Poker Boys

Poker Boys

By: Spectrotica247

...

Summary:

Four high school friends were hanging out in the basement one Friday evening after school, doing their usual activities... until one of them suggested a game of poker, which would soon become more intimate with each turn they took.

Main Characters:

Garrett Hobbs: 15 years old, Caucasian cis male, golden blonde hair shaped to a bowl crew cut that looks like a mushroom cap, grayish-blue eyes, his teenage frame was tall and lanky, with a smattering of freckles across his nose that danced in the light. Cock size: 5 inches and circumcised.

Josh Lee: 14 years old, Chinese cis male, raven black hair styled in a sleek modern quiff, his eyes a deep shade of brown, his cute face has sharp, handsome features, his body is skinny and lean, with a wiry frame that looks like it could snap in a strong breeze. Cock size: 4 inches and uncircumcised.

Hunter Payne: 14 years old, Caucasian cis male, short wavy dark-brown hair, gentle dark-green eyes, his endomorphic body was a shows evidence of his love for food and the comfort it brought him, with a round face that was perpetually flushed and dimpled cheeks that could give Santa Claus a run for his money. Cock size: 6.5 inches and uncircumcised.

Paul Williams: 14 years old, African-American cis male, a wild mohawk of 3a black curls, dark-brown eyes, his athletic frame compact and solid, honed by his love for sports, especially basketball. Cock size: 3 inches and circumcised.

CONTENT WARNING!

This story is 18+ and may involve themes of sexual intercourse between male characters, all underage. If this story offends you, or if you live in an area where it is outlawed, or if you're under the legal age, then please do not read and click yourself out of this site, just to save yourself from a life of sin. This is supposed to be 100% fictional, any similarity to individuals, living or dead, is entirely accidental. Thank you!

- Spectrotica

Chapter One - "New Game"

...

Four young male friends, Garrett Hobbs, Josh Lee, Hunter Payne, and Paul Williams, all 9th graders, dragged their feet up the driveway to Garrett's three-story house in a rural neighborhood, grateful of having survived another long, boring-ass day (or I should say... WEEK) of high school.

Garrett Hobbs, the oldest at 15, led the pack with a loose-limbed stride that made his freckled nose catch the late afternoon sun. His mushroom-cap haircut: blonde strands flopping over gray-blue eyes (and hidden under his dark-green U.S. polo assin cap with an American flag patch sewn on the front), giving him the look of a slightly disheveled garden gnome who'd seen things. Tall and lanky, he moved with the careless confidence of someone who'd never been told 'no' twice. Not cruel, just... persistently optimistic.

For example, when Josh tripped over a loose paver, Garrett's laugh was a bright, barking thing that didn't mock but invited you to laugh too. "Watch it, Lee! Concrete's hungry today." His voice held that rasp of early puberty, but beneath it thrummed an easy authority. The group orbited him naturally; he was their north star, not because he demanded it, but because he made decisions that felt like adventures. Even now, digging keys from his jeans pocket—fabric worn thin at the knees—he hummed some tuneless song, utterly present.

Speaking of Josh—Joshua Lee, 14, Chinese, and built like a reed in monsoon season—he scrambled up after Garrett's laugh, dusting off his black sweatpants. His raven-black quiff stayed stubbornly perfect, defying gravity as if physics owed it a favor. Sharp cheekbones sliced through the fading light, giving him a look somewhere between runway model and stray cat. But his eyes? Deep brown, wide-set, and perpetually scanning—like he was calculating escape routes from a conversation. He had a knack for seeing through the most complex puzzles and games.

"Hungry concrete?" Josh shot back, voice smooth but edged with sarcasm. "Next time, tell it I'm not on the menu." He nudged Hunter with an elbow, grinning. "Unless Payne here's offering himself as bait."

Hunter Payne, also 14 years of age, the same race as Garrett (although his skin is two-toned darker from his father's side), and shaped like a well-loved teddy bear—blushed instantly, the color blooming across his round cheeks like spilled strawberry jam. His gentle dark-green eyes widened as he fumbled with the strap of his overloaded backpack. "Shut up, Josh," he mumbled, but the corners of his mouth twitched upward.

Hunter's body was soft and endomorphic, a testament to his love for cheese-stuffed pretzels and late-night gaming snacks. His short wavy brown hair stuck up in chaotic tufts, resisting any attempt at order. Unlike Garrett's effortless leadership or Josh's sharp wit, Hunter radiated quiet warmth—the kind who'd share his last cookie without hesitation. He's also laid-back and quite the charmer, could talk his way into or out of almost any situation with a disarming smile.

And lastly, Paul Williams, African-American, his hair, a wild tapestry mohawk of shiny black curls, bobbed as he coiled like a spring beneath his basketball jersey. His dark-brown eyes, windows to a soul full of humor and empathy, searched the horizon for the next big laugh or heart-to-heart conversation. At 14 years old, the same age as Josh and Hunter, Paul's height was average, but his personality was anything but. The young athlete was the glue of the group, the one who could turn a mundane situation into an epic sage with a single joke to lighten the mood or a comforting pat on the back when one of them was down.

