonna take my time with you.”Rich leaned back, bracing one hand behind him as he slicked himself with the other—slow strokes, deliberate, the wet sound unmistakable in the quiet. He smeared lube from base to tip, fingers working it in until his cock gleamed in the low light. Then he shifted forward, settling on his knees behind Brookes, guiding the thick head between his cheeks with practiced ease, letting it slide up and down the cleft in a slow, teasing drag. He paused to nudge the head against Brookes’s hole, circling it, letting just the tip press in—then pulled back. He did it again, a little deeper this time, then withdrew, making Brookes whine softly in anticipation. Once more, slower, until the edge of stretch made his thighs tremble. Only then did Rich press in for real, hips rolling forward with thick, deliberate pressure.Brookes arched instinctively, presenting, legs spread just a little wider as he felt Rich’s cock nudge between his cheeks. A pause—measured, electric—then the first push.He eased in with a steady roll of his hips, thick and slow, claiming every inch. Brookes let out a sound, half-breath, half-moan, and pushed back to meet him.“That’s it,” Rich growled, hands gripping Brookes’s waist now, pulling him in tight. “Take it. Just like that.”Then he started to thrust—deep, controlled, the kind of rhythm that left no doubt who he belonged to. It wasn’t rushed. Rich set a pace and held it, hips snapping forward in steady drives that made Brookes gasp into the mattress. Time blurred around the edges—just breath, friction, and the slick sound of skin meeting skin.At some point, Rich leaned over him, the brim of his cap brushing Brookes’s nape, one hand planted beside his head, the other wrapped tight around the leash. The angle shifted; the thrusts went deeper. The slap of their bodies echoed off the walls.“Such a good fucking pup,” Rich muttered between gritted teeth. “Taking all of me. Staying right where you’re told.”He raised a hand and brought it down hard on Brookes’s ass—once, twice, then a third time, open-palmed and sharp. The sound cracked through the room, the sting blooming warm across Brookes’s skin.Brookes whimpered, pushing back into the next thrust like it had only made him hungrier.Brookes moaned like praise fed him, body shaking with every push. Minutes passed. Maybe longer. Rich never let up—just adjusted, dragged it out, kept Brookes suspended at that edge where it hurt and thrilled all at once.His thrusts turned sharper, more erratic. The tight grip on the leash turned to a fist in Brookes’s hair, pulling him up just enough to arch his back harder. Brookes could feel him swelling, the way his hips started to stutter, the low sounds escaping his throat more ragged now.“Fuck—keep still,” Rich growled. “Don’t move. Don’t even fucking breathe.”Brookes froze, spine taut, hole pulsing around the thick length inside him.Then Rich pulled out in one sharp motion, hand already stroking hard and fast. A beat—two—and then he came, thick and hot ropes of cum across Brookes’s lower back, striping his skin with every pulse.Rich groaned low, head bowed, hand still wrapped around the base as the last drops spilled. He gave himself a slow final stroke, then gave his cock a lazy shake, flicking off the last drops, flicking the excess across the sheets with a breathless exhale. His chest rose and fell, cap tipped forward, the mask around his jaw still damp with heat. He stayed there for a moment, catching his breath—silent, still, watching the slick lines cooling on Brookes’s back like a signature he wasn’t ready to wipe away.Brookes stayed exactly where he was—knees spread, breath shallow, back arched like he was still offering himself up.Good pups didn’t move until they were told to.“Good boy.”Somewhere in the room, a soft mechanical whir kicked back to life—the camera, still rolling. A red light blinked in the far corner, steady and small, but impossible to miss.Rich didn’t look at it.Brookes did.Just a flick of his eyes beneath the mask. Just long enough to remember: they’d wanted this one unscripted.And now it was—all of it. Every sound, every mark, every drop still glistening on his skin.They wouldn’t need to retake a thing.By the time Brookes stepped out of the shower—damp, flushed, towel slung low on his hips—Rich was already at the desk, the camera plugged in, footage uploading. The room still smelled like sweat and lube, but now it was threaded with steam and soap.Brookes rubbed the towel through his hair and padded over, still naked, his stride easy, loose, shameless. He leaned in, water clinging to his skin, cock bobbing with each step, and glanced at the screen with curious, unhurried eyes.