Carly & Trey BBC & gender-bending
The crystal chandeliers of Elysium catch the amber light from the bar, scattering fractured gold across the polished concrete floor where Carly Vance sets down her final crate of microgreens.
She straightens, pressing her palms into the small of her back, and takes in the space they've been hired to transform.
The venue sprawls like a fever dream of queer excess—velvet banquettes in deep plum and emerald, brass fixtures that gleam with the patina of constant handling, and a stage at the far end where a drag queen is sound-checking equipment for the evening's entertainment.
"Fifty covers," Trey says, appearing at her shoulder with an inventory tablet in one hand and an espresso in the other.
He rolls his shoulders in that pre-service ritual of his, the fitted white chef's jacket pulling tight across his broad back.
"And open mind and all, these aren't our usual charity gala crowd, Carly. Look around."
She does. Two men in matching tailored suits examine the wine list with the intensity of collectors appraising rare manuscripts. A woman with shaved temples and a meticulously waxed moustache adjusts her bow tie in the reflection of the mirrored bar.
Near the entrance, a group of four—two couples, or perhaps something more fluid—laugh in a configuration that keeps shifting, bodies angling and reconfiguring in a dance of attention that makes traditional monogamy look like a museum artifact.
The open groping confirms this.
"I see it," Carly says, tucking a loose wave behind her ear. Her grandmother's silver bracelet catches the light.
"This is the big leagues, Trey. Zeus and Bane don't hire outside caterers. They have their own kitchen staff."
"Had." Trey's hazel eyes track toward the private lounge upstairs, where voices have begun to rise in something other than celebration.
"Word is they had a mass walkout last month. Something about the owners fighting, staff caught in the middle."
The sound of breaking glass punctuates his observation.
Both Carly and Trey turn toward the spiral staircase that leads to the VIP mezzanine, where two figures loom in silhouette against the backlit bar.
Even from below, the tension reads as physical force—one body advancing, the other holding ground.
"That's them," Carly breathes.
Zeus Morrison fills doorways like a structural feature. Six-foot-four of deliberate architecture, his dark skin absorbing light rather than reflecting it, he wears a charcoal suit that costs more than Carly's car.
His head is shaved to polished perfection, and when he moves, the fabric of his jacket strains across shoulders that suggest hours with heavy weights rather than spreadsheets.
He jabs a finger toward his business partner's chest with the precision of a blade.
Bane Okonkwo does not flinch.
If anything, he seems to expand into the gesture, his own considerable frame—six-two, broad and thick with muscle earned through what Carly later learns is competitive boxing—absorbing the aggression like water.
His skin is the colour of midnight honey, and his locs, gathered in a heavy knot at his nape, swing with the controlled violence of his stillness.
He wears no jacket, just a fitted black shirt with sleeves rolled to reveal forearms that could crack walnuts.
"You want to dilute this," Zeus says, his voice carrying the particular cadence of Nigerian private school education layered over London years, "because you're afraid. Because Cherry has you thinking with your balls instead of your brain."
"Don't bring her into this." Bane's voice is deeper, rougher, South London shaped into something that cuts even when quiet.
"Cherry's not the issue. Your inability to see beyond this room is."
"She's standing right there, isn't she?" Zeus gestures toward the shadows of the mezzanine, and Carly follows the movement to find a third figure—slender, poised, with the particular glamour of someone who understands exactly how light works on silicone and hormone therapy.
Cherry wears a dress the colour of fresh blood, her dark hair cascading in waves that frame a face of delicate, almost alarming beauty. She does not intervene. She watches, lips slightly parted, as if this violence between her lovers is another form of foreplay.
Cherry likes it hot. And getting hotter fast.
The finger in the chest again.
Zeus's knuckle digs into Bane's sternum with audible force. "You want to open a second venue? Fine. But Cherry manages both, or we don't do it. That's my line."
"Your line." Bane laughs, a sound like gravel in a blender. "You don't have lines, Zeus. You have appetites. And I'm tired of being the one who—"
Carly moves before she decides to.
Her legs carry her across the floor, past the staring guests, up the spiral stairs with a speed that surprises even her.
Trey follows, his longer stride eating the distance, but she's already inserting herself into the space between the two men when he arrives.
"Gentlemen." She keeps her voice light, professional, the same tone she uses for wedding mothers and corporate executives.
"Your guests are arriving. The canapés are staged. Perhaps we could continue this discussion after service?"
Zeus looks at her as if noticing her existence for the first time.