Paul deliberately stomped on the pavers. The crack of worn concrete under his sneakers echoed Josh's stumble, a sharp punctuation mark to Garrett's laugh. "Hungry concrete?" He snorted, bouncing on the balls of his feet like he was sizing up a rebound. "More like Garrett's driveway's got the munchies. Bet it ate Josh's dignity for lunch." His grin flashed white against his tannish-brown skin, eyes darting between Hunter's flushed cheeks and Josh's mock-offended glare. "Don't worry, Lee. Dignity's overrated. Hunter traded his for extra cheese puffs ages ago."

Hunter shoved Paul lightly, the movement making his backpack straps dig into his shoulders. "Did not! Cheese puffs are... strategic." His mumbled protest dissolved into a chuckle, the sound warm and doughy.

The boys had been inseparable since their first year in middle school, and now they've powered their way to their high school freshmen year together. Their friendship forged through comic books, video games, countless sleepovers, shared lunches, and dumb dares. They had seen each other through the ups and downs of early adolescence, from awkward crushes to schoolyard scuffles, and had formed a bond that was as unshakeable as it was unspoken.

Garrett inserts the key to the lock, and the brass cylinder clicks open with a sound like a Lego brick snapping into place. Inside, the Hobbs residence greeted the quadrant of friends with its signature scent: pine-sol layered over faint vanilla plug-ins, and the pristine silence of a museum exhibit.

"Man, thank GOD it's Friday. No homework and no annoying teachers for two more days," The blonde boy was the first in the house to speak with a long sigh he's been holding in all day, kicking off his sneakers onto the mat labeled "WIPE YOUR PAWS." The tile floor felt cool against his socks. "I'm telling you guys, school is killing me. If I had to sit through one more lecture about mitochondria being the powerhouse of the cell, I was gonna turn into a powerhouse of violence!"

Josh followed, tossing his backpack onto the plush cream couch with a groan. "Right? Today was brutal. Mr. Pence gave us a pop quiz on quadratic equations and assigned a five-page essay on 'The Scarlet Letter'." He flopped onto the cushions, his sleek quiff barely shifting. "Like, who even cares about adultery in Puritan times? We're freshmen! Let us sin in peace!"

Hunter shuffled in next, already rummaging in his backpack. He pulled out a slightly crushed bag of cheese puffs triumphantly. "Sin? Speak for yourself. I spent lunch hiding in the band room because this girl Becky Miller tried to 'accidentally' bump into me again." He popped a puff into his mouth, crumbs dusting his chin. "Her perfume smells like a candy store exploded. It's terrifying."

Paul bounced in last, slamming the door shut with his heel. "Becky Miller? Dude, she's got laser focus on you, Payne. Like a hawk… a really glittery hawk." He dropped his basketball onto the coffee table, making a small vase wobble. "But seriously, today? Worst. Gym class. Ever. Coach made us run suicides until Lopez puked right on the free-throw line. Smelled like regret and protein shakes." He shuddered dramatically.

Garrett snorted, taking off his cap to reveal flattened blonde hair plastered to his forehead. He threw his hands at the back of his head while leaning against the corner. "Lopez always pukes. That guy's stomach is made of tissue paper."

"Well at least he don't have Algebra as same period with you, G." Josh replied with a playful glare. "You'd be humming that annoying TikTok song ALL throughout class over and over. 'Oh no, oh no, oh no no no no no...'"

"Hey, it's catchy." The blonde gave the Asian boy a casual shrug. "Plus, it drowns out Mrs. Crowder's dronings."

"Remind me why we go to school again?" inquired Hunter before popping a cheese doodle in his mouth, allowing Josh to take another from the bag for himself. "Besides the 'privilege' of learning?"

Garrett pushes himself off the wall, dropping his hands into his jeans pockets. "Parents. Society. The crushing weight of expectations. Three... three more years of this torture." He sighs dramatically.

"Well at least there's drama." Josh made a singy-song tone on the last part of his sentence. "Like today, Jenny Chen dumped Kyle Morris, via sticky note, on his locker. He cried during bio." He grinned. "Best week ever, I tell you. That guy deserved it for being a jerk to me last semester."

Hunter nodded vigorously, cheese puff crumbs raining down his shirt. "Totally deserved it. Remember when he stole my pudding cup?"

Garrett grinned. "Classic Kyle."

"Or when he called my mom a 'dragon lady'?" Josh added, voice sharpening for a fraction of a second before smoothing back into its usual sarcasm. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "Honestly, sticky note dumping? Kinda genius. Low-effort, maximum humiliation."

Hunter mumbled agreement around another cheese puff, crumbs clinging to his dimpled chin. "Yeah, but sticky? Like, what if it doesn't peel out clean?"

