Semen Feast at the Gay Apartment Complex

The evening light slanted gold through the wide windows of unit 4B in the exclusively gay apartment complex on Riverside, catching the hard planes of four bare chests and the slow flex of thick thighs. Colette, twenty-nine and the building’s confident manager, stood with his arms crossed, dark hair still damp from the shower, watching the others settle in. His cock already hung heavy against the soft cotton of his sweatpants, half-hard from the knowledge of what the night demanded. Every Friday they did this. Every Friday the four of them turned their bodies into the pantry.

Kiara arrived first after him, thirty-one, gym trainer’s physique carved into permanent ridges of muscle. He dropped his duffel by the door and peeled off his tank without ceremony, nipples tight from the air-conditioning. “I edged through my last two clients,” he said, voice low and rough. “Didn’t come once. Balls feel like stones.” He cupped himself through his shorts, showing the thick outline, and grinned at Colette. “You look ready to burst already, boss.”

Franklin, twenty-four and the complex’s unofficial chef, was already in the open kitchen, barefoot, wearing only a pair of black briefs that barely contained the heavy swing of his cock. He had the counter lined with bowls, a small blender, a whisk, and a single candle flickering. At twenty-four he still looked almost too pretty for the filthy work he loved, but his hands moved with professional certainty. “Menu’s set,” he announced. “Appetizer first—warm cum soup with chives. Then the pasta, sauce reduced from the four of us. Main course is the stuffed peppers, every cavity packed. Dessert is the custard. I need volume tonight. High quality. No thin shit.”

Xavier, twenty-seven, graphic designer, locked the door behind him and toed off his sneakers. Lean muscle layered over a designer’s precise frame, ink curling down one side of his ribs. He stripped to nothing immediately, cock already flushed and rising. “I’ve been leaking since lunch,” he said. “Kept thinking about Franklin’s mouth on me last week, how he milked me straight into the mixing bowl. I’m ready whenever you want the first deposit.”

Colette’s hand settled on the back of Franklin’s neck, possessive and warm. “We edge for hours. That’s the rule. No one dumps early. We build it thick.” He looked at each of them in turn—Kiara’s thick trainer’s thighs, Franklin’s chef’s forearms already dusted with flour, Xavier’s designer fingers already idly stroking. “Everyone still in? Sober, clear, wanting it?”

“Fuck yes,” Kiara said, already pushing his shorts down. His cock sprang free, thick and dark, a bead of clear fluid at the tip. “I choose this every week. Love watching you boys paint the food.”

Franklin turned, eyes bright. “Consent’s loud and clear from me. I want every drop. Want to taste us all mixed.”

Xavier stepped close enough that his cock brushed Franklin’s hip. “Same. Awake, hard, starving for it. Let’s make the feast.”

They started slow in the living room, the four of them naked now, bodies arranged on the wide sectional so every cock was on display. Colette sat first, legs spread, and guided Kiara down between them. Kiara’s mouth was hot and practiced; he licked long stripes up the underside of Colette’s shaft, then sealed his lips around the head and sucked with slow, wet pressure—never enough to finish, just enough to pull fresh precum into his throat. Colette’s head dropped back. “That’s it. Edge me. Make it heavy.”

Xavier knelt behind Kiara, reaching around to stroke the trainer’s cock in the same lazy rhythm, thumb smearing the slick that kept welling up. Franklin watched for a full minute, then dropped to his knees in front of Xavier and took the designer’s cock deep, throat working, pulling off every time Xavier’s hips stuttered. The room filled with wet sounds, low groans, the slap of hands on solid muscle.

An hour passed that way. They rotated like a well-rehearsed circuit. Colette edged Kiara with two fingers pressed firm behind his balls while sucking the head just enough to keep him leaking. Franklin edged Xavier by licking only the frenulum for long, maddening minutes, refusing to take more. Kiara edged Franklin by straddling his face and grinding his heavy balls across the chef’s tongue while stroking himself slow. Xavier edged Colette by pinning the manager’s wrists lightly and frotting their cocks together until both were shiny and throbbing, then backing off the second either one got too close.

