Holemates returns this June for a second series with the boys, and I’m excited to re-release series one in the lead-up over the next few months.

🏡 Holemates

A Queer Serial About Use, Longing, and the Boys Who Stay Anyway

There’s a home in the city.
Three bedrooms. Four boys. No doors that lock.

No one remembers exactly how it started.
Jet showed up with snacks and lube.
Wes never left after the second blowjob.
Rafe started filming the moment he moved in.
And Daz —
Well. Daz was already on his knees when they found him.

They call it a house, but it’s more of a habitat. A place where affection is handed out with condoms. Where praise sounds like good boy, and love feels like someone leaving a towel on the sink.

They fuck.
A lot.
But this isn’t porn.

It’s mess. It’s ritual. It’s need, carved out in sweat and silence.
It’s about the moments after.
The breath. The cleanup. The ache.

It’s about family… chosen.

Every Load Deserves a Place

Chapter One

Daz is the one they go to when they’re too tired to pretend.
He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t moan unless you want him to. Doesn’t ask to be held.

Just opens.

His mouth. His legs. His eyes, blank, waiting, beautiful in the way empty things sometimes are.

He grew up in a regional town where silence meant safety and usefulness was a form of survival. So he learned to give before anyone asked. To kneel before being told. To smile while being used.

Now he lives in the city. Same silence. Different floor tiles.

Online, he’s infamous, his videos clipped, looped, captioned:

“Just how they like me.”

Offline, he scrubs grout more than he speaks. Avoids mirrors. Washes his hands but not his back. Because if you rinse off too much, you might lose what they came for.

And yet… something lingers.

When Wes asks, “Is this okay?”
When Rafe pauses the tape at the moment his mouth opens, then closes again…
When someone leaves a towel on the sink just for him…
He starts to wonder if there’s something worse than being used.

Being seen.

Used

The floor was wet.
Not puddled. Not dramatic. Just a film of damp that soaked through the knees before you noticed. Daz noticed. He always did. But he didn’t move.

The stall door didn’t creak, it banged. A hand hit the lock behind him, quick, rough. The click echoed.

Boots stopped behind his bare thighs.
A zipper.
No greeting. No warning.
He opened his mouth.

It was muscle memory now. Parted lips, tongue flat. Chin tilted up just enough to angle the drip. He’d learned that the first time someone came too fast and called it his fault. Don’t choke. Don’t blink. Just let it land.

The man groaned, short and sharp like he’d just finished a sprint.
Daz didn’t look up. He didn’t care what the guy looked like. They were all some shade of sweaty. Some version of grateful.

A hand gripped the back of his head, not harsh but definitely not tender… Just firm. Like someone palming a melon at the market.

The first spurt hit his tongue. Salty. Fast.
He didn’t flinch. He didn’t moan. That wasn’t part of the job.

Another drip. Another breath. Then the man stepped back.

No words. Just the quiet sound of a zipper going up. Then retreating boots. A second later, the door opened again.

Daz stayed on his knees.
Waiting.

He licked his bottom lip. Not for the taste. Just to make sure it was all gone.

The second man laughed as he entered.

“Fuck,” he said, seeing Daz still kneeling. “He’s already warmed up.”

He unbuckled lazily, like this wasn’t his first time using someone else’s leftovers. The smell of smoke clung to his hoodie. He tasted like vodka when he shoved his fingers past Daz’s lips, testing him, maybe. Seeing if the hole was still good.

Daz sucked because he was supposed to.

“You’re quiet,” the man said, palming the back of his head. “I like that.”

He twisted Daz’s face toward the wall, bent over him, and shoved in fast. Daz didn’t flinch. His body opened as it always did. Automatically. Like a lock remembering the shape of the key.

The slap of hips was brutal, rhythmic. One hand pulled Daz’s head back so he couldn’t rest it on his arms. Just had to stay there, dangling, mouth parted, eyes half-closed.

“You were made for this,” the man panted.

And something in Daz twitched. Not his cock. That was soft, buried against wet tile. Something in his chest. Some fucked-up little nerve that still believed praise meant something.

He wanted to cry. Scream... Or kiss him.

Instead, he whispered, “Thank you.”

The man groaned and pulled out, finishing across Daz’s back like he was spraying down a sidewalk.

“Good boy,” he said.

It wasn’t love. But it was close enough.