Paul snorted, bouncing slightly on the red sofa. "Peel out? Nah, man." He leaned back and begin to dig his index finger casually toward his left nostril. "Kyle's dignity peeled out faster than..." He paused mid-sentence, finger twisting deep inside his nose with focused intensity. The other three boys froze, eyes widening. "... than this bad boy!" The curly-haired boy finished triumphantly, pulling out a pea-sized bogie that was the color of a sun-dried raisin pinched between his fingertip. He held it aloft like a trophy.

Hunter choked on his cheese puff. "DUDE!" he gagged, recoiling so hard he nearly fell off the couch. "What the hell, Paul?! That is nasty!"

Garrett burst out laughing, a sharp bark that echoed off the sterile walls. "Gross! Put that thing away! It looks like fossilized snot!"

Joshua wrinkled his nose, leaning away. "Seriously, Williams? Some of us are eating here."

Unrepentant, Paul shrugged off the playful scolding with a laugh, flicking the booger away with the same dramatic flourish he'd used to reveal it. "Hey, you know me, always looking for the bright side," he said, winking. "And what's life without a little bit of disgusting magic?"

Hunter gagged, loosing at bit of his appetite for cheese puffs. "You better keep it away from us, Paul?!" he choked out, scrambling backwards on the couch cushions like they'd suddenly caught fire.

"Yeah, you're sick, man," Garrett said through his laughter, his eyes watering. "But that's why we love you."

"No homo, right?" Paul asked, still chuckling at his own joke.

"Right... definitely no homo, bro," The Hobbs teen reply, wiping his eyes.

Seriously? Is everything homo to him? The thought flickered through Josh's mind as Garrett's laughter bounced off the sterile Hobbs' family room walls. He didn't voice it. Instead, the Chinese teen watched Paul wipe the offending trophy on his basketball shorts, Hunter still shuddering dramatically, Garrett wiping tears from his eyes. They were all too aware of the social minefield that was high school masculinity – jokes about 'no homo' were armor, clumsy but necessary.

"Alright, you degenerates," Garrett announced, clapping his hands like a camp counselor rallying troops. "Operation: Forget School commences now. Basement?" He jerked his thumb toward the hallway.

"BASEMENT!" Paul echoed, already bouncing toward the stairs, the booger incident forgotten as quickly as it appeared. Hunter scrambled after him, clutching his cheese puffs protectively. Josh followed, rolling his eyes but with a faint smile playing on his lips. Garrett brought up the rear, flicking the living room light off.

The descent into Garrett's basement was like stepping into a different world - a steamy and sometimes chaotic haven. The scent of stale popcorn, damp concrete, and the specter of innumerable pizza evenings permeated the air. Buzzing overhead fluorescents threw harsh light on mismatched furnishings, including a huge, antiquated TV cabinet with a shockingly new flat-screen, beanbags oozing polystyrene beads, and a drooping plaid couch. Beneath it, controllers for video game consoles were scattered across a coffee table covered in crumpled chip bags and Coke cans, twisted like electronic spaghetti. The concrete walls were covered in faded superheroes and posters of bands Josh had never heard of. In one corner, next to a treadmill covered in laundry, was a dusty foosball table.

Hunter immediately made a beeline for the foosball table. "Paul! Rematch!" he yelled, tossing his cheese puff bag onto the couch. "You won last time because Josh distracted me with that story about Mrs. Hampton's wig!"

Paul grinned, bouncing over. "Excuses, Payne! Prepare to get schooled!" He grabbed the handles on his side, spinning the plastic players with practiced flicks. The clatter of the little plastic soccer balls against the rods filled the basement as they began their match, Hunter's intense concentration contrasting with Paul's loose, rhythmic movements.

Meanwhile, Garrett had already sunk into a plush purple beanbag, the polystyrene beads sighing under his weight. He grabbed a Switch controller, the screen flickering to life with the cartoonish, spooky glow of Luigi's Mansion 3. Luigi's frightened yelps reverberated from the screen as Garrett navigated the green-capped plumber through a haunted hotel hallway, sucking up ghosts with his Poltergust G-00. His freckled face was bathed in the eerie blue light, utterly absorbed.

Josh flopped into a faded orange beanbag beside Garrett, pulling out his phone. The bright screen illuminated his sharp features as he scrolled through a dizzying feed – memes of cats wearing tiny hats, a clip of a skateboarder wiping out spectacularly, a news snippet about Indian elephants migrating unexpectedly, someone's overly dramatic IMDB review of a movie he hadn't seen. His thumb moved with bored efficiency, a low hum escaping him. The frantic clack of the foosball game and the mocking laughter of Luigi's ghostly opponents provided a disjointed soundtrack.

As the minutes stretched into an hour, the clanging of the foosball table grew steadier, a metronome to the sound of their laughter and grunts of effort. Paul had managed to pull off an impressive streak, winning game after game with a finesse that left Hunter both admiring and slightly miffed.

"Five in a row, baby!" Paul shouted triumphantly, his fist pumping the air like a miniature Tyson. "Looks like you need to step up your game, Hunt!"