Sweat sheened every chest. Cocks stayed dark red, veins standing out, balls drawn tight and full. Colette’s mind stayed locked on the menu: the soup would need at least two loads each to start, thick enough to coat a spoon. He could already imagine the salty-sweet heat of it. Franklin kept murmuring recipe notes between moans—“need the sauce glossy… reduce it slow… fold the last load in raw at the end so it stays creamy”—and every word made the others harder.

By the second hour they had moved to the kitchen island. Franklin laid out four small ceramic cups. “First collection for the base of the soup. One each. Still edged, still controlled.”

Colette went first. He stood with feet planted, Kiara behind him stroking long and firm while Xavier licked his nipples. When the orgasm finally ripped through him it was a deep, rolling pulse; thick ropes of semen shot into the cup, heavy and white, more than he usually produced. He kept stroking through it, milking every spurt until the cup was half full. “Fuck, that’s good,” he breathed. “Feel how full I still am? Next round will be even thicker.”

Kiara followed, bent over the counter while Franklin reached under and jacked him with a slick fist. Kiara came with a broken shout, cock kicking hard, painting the inside of his cup in long, ropey strands that clung to the ceramic. Xavier’s turn was quieter but no less intense; Colette sucked him slow while Kiara rolled his balls, and when Xavier finally let go the load was dense and almost pearlescent. Franklin saved himself for last. He braced both hands on the marble and let the other three work him—Colette’s mouth, Kiara’s fingers, Xavier’s tongue on his hole—until he painted his own cup with a groan that shook his whole frame.

They set the four cups side by side. The combined volume already looked impressive, warm and faintly musky. Franklin whisked them together with a little cream and chives, tasting with a clean spoon, then adding a fifth small contribution from Colette’s still-leaking cock for salt. The soup went onto a low simmer.

While it reduced they edged again. No one was allowed to go soft. Kiara bent Xavier over the back of the couch and fucked between his thighs without entering, coating both their cocks in fresh precum. Colette and Franklin sixty-nined standing, mouths working but stopping every time a warning pulse hit. The third hour blurred into heat and friction and the constant wet click of cocks being denied.

Franklin eventually called for the second round of loads—needed for the pasta sauce and the stuffing. This time they came into a larger glass bowl, one after another, bodies shaking, muscles locked. Colette’s second orgasm left him light-headed; the semen came out slower, creamier. Kiara’s was almost aggressive, spurt after spurt until the bowl’s bottom was hidden. Xavier added a long, shivering load while staring at Franklin’s mouth. Franklin finished them all by jacking himself over the same bowl, adding his own contribution with a satisfied grunt.

He worked the mixture into a reduced cream sauce on the stove, the smell rising rich and unmistakably sexual under the garlic and pepper. The stuffed peppers waited on a tray, hollowed and ready; he spooned the remaining fresh cum into each one, packing them full, then sealed them with a little cheese that would brown. The custard base waited in the fridge—egg yolks and sugar already whisked—needing only the final warm loads to finish.

Colette wiped sweat from his collarbone and looked at the spread taking shape. Four muscular bodies still hard, still leaking, still hungry. The soup steamed. The sauce thickened. The peppers sat ready for the oven. Dessert would come last, after they had edged through the early courses and produced whatever was left in their aching balls.

Kiara’s hand found Colette’s cock again, stroking once, possessive. “We’re only getting started,” he said. “Plenty more where that came from.”

Xavier leaned in and licked a stray drop from Franklin’s stomach. “Next course whenever you’re ready, chef. We’re all still choosing this. Still hard for it.”

Franklin’s eyes stayed dark with focus and lust as he stirred the sauce one more time. The candlelight caught the wet shine on every cock, the flush across every chest. Outside the locked door the rest of the complex went about its Friday night. Inside unit 4B the Semen Feast had only just begun to cook, and the night still stretched long and filthy ahead of them.