Daz stayed still, cum cooling on his skin.

Behind him, a phone clicked on. Someone else was filming now.

The door swung open again. Quick footsteps. A rustle of denim.

“Shit, is he still going?”
“Just finished.”
“Damn.”

Laughter. A zipper. Another pair of hands.
Daz didn’t move.

The third one didn’t fuck him. Just jerked off watching. Filmed it. Called Daz names in a low, sweet voice like he was reading bedtime stories.

“That’s it… open wider… fucking nothing, aren’t you?”

Daz blinked once, very slow. Tried to keep the floor in focus. The shape of the drain cover. The way the water circled, but didn’t go down.

Someone spat.
Someone came.
They left together.

One of them dropped a tenner on the floor next to his knee. Not tucked gently into his palm or pressed into his waistband. Just dropped. Like rubbish.

He stayed kneeling long after the door shut. His thighs were shaking, back sticky. His jaw ached.

The silence hit harder than the men ever did.

Outside, a cleaner knocked on the outer wall.

“Almost done in there?”

Daz wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve. Sat back on his heels.
Stood slowly.

The mirror above the sink was fogged and filthy.
He didn’t check his reflection.

He opened his phone. Flicked through the video. Brightness too high. Angle slightly off. But the moan caught on tape was perfect.

He uploaded it anyway. Captioned it:

“Just how they like me.”

Then he washed his hands.
And walked out.

Every Load Deserves a Place.

The smell of bleach clung to his hoodie. Daz didn’t mind. It covered everything else.

He was on his hands and knees again, but this time with a sponge, scrubbing along the edge of the bathtub. The tiles liked to collect dust in the corners, as if even the house was holding things it didn’t want to admit were there.

Behind him, someone moaned. Not loud. Not performative. Just the real, private kind. Low, strained, like trying not to be heard but wanting to be caught anyway.

Daz paused mid-scrub.
Held his breath.

A soft thud.
Then another.
The rhythm of a fist on flesh. Not violent. Just hungry.

He didn’t turn around. Didn’t chase it. That’s how things worked in this house. You didn’t interrupt pleasure. You joined it or you cleaned around it.

A shadow passed. Wes. Shirtless, barefoot, with that quiet puppy tilt to his head. He knelt beside Daz like it was instinct. Grabbed the second sponge. No words. Just presence.

Together, they cleaned in silence. Wes took the corners. Daz worked the grooves between the tiles.

It wasn’t submission. Not really. It was… something gentler. Familiar. A ritual.

Daz glanced over. Wes was biting his lip, eyes on the floor.

Somewhere down the hallway, the moaning stopped.

Daz dipped the sponge in fresh water. Squeezed it until it bled.

He didn’t say thank you. Wes didn’t need it.
That’s what made it harder.

Jet stumbled into the bathroom with his cock still half-hard and a slice of salami in his mouth. His sweatpants were bunched low, one hand tucked lazily beneath the waistband like he’d forgotten to finish what he started.

“Oh fuck, are we having a cleaning party?” he grinned, chewing.

Daz didn’t look up. Wes flushed pink and busied himself with the grout.

Jet leaned against the doorframe, licking his thumb. “You two are such little housewives. Makes me wanna fuck something up, so you can beg me to let you clean it.”

He looked at Daz. Tilted his head. Bit into the salami like it was a prop.

“Actually, you know what? I’ve got an idea.” He gestured vaguely toward the lounge. “Let’s play a game.”

Daz sat back on his heels. “What kind of game?”

Jet’s grin widened. “A test. See who can make you come the fastest. No cocks. Just fingers.”

Wes made a soft sound. Not quite a protest. More like surprise that this wasn’t already happening.

“Just for fun,” Jet added. “You love games, right?”

Rafe appeared then, like he always did, quiet, barefoot, holding the camera like it was an extension of his body. He didn’t say anything. Just lifted one brow and nodded once toward the hallway.

Jet clapped his hands like a kid about to unwrap a present.

Daz stood up slowly. His knees creaked. He didn’t smile, but followed them anyway.

Rafe and Jet pushed the couch back. Someone lit one of Jet’s candles, it smelled like vanilla and weed. The lights were low. Rafe adjusted the focus.

Daz knelt in the centre of the room. Palms flat. Back arched. Head down.

The position wasn’t new. What was new was how quiet it felt.