His eyes—dark brown, almost black, with the particular intensity of someone who calculates value rapidly—travel from her face down her fitted chef's jacket and back up. Something shifts in his expression, not quite interest, but the first crack in his anger.
"And you are?"
"Carly Vance. Plated Passions Catering." She extends her hand. "This is my husband, Trey. We're handling your event tonight."
Bane's attention moves to Trey, and Carly watches the assessment happen in real time—two alpha males measuring each other across the narrow space, finding unexpected symmetry in their physical confidence.
Trey's shoulders settle into that particular set he adopts when challenged, neither retreating nor advancing, simply holding ground with the calm of someone who knows his own capabilities.
No fucking around here.
Trey is the male you want in your dreams.
"Your timing is convenient," Bane says, not to Carly but to Trey, as if they've already established a private language.
"Timing is everything in our business," Trey replies. "You want your guests fed. We want to feed them. The other matters... can wait."
Cherry emerges from the shadows, her heels clicking against the concrete with the precision of a metronome.
Fuck she's hot. Whatever her body is hiding, you want it.
She is taller than Carly expected, nearly six feet in her heels, and the effect of her proximity is immediate and disorienting—this close, Carly can smell her perfume, something dark and resinous, and beneath it, the clean, alluring scent of medical-grade silicone.
Cherry's eyes, heavy-lidded and knowing, find Carly's with the particular recognition of women who understand the economy of male attention.
"They're beautiful when they fight, aren't they?" Cherry says, her voice a contralto purr that carries the faintest trace of something mid-Atlantic, trained out of whatever original accent she possessed.
"All that testosterone. All that restraint, finally breaking."
"We weren't—" Zeus begins.
"Of course you were." Cherry touches his arm, then Bane's, a gesture of casual ownership that makes both men still.
"And now these lovely people have interrupted your performance. What do we owe them for the rescue?"
Carly opens her mouth to demur, to redirect toward professional boundaries, but Trey speaks first.
"Nothing." His hazel eyes hold Cherry's with a steadiness that Carly recognises—this is her husband in negotiation mode, finding the angle, reading the room.
"But we do have a problem. Your argument has drawn attention. Your guests are watching. The energy of the room has shifted from celebration to... speculation."
He's right. Carly can feel it from the mezzanine—the weight of eyes, the held breath of a crowd waiting to see which narrative will prevail: conflict or resolution.
Party or flop, time to cut and run.
"So, we give them something else to watch," Zeus says, and his hand finds Carly's waist with the confidence of a man accustomed to taking what he wants.
The heat of his palm burns through her chef's jacket, and she feels her breath catch in her throat—not fear, exactly, but the particular vertigo of boundaries dissolving faster than she can name them.
"Zeus." Bane's voice carries warning, but his own hand has found Trey's shoulder, fingers pressing into the muscle there with an intimacy that contradicts the protest. "This isn't the time."
"Isn't it?" Cherry laughs, a sound like breaking glass wrapped in velvet.
"Look at them, Bane. Look at how she breathes. How he stands so still, waiting to be told what to do. They're not afraid. They're hungry. They are players."
Cherry recognises like-minded sexual adventures like selecting the best party olive.
Carly's mind races through exit strategies, professional protocols, the contract they signed that definitely did not include— but her body has already begun to respond, nipples tightening against the fabric of her bra, heat pooling in her belly with the embarrassing immediacy of her own arousal.
She has always been this way, she knows, always found her way to the edge of acceptable behaviour, always chased the charge of risk.
But this is different. This is her business, their reputation, Trey's hand now finding the small of her back in a gesture that might be support or might be surrender.
"What are you proposing?" Trey asks, and his voice has dropped to that register he uses in bed, the one that means he's already decided.
Zeus's thumb traces the curve of Carly's hip, and she feels the size of him then—not just his height, but the sheer mass of his presence, the density of muscle and intention. "Our guests came for entertainment. For the frisson of Elysium, where boundaries blur, and appetites are satisfied. Give them a show they won't forget, and your contract becomes... renewable. Exclusive, even. We have events monthly. Private parties. Client entertainment."
"And Cherry?" Carly manages, her voice steadier than she feels.
Cherry steps closer, close enough that Carly can see the individual hairs of her false lashes, the precise application of her contour.
"Cherry gets what Cherry always gets. Attention. Adoration. The pleasure of watching beautiful people discover what they really want."
She touches Carly's cheek; her fingers cool and slightly trembling.