Hunter threw up his hands in a mock surrender, his cheeks flushed from exertion and frustration. He laughed as he said, "Okay, Paul, you got me this time. Perhaps I should practice my foosball skills."

"Why don't you guys give it a rest?" Garrett suggested, pausing Luigi mid-ghost-suck. The sudden silence made Hunter's panting audible. "My ears are ringing worse than when Lopez yakked."

Paul, his competitive spirit undeterred, ignored the bowl-haired Caucasian boy's comment and turned to his opponent. "You wanna keep playing, man?" he asked, the challenge clear in his eyes.

But the wavy-haired teen had heard his blonde friend's suggestion. He took a step back, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. "Garrett's right," he said, a hint of defeat in his voice. "We've been at this for ages. Maybe we should take a breather."

Paul looked at him incredulously. "Come on, man," he protested. "You're just saying that 'cause I'm kicking your ass!"

"It's not that," Hunter said, holding up his hands in a peace offering. "My fingers feel like overcooked spaghetti noodles." He flexed them, wincing slightly. "Seriously, Paul, you're a machine."

Paul grinned with pride, leaning against the foosball table. "Gotta stay sharp for the court, man. Reflexes." He mimed a quick dribble and shot. "But fine. Just remember, I'm the king of the foos!"

"Yeah, whatever, man," Hunter said, rolling his eyes playfully before turning to the mini fridge for the Fanta sodas. "Anyone want a soda?"

"Always," Paul called back. "But only if it's the blue kind. The red tastes like cough medicine."

Josh rolled his eyes as he got up from the couch. "Everything tastes like cough medicine to you, Williams." He stretched, his skinny frame cracking audibly.

Hunter returned with three frosty cans – two blue Fanta for Paul and himself, one orange for Josh. Garrett waved him off, eyes glued to Luigi battling the ghost maid boss. "Nah, I'm good. Still got half my Mountain Dew."

Paul popped his can open with a satisfying hiss, taking a long gulp. "Ahhh. Nectar of the gods." He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then grinned slyly at Hunter. "So... rematch later? Or you scared?"

"Scared?" Hunter scoffed, though his cheeks flushed again. "Just strategizing. Like chess... but with spinning plastic dudes."

"Yo Hobbs, Lee, y'all wanna play a round?" Paul asked, spinning a foosball man with a flick that made the rod whine. "Double teams? Me and Hunt versus you two?" He bounced on his toes, hoping to involve them in action. "Show us what you got!"

Garrett didn't tear his eyes from the screen. "Nah, Williams," he mumbled, thumb jamming a button. "Busy getting the suitcase that damn ghost maid had stolen. Professor E. Gadd needs it."

Josh, who'd returned back to the couch, scrolling past a video of a squirrel stealing a whole sandwich, snorted without looking up. "And I'm plumbing the depths of existential dread via TikTok. Hard pass." He paused his scrolling, squinting at a clip of a guy attempting a backflip off a shopping cart. "Also, Paul? You play foosball like a caffeinated mongoose hopped up on Red Bull. It's terrifying."

Paul's smile faltered a bit. "What, you two think you're too cool for a game?" he teased, trying to lighten the mood. But their lack of interest stung. "You're missing out," he said with forced cheerfulness. "We're playing like champions over here!"

"If by 'champions' you mean 'chaos gremlins', then yeah," Josh muttered, not unkindly. The blue Fanta fizzed in his hand, untouched.

Paul's face fell, and he couldn't hold back the frustration anymore. He knew his friends were just tired from the week, but he couldn't help but feel a little annoyed. "Agh, you guys are no fun," he grumbled. "You both just sit on your lazy asses and stare at screens while Hunter and I were actually doing something."

Garrett sighed dramatically, pausing Luigi mid-suck once again. "Paulie, man, it's Friday. We're wiped. School sucked the energy outta us like a Dementor."

Josh nodded without looking up from his phone. "Exactly. Existential dread scrolling takes effort."

Hunter took a swig of his soda, pondering for a moment. "Maybe... maybe we could do something else? Together? Like..." He trailed off, searching for an idea that didn't involve spinning rods or vacuuming ghosts.

The eldest of the group tilted his head, finally tearing his gaze from the screen. "Like what, Hunt? Twister? That ended badly last time." He gestured vaguely at the ceiling, recalling Paul's elbow accidentally connecting with Josh's nose during a particularly ambitious stretch.

The Asian boy shuddered. "Never again. My septum hasn't forgiven you, Williams."

Paul grinned, the annoyance fading. "Hey, that was an accident! And totally worth it." He bounced on his toes again, the competitive spark reigniting. "Okay, okay, no Twister. What do you think we should play, Hunt?"

A mischievous grin spread across the wavy-haired teen's face, fueled by leftover adrenaline and blue Fanta. "Okay, hear me out," he began, crumpling his empty can with a satisfying crunch. "What if... we played poker?"

Paul's smile faltered for a moment. "Poker?" he echoed. "Seriously, Hunt? THAT'S your idea of fun?"