They pressed in around the marble island, four naked bodies gleaming under the pendant lights, the air thick with the musk of their earlier loads and the garlic-rich steam rising from the simmering sauce. Colette’s cock stood rigid against his abs, still sticky from the second orgasm, veins pulsing as Kiara’s thick trainer’s fingers closed around it again. Kiara stroked slow, thumb circling the swollen head, smearing the fresh bead of precum that welled instantly. “Look at this fat fucking cock,” Kiara growled, voice low so the others could hear every word. “I’m gonna edge it until it spits another heavy load straight into the pasta water. We’ll boil the noodles in diluted cum so every strand soaks it up. Then the sauce—Franklin already reduced ours, but I want a third round poured in raw at the table so it stays hot and stringy when we twirl it.”

Franklin leaned across the counter, his own heavy cock brushing Colette’s thigh, and wrapped a flour-dusted hand around Kiara’s shaft in return. He pumped once, deliberate, watching clear fluid slide down the dark length. “Stuffed peppers next. I’m packing every hollow with the thickest cream we can milk—Colette’s creamy second load already in there with cheese, but I need Xavier’s next spurt packed deep so when the oven hits it melts into the meat and the whole thing oozes when we cut it open. Dessert custard last. Warm loads folded into the yolks while they’re still pulsing, so the pudding sets silky and salty-sweet. I want to spoon it into your mouths while it’s still warm from our balls.”

Xavier crowded in behind Franklin, cock sliding along the chef’s crack without entering, leaking a continuous slick trail that painted Franklin’s lower back. His designer’s fingers found Colette’s balls, rolling them gently while he spoke against Franklin’s ear. “Custard needs volume. I’m saving a fat load just for that bowl—edge me until my cock’s purple and then jack it over the yolks so the first three spurts hit hot and the rest drips slow. Soup’s already perfect but if any of us leaks while we eat I’ll catch it on my fingers and stir it back in. Every course gets us inside it.”

Colette’s free hand reached for Xavier’s flushed cock, matching the slow rhythm Kiara used on him. The four of them formed a tight circle of muscle and heat, wrists crossing, fists gliding, the wet sound of precum and residual semen filling the gourmet kitchen louder than the soft bubble of the sauce. Colette’s mind locked on the filthy inventory: soup base cooling on the back burner, peppers waiting to be sealed, pasta water ready to take a fresh dilution, custard yolks chilling. He felt another heavy pulse building low in his gut and deliberately slowed his stroke on Xavier. “We stay edged. Tease until the next collection feels like it’s ripping out of us.”

Kiara broke the circle only long enough to swipe two fingers through the clear strand hanging from Colette’s slit, then brought them dripping to Franklin’s mouth. Franklin opened without hesitation, sucking the fingers clean, tongue swirling, eyes locked on Kiara’s. The taste—salt and clean musk—made his cock jump hard in Colette’s loose grip. “Fuck, that’s pure. Give me more.”

Xavier did the same, collecting the fresh leak from Kiara’s cockhead on his own fingers and feeding it straight to Colette. Colette took them deep, tasting the gym-trained heat of it, the slightly thicker texture after hours of denial. Mutual desire surged like a current. Franklin mirrored the move, scooping a glossy drop from Xavier and sliding his fingers between Kiara’s lips. Kiara groaned around them, hips thrusting into the empty air, then reached down to gather Colette’s newest bead and push it into Xavier’s waiting mouth. They traded like that—fingers glistening, mouths wet, cocks throbbing in each other’s fists—until every man had tasted every other man directly from the source.

The feeding pushed them past solitary edging into full group rhythm. Hands roamed freely now: Colette’s palm cupping Franklin’s heavy balls while he stroked Xavier; Kiara’s free hand pinching Franklin’s nipple and then sliding down to tease the head of Colette’s cock alongside his own fist; Xavier grinding slow against Franklin’s ass while jacking Kiara in long, twisting pulls. Bodies slotted together without awkwardness—chests to backs, thighs flexing, cocks crossed and sliding shaft-to-shaft whenever fists loosened. The kitchen island became their stage, hips bumping the cool marble, sauce spoon clinking forgotten against the pot.