"I've been watching you since you arrived. The way you move. The way you pretend not to notice when people look. You're not here by accident, lovely. None of us are."
The beautiful situation.
When ribald fuckers meet their fucking match.
It's rare.
But it was here.
The decision happens in the space between heartbeats.
Carly feels it as a physical sensation—the click of acceptance, the release of resistance.
She turns her face into Cherry's palm, just slightly, just enough to feel the press of silicone against her lips, and when she opens her eyes, she finds Trey watching her with an expression she cannot name.
Not jealousy.
Something more complex, more honest.
Recognition.
"Downstairs," Bane says, and his hand slides from Trey's shoulder to his elbow, guiding rather than forcing.
"The private room. Cherry will attend to your husband. Zeus and I will show Mrs Vance why Elysium has the reputation it does."
The way they move, the party clientele know, this party is a thin veneer for an orgy.
They secretly hoped. It rarely occurs.
Tonight is the motherfucker of all orgy nights.
The in-group moves through the crowd like royalty processing, and Carly is aware of eyes following them, of whispered speculation, of the way her professional identity is being rewritten in real time.
She should care more, she thinks, but Cherry's perfume lingers in her nostrils, and Zeus's hand at her back burns like a brand, and somewhere ahead, Trey's broad shoulders are disappearing through a door marked PRIVATE with Bane's dark form close behind.
The private room reveals itself in stages: first the antechamber with its coat hooks and mirror, then the main space with its low lighting and furniture that makes its purpose clear without being crude.
A chaise longue in black leather. A bar cart stocked with premium spirits. And in the corner, a cabinet that Zeus opens to reveal an array of toys and tools that makes Carly's breath hitch—silicone in various configurations, leather straps, bottles of lubricant that promise specific sensations.
"Your husband is in capable hands," Zeus says, and his fingers find the zipper of her chef's jacket, drawing it down with the patience of someone unwrapping something precious.
"Bane has particular... appetites. And Cherry knows how to satisfy them while teaching others to do the same."
The jacket falls open, and Carly stands in her fitted black tank top, her nipples visible through the thin fabric, her grandmother's bracelet catching the low light.
Zeus steps back, and for the first time, she sees the evidence of his arousal—thick and heavy against his tailored trousers, a length that makes her mouth go dry with the automatic calculation of fit, of stretch, of the particular burn she craves.
God, he's an inch more than Trey!
"You've done this before," she says, not quite a question.
Zeus smiles, and it's the first genuine expression she's seen from him—not performance, not manipulation, but simple predatory pleasure.
"I am a businessman, Mrs Vance. I identify opportunity. I invest. I wait for returns."
He unbuckles his belt with methodical precision.
"You are an opportunity. The question is what you're willing to invest."
"My speciality is catering. Let me cater! You judge, later."
Behind her, the door opens again, and Bane enters alone. His shirt is unbuttoned to the waist, revealing the dense topography of his chest, the dark skin interrupted only by the silver flash of a chain that disappears beneath the fabric.
He carries himself with the loose-limbed confidence of a fighter between rounds, and when he meets Carly's eyes, she sees the same calculation she found in Zeus, but slower, more deliberate.
"Your husband is learning," Bane says, his voice carrying the particular satisfaction of a teacher whose student has exceeded expectations.
"Cherry has him on his knees. He has good instincts. Listens well."
He moves to stand beside Zeus, and Carly watches them flank her, two walls of muscle and intention, their shadows merging on the floor.
"She asked if he wanted to watch. He said no. He said he wanted to imagine."
The words land like physical blows, each one striking somewhere vulnerable. Trey, on his knees. Trey, learning. Trey, choosing imagination over sight because the not-knowing would be its own torture, its own pleasure.
Carly feels her knees weaken, and Zeus's hand finds her elbow, steadying her with a grip that promises both support and restraint.
"Two of us," Bane continues, unzipping his own trousers with the same unhurried confidence.
"One of you. The math is simple. The experience... less so."
They reveal themselves in sequence, Zeus first, then Bane, and Carly understands why Cherry watches them fight with such absorption—this is power made flesh, black skin glistening with anticipation, lengths that redefine her understanding of proportion.
Zeus curves slightly upward, veins tracing paths she wants to follow with her tongue. Bane hangs heavier, thicker at the base, the weight of him visible even at rest. Both are already slick with arousal, the scent of them filling the small room with something animal and demanding.
"On the chaise," Zeus commands, and Carly moves, her body obeying before her mind catches up.