"But wait, it's not just any poker," Hunter clarified. "Like, what if, instead of poker, we play high card wins? Whoever gets the lowest has to take off one piece of their clothing."

The dark-skinned boy with a curly mohawk froze, slack-jawed disbelief. "Take off—? Hunt, are you high!?"

Garrett snorted, tossing his Switch controller onto the beanbag like it was suddenly radioactive. "Dude, this is strip poker you're talking about. And we're high school teenagers, not characters in some lame '90s sitcom where everyone learns wholesome lessons about boundaries." He rubbed the back of his neck, a flicker of unease crossing his freckled face. "That stuff's... weird."

But the Payne boy wasn't deterred. "Come on, guys, we gotta try at least something new," he urged. "It'll be a blast. Plus, Garrett, you said your mom's gonna be working a late shift tonight, right? So this means we have the whole house to ourselves and we won't have to worry about anyone walking in."

Paul, the self-proclaimed joker of the group, usually had a comeback for everything. But the idea of playing a game that could potentially become awkwardly intimate had even him stumbling for words. "I don't know, man," he finally said, his usual humor absent from his voice. "That seems a bit... gay."

Hunter's smile grew wider, the mischief in his eyes now a full-blown twinkle. "Come on, Paul," he said, poking his friend in the ribs. "You don't think it'd be hilarious? Just imagine the look on your face when you have to take off your shirt because of a freaking two of clubs! If you guys are really that bad at poker, you can just bluff your way through it."

Paul rolled his eyes. "Yeah, because that's totally not going to end with us all sitting here in our underwear," he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

But Josh, his curiosity piqued, seems to like this new idea. "Hold up," he said, lowering his phone. A sly grin spread across his face. "Strip poker, you say? That's... actually kinda brilliant." He let out a mischievous chuckle. "Think about it. The sheer panic on someone's face when they're close to removing their undies? Priceless. Plus, Hunter's right. Garrett's mom won't be home till like midnight. Zero witnesses."

The blonde leader of the pack shifted uncomfortably in his beanbag, the polystyrene beads crunching like dry bones beneath him. Hunter's suggestion hung thick in the basement air, smelling faintly of stale popcorn and adolescent desperation. Him? Playing strip poker... with them? His immediate reaction had been pure, instinctive rejection – weird, gay, sitcom-level stupid. But Josh's sudden enthusiasm was infectious, and Paul's stunned silence felt... charged. Garrett stared at the paused screen.

Then again, like Josh mentioned, Garrett's mom wouldn't be back for hours. A tiny spark of reckless optimism, Garrett's trademark, flickered beneath the unease. Eh, what's the worst that could happen? He pictured Hunter, flustered and shirtless over a bad hand, and a reluctant chuckle escaped him.

"Alright, Payne," the 15-year-old said slowly, a hesitant grin spreading across his freckled face. He pushed himself up, the beanbag sighing in relief. "You win. You want to add the spice, then let's see how this train wreck unfolds. Whoever loses the round is gonna have an embarrassing time. We could also get some good Insta story posts out of this."

Josh whooped, tossing his phone onto the beanbag where it landed face-down. "Yes! Operation: Humiliation Commence!" He scrambled towards a dusty cabinet tucked beside the foosball table. "Cards! Where does your mom keep cards, Hobbs? Board games?"

"Top shelf!" Garrett called out, pointing to a cabinet near the dusty treadmill. "Beside the Monopoly box that's missing the thimble. Classic Hobbs family curse." He rubbed his hands together, the unease melting into boyish excitement. "This is gonna be legendary."

Paul looked at his friends, the excitement in their eyes a complete opposite to his own apprehension. "Hold up, guys," he said, raising a hand. "We're seriously doing this? Strip poker!?"

Hunter grinned, pulling a faded deck of cards from the Monopoly box. "What's wrong, Williams? You're not thinking about chickening out, are ya?" He shuffled clumsily, cards spraying onto the coffee table. "We're just messing around."

Paul shifted his weight, glancing at the concrete walls plastered with peeling posters. "It's just... stripping? With you guys? Feels kinda..." He trailed off, scratching the back of his neck.

Josh snorted, kicking a stray controller aside. "Seriously? We've seen each other in our underwear a million times after gym class." He gestured around the dim basement. "Look, there are no girls here. No windows. Just us and the frickin' dust bunnies under Hobbs' couch."

Hunter nodded, scooping up the spilled cards. "Exactly! And think about it—when we hit our 30s, sitting in some boring office job, we'll probably crack up remembering Garrett losing his socks over a pair of twos." He shot Garrett a mischievous look. "Or worse."

The oldest of the four groaned, but a reluctant smile tugged at his lips. "Fine, fine. Deal the damn cards." He plopped onto the worn plaid chair, patting the space beside him. "Williams, quit hovering. It's just high card wins, loser loses a layer. Simple."