Colette’s voice stayed steady even as his cock leaked steadily over Kiara’s knuckles. “I need the words again. Right now. We’re about to milk the third round for the pasta and the pepper packing, then keep going until the custard’s full. Everyone still choosing this sober and awake? Still hungry for every drop of us in every course?”

Kiara’s answer came rough while he fucked slowly into the tunnel of Colette’s and Xavier’s combined fists. “Hell yes. I’m thirty-one, clear-headed, and I want my load boiled into the noodles and packed inside those peppers. I choose this feast. Love the way we taste on each other’s fingers.”

Franklin nodded hard, eyes dark, free hand still stirring the sauce with lazy circles even as Xavier’s cock dragged precum up his spine. “Consent loud from me. Twenty-four and stone sober. I want to reduce another load into the sauce until it’s glossy, then fold the last hot spurts into the custard myself. Every drop stays on the menu. I’m starving for it.”

Xavier’s hips stuttered once before he locked them down, voice hoarse with need. “Same. Twenty-seven, wide awake, cock aching for it. Feed me more precum, pack my next orgasm into the peppers, save the rest for dessert. I’m all in—eager, hard, choosing every filthy course.”

Colette felt the collective surge in the way their strokes synced, the way precum now coated every shaft in continuous shine. “My answer’s the same. Twenty-nine, manager of this building, sober as the day I signed the leases. I want us cooked into every bite and still dripping for the next round. Keep stroking. Keep feeding. We milk on my count when the pasta water hits boil.”

They stayed locked in the circle, fists pumping in filthy unison, fingers dipping again and again to harvest the clear strands and push them into open mouths. Colette described the exact moment he would aim his third load into the measuring cup for the pasta dilution—“thick ropes hitting the water so the starch locks the flavor in.” Kiara answered by detailing how he would straddle the pepper tray and jack directly into each cavity until they overflowed. Franklin murmured about the custard temperature, how the yolks would seize the warm semen into perfect silk if they came while still half-hard from the early courses. Xavier promised to catch any overflow on his tongue and share it mouth-to-mouth before the plates were even set.

Sweat ran down carved abs and caught in the grooves of obliques. Balls drew tighter, heavier. The sauce on the stove reduced another notch, scent mingling with their raw musk until the kitchen smelled like sex made edible. Colette’s free hand found the wooden spoon, gave the sauce one last turn, then returned to jacking two cocks at once while Kiara and Xavier mirrored him. The tension wound higher with every traded taste of precum, every filthy recipe note spoken against sweat-slick skin. No one came yet. The third collection waited just beyond the next few minutes of deliberate denial, the pasta water already heating, the peppers open and greedy, the custard yolks waiting cold in the fridge for the final warm gift. The four of them kept stroking, kept feeding, kept promising louder and dirtier exactly how each new load would vanish into the multi-course feast still taking shape under the golden kitchen lights.

They stayed locked in the circle another long minute, fists gliding in slick unison, precum strand after strand traded mouth to mouth until every tongue tasted of the others. Colette’s pulse hammered low and heavy; the third collection was so close it burned. He slowed the stroke on Xavier deliberately, thumb pressing just under the head until the designer’s hips jerked and a fresh bead welled. “Now,” Colette rasped. “Franklin—harvest.”

Franklin dropped to his knees on the cool kitchen tile without hesitation, twenty-four and fully hard, chef’s focus turning filthy. He took Colette first, wrapping both hands around the thick base while his mouth sealed hot and wet over the flushed crown. He sucked deep, cheeks hollowing, tongue working the frenulum in tight circles that pulled a groan straight out of Colette’s chest. Kiara and Xavier pressed in close, cocks bobbing against Franklin’s cheeks and hair, waiting their turn. Franklin pulled off Colette with a wet pop just as the manager’s balls drew tight, then swung immediately to Kiara’s darker, thicker shaft. He swallowed it to the root, throat fluttering, one hand still jacking Colette slow so nothing cooled. Kiara’s trainer muscles locked; he fucked shallow into that eager mouth with a low growl. “Fuck yes—milk it, chef. First load of the round.”