“You watching it back already?”Rich nodded, jaw tight with focus. “Just skimming. Wanted to make sure the audio didn’t clip.”Brookes smirked. “You mean you wanted to see the cumshot in 4K.”Rich didn’t look up. “I mean I wanted to make sure your mask didn’t slip.”Brookes laughed under his breath, reaching past him to grab a shirt off the back of a chair. “Fair. Lighting looked good though.”“Yeah,” Rich said. He clicked through a few frames. “It’s clean. Might tweak contrast on the wide shots, but it’s solid.”He paused, eyes narrowing as he adjusted a level. “Also—next time, we gotta keep it down. If someone in the dorm hears us, we’re screwed.”Brookes cocked a brow. “You think they heard?”Rich finally glanced up. “Don’t need another soccer field incident.”Brookes snorted. “That was not my fault.”Rich gave him a look. “Embarrassing as hell. We’re still not even sure if they bought the whole ‘dare’ story.”“I mean, some of them did,” Brookes said, tugging the shirt over his head. “Probably.”Rich leaned back in the chair. “Still weird how our page spiked right after that.”Brookes tilted his head. “You think it was connected?”They both paused, then in sync: “Nahhh.”Brookes stepped closer to the desk, eyes scanning the screen over Rich’s shoulder. “How’s the last one doing?”Rich tabbed to their analytics. “Views are peaking. Starting to level out.”“Plateau?”Rich shrugged. “Normal curve. First 48 hours are always the bump.”Brookes scratched his jaw. “We might need a new hook soon.”Rich didn’t turn around. “No more mirror angles. We’ve done that to death.”“POV again?” Brookes offered.“Too basic.”“In the woods?”Rich snorted. “And get poison oak on my balls—I think not.”Brookes leaned against the desk. “What if we brought in toys?”Rich gave a side-eye glance. “You hate cleanup.”“True,” Brookes muttered. “Okay, what about… a challenge thing?”Rich shook his head. “Everyone’s doing that. We’d be late to the trend.”Brookes let out a long sigh. “We’re not doing feet.”“God, no.”They sat in silence for a moment, the screen humming in front of them. Then Rich said, “We’ll think of something.”Brookes nodded slowly, then perked up. “Hey, what about a collab?”Rich glanced at him. “Could work. What kind are we talking?”“Depends,” Brookes said, casual. “Could be a third. Or—”“A fourth,” Rich finished, brow raised.Brookes grinned. “Double duo. Split the screen, share the heat.”Rich leaned back in the chair. “That’s… ambitious.”“Everyone’s doing it,” Brookes said. “We’d just be doing it better.”“Okay, but with who?” Rich asked, brow furrowed.Brookes smirked, playing it coy.“Let’s just say I sent a message. These guys? Same audience as us, top one percent. Clean setup, good energy—and they actually know how to cut a reel.”Rich snorted. “Dude, anyone who posts more than once a week can hit the top one percent. Doesn’t make them porn-star status.”“Okay, but still—they seem normal.”“We fuck around in dog masks,” Rich said flatly.Brookes grinned. “It’s our shtick.”Rich rolled his eyes. “I don’t think you know what that means.”“Whatever.”Rich leaned back, arching a skeptical brow. “And they’re down?”“Haven’t heard back yet,” Brookes admitted. “But if they bite, it’s a solid match. Think mirror image. Balance. Chemistry.”Rich nodded slowly. “You sure they’re not too polished?”“We’re not trying to out-slick them,” Brookes said. “We’re just trying to light the screen on fire.”Rich leaned back again, thoughtful. “What if the chemistry’s off?”Brookes shrugged. “Then we bounce. No hard feelings, no footage. Just keep it tight.”Just then, a ping sounded from the laptop.“Awe. Dude—they responded,” Brookes said, eyes widening.They both leaned in toward the screen, scanning the reply. Then, slowly, they looked at each other.TO BE CONTINUED…The story continues with Josiah B Vale. Make sure you’re subscribed so you don’t miss a beat.⚠️ Caution: Subscribing to The House of Thorne may cause flushed cheeks, late-night cravings, and rereading certain scenes with one hand occupied. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit houseofthorne.substack.com/subscribe

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