Jet circled him once, cracking his knuckles. “Alright, boys. Rules are simple. No dicks. Just fingers. Make him come. Fastest wins.”

Wes hovered at the edge of the room, eyes wide. His hands flexed like he didn’t know what to do with them.

Jet crouched behind Daz. Ran a hand down his spine, not gentle but not rough either. Just… claiming.

Daz didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. He knew his role.

Rafe’s voice came low: “Start when I say.”

Jet licked two fingers dramatically. “Can I get a warm-up?”

“No.” Rafe didn’t even blink.

Daz closed his eyes.

“Rolling,” Rafe said.

Jet slid his hand between Daz’s cheeks like he was reaching for something he’d dropped. The first push was too fast, too shallow, too cocky. Daz didn’t react. That was part of the game too.

Jet adjusted. Slower. Deeper. Hooked upward. Smirked when Daz finally let out a soft breath.

Wes sat down, cross-legged, hands in his lap.

He didn’t touch.
He watched.

And somehow, that landed harder.

“Slower,” Rafe said, voice low but precise. “Open him up, don't crack him open.”

Jet chuckled but obeyed. Adjusted the angle. Curved his fingers like he was turning a lock.

Daz’s mouth parted. A sound tried to come out, but it stuck behind his teeth. He focused on the floorboards beneath his cheek, one had a scratch shaped like a crescent moon. He counted it. Then started over.

Jet leaned closer. “C’mon, baby. Give me something.”

Daz gave what he always gave, silence, slick, space to be used.

From the couch, Rafe repositioned slightly. Camera tracking Daz’s face now, not his hole. The red light blinked steadily. Watching. Recording. Witnessing.

“Look at him,” Rafe murmured. “He’s not here.”

Jet paused mid-stroke. “What?”

“He’s somewhere else.” Rafe sounded like he wasn’t surprised.

Wes shifted. “Should we—”

“No,” Daz said. First word in minutes. Still face-down. Still still.

Jet resumed. Slower this time. More present. The fingers didn’t fuck, they coaxed. And Daz let them. Not because it felt good. But because it was familiar. The rhythm of being wanted for what he could take, not who he was.

And still something crawled up his spine. A slow heat. A pulse. Pleasure, maybe. Or memory. He couldn’t tell the difference anymore.

His hips started to move. Tiny, involuntary. Jet grinned.

“That’s it,” he whispered. “There you are.”

But he wasn’t.
Not really.

He was back in the toilet twelve months before. Back in the fog.
The only difference was the camera had better lighting now.

Jet curled his fingers just right and Daz made a sound, quiet, sharp, cut off halfway like he wasn’t sure it was allowed.

Wes leaned forward instinctively, his whole body caught in that sound. His hands hovered mid-air, unsure if they were wanted. He looked at Rafe. Rafe didn’t meet his eyes.

“Can I…?” Wes asked no one in particular.

Jet glanced back. “Go ahead, Pup.”

Wes crawled across the rug, slow and careful like he was approaching a wounded animal. His fingers hovered above Daz’s back, then lowered, not to grope or grab, just to rest. One palm flat between the shoulder blades. Warm.

Daz flinched.

Jet froze.
Rafe zoomed in.

“Is this okay?” Wes whispered.

Everything stilled.

The room went tight around that question, like it didn’t know how to hold it. Daz’s breath hitched. His whole body clenched, but not from the fingers inside him.

“Yeah,” he said, too fast. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

But his voice was raw. Like the truth had scraped its way out and the lie arrived just in time to patch it over.

Jet pulled his hand back slowly. Rafe lowered the camera. Wes didn’t move.

Daz stayed on all fours, head hanging. He wanted to run. He wanted to stay. He wanted to be ruined again just so he wouldn’t have to feel this close.

Wes whispered, “Sorry,” like it was a prayer.

And Daz hated how much it hurt to be touched kindly.

Jet moved like nothing had happened.

“Alright,” he said, stretching his fingers with a soft pop. “Back in.”

He didn’t wait for permission. Just pressed two practiced fingers in again. The mood had shifted, but Jet filled the silence like he always did. With motion, noise and pleasure performed.

Daz didn’t stop him.

He let his body rock into it, hips twitching as Jet curled and stroked and whispered filth like he was reading off a menu. None of it landed. Daz was chasing the finish the way some people chase God: urgently, blindly, needing it more than understanding it.