Franklin rotated again, taking Xavier next, designer cock sliding over his tongue in long, deliberate strokes while his free hand kept Kiara leaking. He worked them in relentless cycle—Colette, Kiara, Xavier, back again—never letting any cock go more than seconds without heat and suction. Spit and precum shone on his chin. When Colette’s thighs trembled and the first heavy pulse hit, Franklin sealed his lips tight and swallowed nothing; instead he pulled back just enough to aim the spurting head into a clean ceramic bowl already waiting on the floor. Thick white ropes painted the bottom, pulse after pulse, Colette’s twenty-nine-year-old body shaking as he emptied the first load of the climax. Franklin milked every drop with a twisting fist, then immediately turned the same treatment on Kiara. The gym trainer came harder, cock kicking, flooding the bowl with denser, creamier semen that mixed hot with Colette’s. Xavier followed seconds later, lean frame bowing as Franklin sucked the orgasm out of him in long, shuddering jets that overflowed the rim.

Franklin rose, bowl in both hands, and carried it straight to the counter. He poured half into the simmering soup base, whisking hard until the liquid turned opaque and richly creamy, the unmistakable musk of fresh loads rising with the chives. The other half he whisked with oil, lemon, and a pinch of salt into a thick semen dressing that clung to the spoon in glossy ropes; he drizzled it over the waiting greens until every leaf gleamed. “Soup and salad done,” he said, voice rough from the throating. “Taste us.”

Colette and Xavier didn’t wait. They spun Franklin around, bent him hard over the marble counter so his chest flattened and his ass presented. Colette slicked his still-hard cock with the last of his own precum and pushed in slow, thick shaft stretching Franklin open inch by inch until he was buried to the hilt. Franklin groaned into the stone, cock trapped and leaking against the cabinet. Xavier took his place the second Colette pulled almost out; the designer’s lean hips snapped forward, fucking deep and steady while Colette stroked himself back to full need against Franklin’s hip. They traded turns like that—Colette burying himself, then Xavier, then Colette again—Franklin’s hole fluttering and greedy around each invading cock, the slap of skin on skin loud under the pendant lights.

Kiara moved to the stove, two fresh bowls ready: one for the risotto, one for the seared protein already resting on the cutting board. He wrapped a big fist around Colette’s cock the moment the manager pulled free of Franklin, jacking him with ruthless precision while Xavier kept pounding the chef’s ass. Colette came with a shout, second orgasm ripping through him; Kiara aimed every thick spurt straight into the risotto rice, folding the hot semen in until the grains turned rich and creamy. He switched without pause to Xavier, fist flying, milking the designer’s second load in long white ropes across the seared protein so it glazed glossy and dripping under the kitchen lights. “Risotto and main—seasoned,” Kiara growled, still stroking both spent cocks back toward hardness.

They didn’t stop. The four of them collapsed into a sweaty, groaning daisy-chain right there against the counter and open fridge. Franklin dropped back to his knees and took Kiara’s cock deep while Colette fucked him from behind again, hips snapping, balls slapping. Xavier slid underneath, sucking Franklin’s heavy shaft and reaching up to finger Kiara’s hole at the same time. Positions swapped in a constant, slippery rotation: Kiara bent over the salad bowl while Xavier railed him and Colette fed his cock into Kiara’s mouth; Franklin mounted Xavier over the pasta pot, pounding deep while Kiara jacked both their cocks so fresh dribbles landed in the sauce; Colette took Franklin’s ass once more while Xavier and Kiara sixty-nined beside them, each man leaking or spurting whenever a free hand or mouth milked another load onto the risotto, the glaze, the dressing, the soup. Cum streaked thighs, abs, the marble edge. Groans layered over the wet sounds of fucking and sucking. Every dish received multiple hot loads—second, third, even fourth spurts folded in while still pulsing—until the soup was velvety, the dressing ropey, the risotto decadent, the protein shining under its semen glaze.