Paul hesitated, then shrugged, knowing that agreeing to this could lead to an evening none of them would forget, but he also knew that saying 'no' might mean missing out on a memory they'd all share. He slid onto the chair cushion. "Alright, alright. But if I end up naked first, Hunter, you're giving me some of your snacks to take home since you brought this up first."

Hunter grinned, shuffling the worn deck with clumsy enthusiasm. "Deal! Now, sit tight and prepare to lose your dignity." He dealt five cards facedown to each player: Garrett, Josh, Paul, and himself. "Alright, since I'm the mastermind behind this," Hunter said with a smug grin, "I'll deal everyone one card, face down. When I say 'flip', we flip 'em over, and the person with the lowest number has to take off a piece of clothing."

Josh scoffed. "You're the mastermind? More like the guy who'll be shirtless first."

"Will see if you'll be the one eating your own words," Hunter shot back, tapping his card dramatically. "Rules: Aces are high, and we're starting with the basics. Shoes are the first to be taken off, and you gotta take 'em off together like a champ." He winked at Paul, who swallowed hard, his hands shaking slightly as he took his card. "And belts and watches are one piece too. So, if you're wearing a belt, you can't just take off the watch and call it even. Alright, any questions?"

The three shook their heads in unison, all dismissing Hunter's question about rules. They kicked off their sneakers in a messy pile: Garrett's worn Nikes, Paul's pristine Jordans, and Hunter's scuffed Vans. Josh was the only one wearing sandals. He opens the straps slowly, pulling his feet free. They all sat barefoot now, socks exposed—Garrett's mismatched neon crew socks, Paul's plain black ankle socks, Hunter's faded band logo tubes, and Josh's thin bamboo no-shows. The concrete floor felt cool and gritty beneath their soles.

"Okay," Hunter announced, "let's get this party started."

The four friends leaned in, their eyes glued to their cards. Hunter begins the countdown. "Three... two... one... FLIP!"

With a collective snap, the cards revealed their secrets. Garrett held a 7, Hunter had a 9, and Paul's dark eyes widened as he stared down at the Queen of Hearts, the most powerful card in their makeshift game. But it was Joshua who held the short end of the stick with a 4, his face flushing slightly as he realized he had drawn the lowest number.

"Well, well, well," Hunter said with a smug grin, pointing a finger at Josh. "Looks like I was right 'bout you eating your words first! Pay up, Joshie. Lose a layer!"

The Chinese boy rolled his eyes so hard it looked painful. "Seriously? A four? Out of fifty-two cards?" He sighed dramatically, his sharp features twisting in mock outrage. "Agh... fuck it. Least it's just jewelry." With a practiced flick of his fingers, he undid the clasp of the thin silver chain resting against his collarbones. It slid off silently, landing on the coffee table next to a crumpled chip bag with a faint tink. "There. Happy? My dignity's officially pooched."

Hunter chuckled, scooping the cards back. "Dignity's overrated, Lee. Now we're warmed up!" He shuffled with renewed vigor, the cards snick-snack-ing against each other. "Alright losers, round two! Remember, lowest card strips!" He dealt again, the single cards landing face down with soft thwips.

Garrett picked up his card, squinting at it sideways like it might bite. Paul drummed his fingers on the armrest, his usual bravado replaced by nervous energy. Josh leaned forward, elbows on knees, already strategizing. Hunter grinned, tapping his own card. "Three... two... one... FLIP!"

The four friends revealed their cards in a flash of cheap cardboard. Hunter grinned at his 8, Paul smirked at his Jack of Hearts like he'd won the lottery, and Josh shrugged at his respectable 10. Garrett stared at his 6 like it was a personal insult. A slow, crimson tide crept up his neck, flooding his freckles until they vanished beneath the blush.

"Heh! Looks like you're up, G," Hunter said with a smirk, leaning back in his chair.

The 15-year-old with a bowl haircut stared at the six of clubs like it had personally betrayed him. "You gotta be kidding me," he muttered, his blush deepening. "Two rounds in and I'm already losing jewelry?"

With a resigned sigh, he reached up to his left ear. His fingers fumbled slightly—nerves making them clumsy—before unhooking the tiny silver clasp of his stud diamond earring. It came free with a minuscule click. He repeated the motion on his right ear, feeling the metal slip away from his earlobe, before dropping both studs onto the coffee table where they landed beside Josh's chain with twin metallic tinks. The small diamonds caught the basement's dim overhead light, winking like trapped stars against the woodgrain laminate.

Hunter scooped the cards back, shuffling with exaggerated flair. "Alright, Hobbs! Now we're getting somewhere." He dealt the next round, the cards whispering onto the coffee table. "Lowest card strips! Three... two... one... FLIP!" The cards hit the table with a slap, revealing their hidden values.

Garrett smirked, flipping his King of Spades like a royal decree. "Suck it!" he crowed, leaning back triumphantly.

Josh glanced at his solid 10, nodding with cautious relief.

Paul practically vibrated, slamming down the Ace of Hearts with a triumphant shout. "Highest card, baby! Eat your hearts out!"