Wes had backed away. He sat cross-legged against the wall, eyes locked on Daz like he was watching a star collapse.

Rafe had stopped filming. But the red light blinked on anyway.

Jet twisted just right and Daz came.

Hard. Silent. Everything tensing at once, back, arms, the tight curl of his toes. No moan. Just a gasp that never made it out of his throat.

Jet laughed, triumphant. “Fuck yes.”

Rafe leaned back, watching the aftermath like it was art.
Wes didn’t move.

Collapsing onto his elbows, Daz pressed his face into the rug. His breath came fast, but it didn’t feel like relief. It felt like exposure.

He wiped his cheek with the back of his hand. It came away wet.

None of them noticed.

Jet stood and stretched. “And that, boys, is how you ring the holebell.”

No one laughed... No one kissed him.

Waterfall

The shower tiles were cooler than they should’ve been.

Daz sat on the floor, knees pulled up, forehead resting on them. The water beat down steadily, warm but impersonal, like a hand that fucked you without ever touching your face.

His come had washed away. The lube too. But he kept scrubbing. Under his arms. Behind his knees. Between his fingers.

There was no music playing, no light but the harsh glow of the single bulb overhead. Steam gathered in the corners like ghosts trying to stay quiet.

His breath was steady now. He blinked slowly, watching a droplet trail from the tap down the cracked grout. His body was clean. But he didn’t feel finished, he never did.

Somewhere in the distance, someone coughed. Maybe Jet. Maybe Rafe. It didn’t matter.

He thought about the rug burn on his knees. The scratch on the floorboards shaped like a moon. The way Wes had asked, “Is this okay?” like it mattered.

He pressed his palm flat against the tiles and whispered, “It’s fine.”

But the tiles didn’t answer.

Outside the glass, the air moved. A shadow crossed.

A knock, two fingers, soft, barely there.

He didn’t speak.

The door cracked open. Steam spilled.

A towel dropped onto the sink edge. Jet’s voice, low and uncharacteristically gentle: “Didn’t wanna leave you wet.”

Then the door closed again.

The towel sat on the sink, Daz stared at it for a long time. Steam curled along the edges, clinging like it didn’t want to leave either. He hadn’t moved. Still curled beneath the water, skin flushed, bones heavy.

He reached for it once. Stopped.

Again. Stopped.

It wasn’t fear exactly. More like confusion.
He was used to finishing alone. To air-drying. To shivering while pretending it made him feel something.

But the towel was soft, it meant someone had thought about him after.

That was worse than the fucking.

He shut the water off. Stood slowly. Wrung out his hair by instinct. Watched drops hit the tiles and disappear like they’d never mattered.

Then, finally, he picked up the towel.

Held it to his chest like it might tell him what to do.

When he wrapped it around himself, it felt too much. Too kind. Too close.

But he didn’t take it off.

He stepped out of the bathroom, toes curling against the hallway floor. The house was quiet.

He passed the lounge. The rug was still rumpled.

He didn’t fix it.

Rafe’s door was open just a crack.

Daz didn’t mean to look. Didn’t mean to pause.

But he did.

Inside, the room glowed blue from the screen. No music. Just the faint click of a keyboard, the quiet flick of pause-play-pause.

Rafe sat cross-legged on his bed, laptop open, camera on the desk beside him like a sleeping pet.

The footage was playing.

Daz saw himself on screen. On all fours. Blank-faced. Back arched. Hole open. Jet grinning behind him. Wes kneeling nearby, hesitant.

And then… The moment.

Wes asking, “Is this okay?”
Daz flinching.
His mouth opening, then snapping shut.
That flicker of something across his face, hurt? hope? habit?

Rafe paused it. Zoomed in. Watched. Again.

Daz held his breath.

He could walk away now. Pretend he hadn’t seen. Pretend none of this was happening.

But he didn’t.

Because Rafe was watching it like it mattered. Like it wasn’t porn. Like it was a scene in a film he didn’t know the ending to.

The screen stayed paused on Daz’s face.

Rafe leaned forward, thumb hovering just under the chin. Not touching. Just… framing.

He whispered, to no one:

“You weren’t supposed to look like that.”

And Daz, wrapped in Jet’s towel, invisible in the hall, felt something bloom and bruise at once.

He walked away before he could ruin it.

But the red light on the desk was blinking again.