Colette’s mind stayed locked on the unfinished custard still chilling, on the way Franklin’s hole clenched around him, on the taste of Kiara’s cock when he finally dropped and sucked it clean mid-thrust. They were all still hard, still choosing it, still dripping. Xavier pulled free of Franklin’s mouth long enough to rasp, “More. Every dish needs one last coat before we plate.” Kiara’s answer was a broken moan as Colette’s fist worked another thick bead from him straight onto the main course. Franklin, fucked open and glowing, reached back to spread himself wider. “Keep going—season it all. I’m nowhere near done tasting us.” The candle flickered. Sauce bubbled forgotten. Outside the locked door the complex stayed quiet while inside unit 4B the four muscular bodies kept swapping, kept fucking, kept milking, the feast still unfinished and the night nowhere near over.

They finished the last frantic rotations against the counter with shared, shuddering groans, every cock still glistening and half-hard as Franklin finally staggered upright, hole dripping from the successive fucks, and waved them toward the stove. Colette, twenty-nine and still throbbing, helped ladle the velvety cum-soup into deep bowls while Kiara plated the semen-dressed greens and the glossy risotto. Xavier carried the cum-glazed protein and the stuffed peppers—each cavity oozing the packed cream of their earlier loads—while Franklin pulled the chilled custard base from the fridge and set four clean spoons beside a wide shared dessert bowl. The four naked men carried everything to the long marble dining table under the pendant lights, bodies streaked with sweat and residual semen, cocks swinging heavy between thick thighs as they dropped into the chairs.

Steam rose. The unmistakable musk of their combined loads mixed with garlic and chive. Colette lifted his soup spoon first, eyes locked on the others. “Fuck, look at this. Pure us.” He drank deep, the warm, salty-sweet cream coating his tongue, and moaned loud enough for the room to hear. “That’s Kiara’s thickness right there—gym balls, heavy and rich. I taste you, man. Perfect.”

Kiara grinned, trainer’s abs flexing as he leaned across and spooned a mouthful of the same soup straight between Colette’s lips. “And that’s your creamy manager load binding it, boss. Twenty-nine years old and still pumping the best base. Swallow it. Feel how we sit in your gut.” Colette obeyed, throat working, then fed Kiara a dripping leaf from the salad, the ropey semen dressing stretching between fork and tongue. Kiara chewed slow, eyes half-lidded. “Xavier’s pearlescent shit in the dressing—designer cock always runs clean and slick. Goddamn delicious.”

Franklin, twenty-four and glowing from being railed open, twirled a forkful of the risotto and held it to Xavier’s mouth. The grains were swollen creamy with folded loads. Xavier took it, hummed, then fed Franklin a slice of the seared protein still shining under its fresh glaze. “Taste that? My second spurt right across the top, and yours underneath from the daisy-chain. Salty, fucking perfect. Chew it slow so it coats.” Franklin did, then reached for a stuffed pepper, cutting it open so the packed white cream spilled hot onto the plate. He scooped the overflow with two fingers and pushed them between Colette’s lips. Colette sucked hard, tasting the cheese-melted mix of all four of them, balls still aching from the hours of denial and release. “Every cavity full of us. I choose this every fucking week.”