The leather is cool against her back as she reclines, and then they are on her, Bane at her feet, Zeus at her head, their hands working in concert to remove her remaining clothes.
The tank top goes over her head. Her bra unhooks with a flick of Bane's fingers. Her chef's pants and underwear are drawn down together, leaving her naked and exposed while they remain partially clothed, the imbalance of it making her feel more naked than simple nudity could achieve.
Bane's hands spread her thighs with gentle insistence, and Carly watches him look at her, really look, his dark eyes tracking the flush that spreads from her chest to her belly, the evidence of her arousal glistening on her inner thighs.
He makes a sound in his throat—not quite approval, not quite hunger, but something that contains both—and then his mouth is on her, his tongue tracing the seam of her with a delicacy that contradicts his size.
Fuck it trills her being. Her pussy seeks his tongue. Her folds are sucked. Her clit is sucked. Her flaps drawn out.
Above her, Zeus has positioned himself where she can see him, can watch him work himself to full hardness with slow, deliberate strokes. The sight of his hand on that length, the way his thumb spreads the fluid beading at the tip, makes her hips buck against Bane's mouth, seeking more pressure, more contact.
"Greedy," Zeus observes, and he shifts closer, close enough that she can smell him—expensive cologne and something sharper underneath, the particular musk of an aroused male.
"Bane, she wants more. Give her more."
Bane responds with his fingers, two of them sliding into her with the ease of her readiness, curling to find the spot that makes her spine arch off the leather.
His mouth moves to her clit, suction and pressure in rhythm, and Carly feels the orgasm building with embarrassing speed, the accumulation of tension that she's learned to recognise but can never control.
"Ooohh! Mmm, mmm! Yes! Oohh!"
"Not yet," Zeus says, and his hand closes around her throat—not choking, just holding, the warmth of his palm a reminder of how easily he could.
"You don't come until we say. You don't come until you've taken everything."
He guides himself to her mouth, and the first taste is salt and heat, the weight of him pressing her tongue flat, the stretch of her jaw already approaching its limit.
She relaxes into it, the technique Trey taught her during their early explorations, the acceptance of invasion as its own form of power.
She's taken her man's eight. She can throat these nine-tens.
Gug, gug, gurgle, gasp! Gug, gug, gurgle, gasp!
Spit and slurp.
Deep throat.
Zeus groans, a sound that seems to start in his feet and travel up, and his hips begin to move in shallow thrusts that she matches with the suction of her mouth and the flutter of her tongue.
Carly is a suction queen. She's a practitioner of head-job heaven.
Below, Bane has added a third finger, the stretch becoming significant now, the arching-ache that Carly craves beginning to build.
His tongue never leaves her clit, the dual sensation of penetration above and below creating a feedback loop that makes her moan around Zeus's length, the vibration making him curse in a language she doesn't recognise.
"She's ready," Bane says against her thigh, his breath hot and wet.
"Zeus. She's ready."
They move her like equipment, like something designed for this purpose, and Carly finds herself grateful for her gym sessions, her core strength, the flexibility that lets them position her on her side, one leg lifted and held by Bane while Zeus kneels behind.
She feels the head of him against her entrance, the impossible size of him seeming more impossible from this angle, and then he is pushing in, slow and relentless, the stretch making her cry out around the fingers Bane has pressed into her mouth to silence her.
"Oorggh! Ooff," still escapes.
"Take it," Zeus commands, his voice strained with the effort of control. "Take all of it, Mrs Vance. Show me how much you want this contract."
She does. She takes him to the root, her body adjusting in waves of sensation that blur the line between smarting and pleasure, and when he begins to move—long, deep strokes that rearrange her internal geography—she feels herself dissolving, becoming pure receptivity, pure hunger.
She embraces the stretch.
Cradles the fullness.
And allows her elasticity to fulfil its evolutionary role.
Bane does not wait for her to adjust. He positions himself at her other entrance, the one that Zeus's angle has made accessible, and she feels the pressure there, the deliberate push of something that will not be denied.
The lubricant is cool, his fingers preparing her with the same patience he showed earlier, but when he begins to enter her, the sensation is overwhelming—fullness compounded by fullness, the sense of being stretched beyond capacity, beyond reason.
"Ooff! Uh-Uh! Oh my! Sheez! Yes! Ooh, yes!"
It's addictive in an instant.
Tattooed on her soul.
Egregiously, unbalanced.