But Hunter froze. He stared down at his own card—a pitiful 6 of Diamonds—as if it had personally insulted his ancestors. His grin vanished, replaced by a look of utter betrayal. "You've gotta be kidding me," he groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "Seriously? A freaking SIX!?"

"Uh, oh," Garrett said, his voice thick with amusement. "Now look who's gonna be showing some skin?"

Hunter scowled at his card like it had personally offended him. "Shut up, Hobbs." He pushed himself up from the faded armchair, the springs groaning. "Fine. Rules are rules." With a deliberate slowness, he grabbed the hem of his orange-and-black striped t-shirt – a souvenir from a long-forgotten school spirit day. He peeled it upwards, the fabric catching briefly on the back of his head before he yanked it free. Underneath, a plain white tank top, slightly stretched and thin from countless washes, clung to his torso.

The basement air felt suddenly cooler against his exposed shoulders and arms. Hunter wasn't bulky, but lean muscle corded his biceps and shoulders – the kind earned from hauling equipment for his dad's landscaping business every summer since he was twelve. He flexed instinctively, a smirk playing on his lips despite the blush creeping up his neck. "See? Told you I wasn't gonna be first shirtless. Payne's got some dignity left." He struck a mock-bodybuilder pose, veins tracing faint paths under his skin. "Admit it, Hobbs. You're just jealous of the guns."

"Jealous?" Garrett snorted. "Please. My guns are purely intellectual." He tapped his temple. "Besides, your tank top's practically see-through, Hunt. We can all see your nipple ring."

Hunter froze mid-flex, arms dropping to his sides. "Shut up! It's not—" He glanced down, tugging at the thin white fabric. "Okay, maybe a little. But it's subtle!"

Garrett leaned forward, squinting theatrically. "Subtle? Dude, it's like a tiny disco ball flashing 'look at me' every time you breathe."

The brunet crossed his arms defensively, the thin tank top straining. "It's a titanium stud, okay? Got it last month. Pain level? Zero. Coolness? Infinite." He glanced at Paul, who was unusually quiet, staring at his own untouched card. "Paul? You're zoning. Scared you're next?"

Paul snapped his gaze up, cheeks flushing darker than Hunter's blush. "What? No! Just... thinking." He cleared his throat, fumbling with his card. "About... foosball strategies. For next time."

Josh scoffed, kicking Paul's ankle lightly. "Strategies? Dude, you just got an Ace. Chill." He leaned back, stretching his arms. "Plus, you're the only one who's still fully dressed."

"Let's see if he stays like that for the next round," Garrett teased.

The dark-skinned boy gulped. He hoped fervently that the next round of cards would be more favorable to him. The excitement in the room was visible as they took a collective breath and waited for Hunter to deal again.

Come on, universe, he whispered in his head, don't make me lose whatever's on me in front of my dudes.

Hunter scooped the cards back, the worn edges catching the dim basement light. His fingers moved with clumsy speed, the shhhk-shhhk sound loud in the sudden quiet. Paul watched the cards flutter, his gaze fixed on Hunter's hands like they held his fate.

"Alright, losers," Hunter announced, a forced cheerfulness in his voice. "Round... uh, whatever. Flip on three!" He dealt the single cards with quick slaps. "Three... two... one... FLIP!"

Paul's heart sank as he stared at the 3 of clubs. The room erupted in laughter as Garrett held up his 9 of spades with a smug smile, Joshua chuckled nervously at his 5 of diamonds, and Hunter grinned triumphantly with the King of hearts.

WHAT!? Fucking damn it, are you kidding me!? The curly-haired teen thought with dismay.

Paul stared at the 3 of clubs like it was a death sentence. The basement's fluorescent light buzzed overhead, suddenly loud. Hunter's smug grin widened. "Ooooh, look at that," he drawled, leaning back in his chair with a snicker. "Looks like the "king of foos" just got dethroned by a three."

Garrett snorted. "Pay up, Williams. Lose a layer."

Paul's heart hammered in his chest as he realized his fate. "Dammit," he murmured, his eyes glaring to the 3 of clubs that betrayed him. He reached for the gold chain necklace around his neck, the one with the small cross that had been a gift from his late older cousin Tyrone.

"Wear it right, little man. Real gold shows you ain't playin'." Tyrone had grinned, ruffling Paul's hair. That was three weeks before the fatal car crash.

The 14-year-old athlete unclapsed it and tossed it onto the table.

Josh couldn't help but chuckle. "Looks like we're all one piece lighter from the first four rounds." he said with a smirk.

The basement grew increasingly warm with the combination of their body heat and the shedding of their layers. The sound of cards slapping down on the table grew louder, punctuated by the occasional jingle of a belt buckle or the soft thud of a piece of jewelry landing on the wooden surface. Each round brought a new set of giggles and groans, the stakes rising with every clothing item that left their bodies.