They fed one another by hand for long minutes—fingers slick with sauce and semen, mouths open and eager. Kiara held a pepper half to Xavier’s lips while Xavier jacked Kiara’s cock lazily under the table, precum beading again. “Your load packed deepest, trainer. I can taste the edge you held. Thick as fuck.” Xavier answered by smearing risotto across Franklin’s tongue and kissing him messy so the creamy grains transferred mouth to mouth. Colette poured more soup into Kiara’s bowl and then tipped the bowl itself so Kiara drank straight from the rim while Colette’s free hand stroked Franklin under the table. Praise rolled nonstop and filthy: “That’s Franklin’s chef spunk reducing the sauce—glossy and pure.” “Colette’s first ropes in the soup base still coat the spoon.” “Xavier’s drip on the protein makes it shine like cum should.” “Kiara’s aggressive load in the risotto—balls of stone, just like he promised.” Every man said the words out loud, sober and clear, choosing the taste of every other man’s semen as the main ingredient, cocks stiffening fully again under the table from the act of feeding and being fed.

Plates emptied slowly. They licked fingers clean between bites, then licked each other’s fingers, trading the last smears of dressing and glaze. When only the shared dessert bowl remained—egg yolks and sugar waiting—Franklin stood, cock rigid and dark. “Final round. Right here. Drizzle it hot so the custard sets silky around us.”

They stayed seated close, chairs scraped together so thighs pressed. Colette wrapped a fist around Xavier’s cock first, stroking firm and wet with the last of the risotto cream as lube. Xavier returned the grip on Colette. Across the table Kiara and Franklin mirrored them, big trainer hands and chef’s hands flying in matching rhythm. No one edged now. They chased it hard and loud, free hands still feeding stray bites of leftover pepper or risotto between strokes, praising between grunts. “Your cock feels heavier—save that load for the center.” “Fuck, I’m close—aim with me.” Colette came first in thick white arcs that splattered the yolks; he milked every pulse deliberately so the warm semen folded in glossy. Kiara followed seconds later, ropes heavier, landing across the surface in long strands he stirred once with two fingers before licking them clean. Xavier’s orgasm hit next, lean body bowing as he painted the dessert in pearlescent jets, still feeding Franklin a last spoonful of soup with his free hand. Franklin finished them all, twenty-four-year-old cock kicking hard, dumping the final dense load dead center so it pooled and swirled. They stirred together with spoons and fingers until the custard turned opaque, salty-sweet, still warm from their balls.

Spoons dipped. They fed one another the dessert by hand—fingers coated, mouths open, tongues chasing every drop. Colette pushed a dripping spoonful between Kiara’s lips and watched him swallow. “That’s all four of us setting perfect. Taste how thick you made it.” Kiara answered by smearing custard across Xavier’s chest and licking it off in long stripes before feeding the rest to Franklin. They ate until the bowl was scraped empty, then lifted the plates themselves and licked every surface clean—tongues flat on ceramic, chasing the last dried streaks of soup, glaze, risotto cream, and custard, cocks still twitching against their stomachs from the residual heat. Franklin’s tongue dragged slow across Colette’s plate; Colette returned the favor on Kiara’s. Xavier licked Franklin’s clean while Kiara finished Xavier’s. Nothing left. The feast was inside them.

They sat back naked and sated, breathing hard, the candle burned low. Colette’s hand rested possessive on Franklin’s thigh. “Next Friday. Same time. I want oysters packed with fresh loads, and a bread pudding that takes six deposits minimum. Everyone still in?”

“Fuck yes,” Kiara said, voice rough. “I’ll edge two extra days. Volume up.”

Franklin nodded, chef’s mind already turning. “Custard base bigger. I want it overflowing the bowl before we even sit.”

Xavier stretched, ink flexing. “I’m bringing that new cock ring so I last longer for the packing. Same feast, bigger menu. We’re choosing it.”

Colette smiled, satisfied, and the four of them began planning the exact courses out loud—quantities, which loads for which dish, how long to edge—while their spent cocks softened against their thighs and the locked door kept the rest of the complex safely outside.

Sex had finished. Plates gleamed clean. Only Franklin knew the quiet truth he had not spoken: next week’s bigger menu was already impossible because the building sale papers had cleared that afternoon, unit 4B would be gutted for renovations in ten days, and this had been their last Semen Feast whether the others realized it yet or not.