Yet fucking bodily perfection.
Two holes. Two holes filled.
Simple!
Never.
No absa-fucking amazing.
"Breath," Bane instructs, and she does, pulling air through her nose as her mouth remains occupied, and on the exhale, he slides deeper, the two of them finding a rhythm that contradicts physics, that should not be possible but is, that makes Carly feel like a vessel being filled with something sacred and profane at once.
They find their pace, Zeus and Bane, moving in counterpoint so that one is always entering as the other withdraws, the constant motion preventing her from finding stability, from grounding herself in anything but sensation.
Sensation layered on sensation.
Fullness beyond fullness.
Capacity finding reserves of capacity.
She loses track of time, of self, of the specific mechanics of what is happening to her body.
There is only the stretch, the burn, the over-ampleness, the knowledge that she is being used in the most complete way possible, that her pleasure is their purpose and their satisfaction.
"Touch yourself," Zeus gasps, his control finally cracking, his thrusts becoming less measured, more desperate.
"I want to feel you come around me. I want to know we broke you open."
Her hand was searching for her clit anyway, super-swollen and sensitive, and the first touch sends shockwaves through her system, the accumulation of stimulation finally reaching critical mass.
The bud delivers.
The nub detonates.
Her sweet pink pea convulses in paroxysms of joyous, joyous, vibrant inner sparkles of fem-craved delight.
She comes with a sound that is not quite human, her body clamping down on both of them, the orgasm rolling through her in waves that seem to have no end, no peak, only continuous cresting.
A fem-whirlpool of continuous erogenous delivery.
They do not stop.
Zeus's hand finds her hair, pulling her head back to expose her throat, and Bane's fingers dig into her hip with a force that will leave marks she will examine later with a mixture of pride and arousal.
They use her through her orgasm, extending it, forcing her into territory where pleasure becomes indistinguishable from endurance, from survival.
Zeus comes first, burying himself deep with a shout that seems to shake the room, the pulse of him hot and insistent inside her.
Bane follows moments later, his rhythm faltering, his grip tightening to the edge of pain, and Carly feels the twin pulses, the double claim, the physical evidence of their satisfaction mixing with her own.
They withdraw slowly, carefully, and Carly feels the absence as acute loss, her body already adjusting to emptiness with a grief that surprises her.
Zeus arranges her on the chaise with unexpected gentleness, a throw blanket from somewhere covering her, his hand lingering on her cheek with something that might be tenderness if she didn't know better.
"Your husband," Bane says, and Carly realises she has not thought of Trey in—how long? Minutes? And beyond.
The door opens, and Cherry enters, leading Trey by the hand, and Carly sees immediately what has happened to him.
His chef's whites are dishevelled, his hair mussed, and there is a particular shine to his mouth that speaks of recent use.
But his eyes—his eyes find hers with an intensity that transcends the physical, that speaks of something witnessed or experienced that has changed him.
Cherry releases him, and Trey crosses to the chaise, kneeling beside it to take Carly's hand in his. His fingers are trembling, she notices, and his palm is damp with sweat or something else.
"You're okay," he says, and it's not a question but a statement of fact, a confirmation of something he needed to know.
"I'm okay," she agrees, and she is, she realises, though her body feels like a landscape after flood, rearranged and somehow more itself than before.
Zeus and Bane have retreated to the bar cart, pouring whiskey with the casual intimacy of men who have shared this ritual many times.
Cherry perches on the arm of the chaise, her dress slightly askew, her lipstick smeared in a way that suggests recent activity of her own.
"You were magnificent," she tells Carly, and there is no condescension in it, only the assessment of one professional to another.
"Both of you. Zeus, Bane—they needed this. The fight, the release. They build pressure until something breaks. Usually, it's property. Tonight..."
She gestures vaguely at the room, at them.
"Tonight was better."
"And the second venue?" Trey asks, his voice rough but steady.
"The dispute?"
Zeus turns from the bar, glass in hand, and for the first time since they met, Carly sees something like peace in his expression. The anger has burned itself out, leaving only the coals of satisfaction.
"We'll open the second venue," he says.
"Cherry will manage both, as she should have from the start."
He raises his glass to Bane, who touches his own rim to it in silent accord.
"And Plated Passions will cater every event. Exclusive. Provided you're willing to... mediate... when necessary."
Trey whispers into Carly's ear, "Say yes, even if it's only to experience, Cherry."
Cherry winks; she hears all, sees all, rubbing the stirring between her thighs.