During the 6th round, Josh, his poker face as solid as ever, finally cracked under the pressure when he drew a 2, the lowest card of the round. With a dramatic sigh, he slid the black-and-white yin-yang bracelet off his wrist—a cheap plastic trinket bought at a street fair last summer. It landed silently on the coffee table, joining the growing pile of discarded accessories.

A few rounds later (the 9th round), he took off his socks after getting 5 as the lowest, one at a time, his toes wiggling in the cool basement air. "Looks like I'm going for the minimalist look today," he quipped, trying to keep the mood light despite the racing of his heart.

In the 8th round, Paul, who had been blessed with high cards for the past few rounds, found his luck had abandoned him as he drew a 4, the lowest of the bunch. "Well, shit," he muttered, unzipping his jacket with a sense of inevitability. He shrugged it off, revealing his dark-blue and white sleeveless basketball jersey underneath with the number '14' imprinted, which is consequential when you think about his age.

In the 10th round, he removed his leather belt as a price for getting a 4 again, dropping it to the floor. But, remembering what Hunter says about belts and watches being one piece, he realized that he had to remove his watch next, as per Hunter's rules.

Paul stared at his wristwatch—a chunky silver Casio G-Shock with a scratched bezel and faded digital display. It felt heavier suddenly, like a shackle. He'd bought it himself last summer with lawn-mowing money, proud of its "atomic timekeeping" and "200m water resistance." Now, it symbolized everything he didn't want to lose.

"Rules are rules, Williams," Hunter reminded him, leaning forward. His tank top rode up slightly, revealing a strip of tanned skin above his jeans. "Watch counts as one piece. Off it comes."

Paul's fingers trembled slightly as he fumbled with the clasp of his Casio G-Shock. The worn plastic strap resisted for a moment before releasing with a dull snap. He tossed it onto the coffee table. It landed beside his gold chain, the digital face blinking 6:27 PM like a silent accusation. His wrist felt naked, vulnerable. He rubbed the pale strip of skin where the watch had been. "Happy?" he muttered, avoiding eye contact.

And in the 13th round, he got a 2, and so his two socks joined the same fate as his belt, one after the other, landing like limp noodles beside his bare feet. Despite his feigned nonchalance, his cheeks were as red as a ripe tomato.

During the 5th round, Garrett got a 6 card as the lowest, and so he had to unclip his chain necklace with the small 'G' charm, setting it on the table with a clink. Then in the 7th round, with a grimace for having a 3, he took off his silver ring, the one he'd gotten for his first communion, and placed it beside his necklace. Then came the 12th round, he got a 2, and he peeled off his left sock, his foot joining the sock graveyard on the floor.

And with Hunter, in the 11th round, he drew the short straw with a 3. With a wink at his friends, he slipped his right sock off, leaving only his left sock to keep his dignity somewhat intact. The 14th round, the 6 card, he placed his ring and necklace on the pile, the glint of metal now added to the growing pile of their inhibitions shimmering in the light.

Finally came the following round, he lost again by having a 2 card. Hunter stood up from his chair, his playfulness now tinged with a touch of nerves. He unbuckled his black leather belt with a theatrical flourish, the silver buckle glinting in the dim light. With a look that could only be described as 'playful seriousness', a Hunter Payne specialty, he slung the coiled leather strap over his shoulder like a bandolier. His other hand landed instinctively on his belly, a soft curve beneath his thin white tank top that spoke of late-night snacks and skipped workouts. It wasn't fat, exactly—more like the comfortable padding of a guy who prioritized fun over gym time.

Paul snorted, leaning back in his chair. "Whoa there, Mr. G.I. Joe," he teased, pointing at the coiled belt. "You gonna whip us into shape if we win too much?" He chuckled, but his eyes tracked Hunter's movements with nervous energy.

Hunter paused, letting the leather strap slide slowly through his fingers. A slow, dangerous grin spread across his face. "Maybe," he drawled, his voice dropping an octave into a low, unfamiliar rumble. "Y'all start actin' up... might have to teach your ass some manners." He snapped the belt taut with a sharp whap against his own palm.

Paul chuckled, low and raspy, leaning forward with elbows on his knees. "Damn, Hunt. You sound exactly like my brother Lionel when I was, like, eight." Lionel Williams was six years older than him, built like a linebacker, and famously terrifying when provoked. Paul mimicked a gruff voice, deepening it comically. "'Keep teasin' me 'bout my girl, squirt, and I'm 'bout to take off my belt!'" the Williams boy snorted, shaking his head. "The way he pulled that thing from his pants scared the crap outta me back then. But he never actually swung it, though. Too scared Mama would find out."

Hunter froze mid-stride, the coiled belt still draped over his shoulder. A slow, wicked grin spread across his face. "Oh yeah?" He took a deliberate step towards Paul, the concrete cool under his bare feet. "Maybe your brother knew somethin'." He snapped the belt again, the sharp crack echoing louder this time. "Maybe li'l brothers do need a reminder now and then."

He lunged playfully, not touching Paul, but close enough to make the curly-haired teen flinch back against the armchair cushions with a startled yelp. Garrett and Josh burst out laughing.

"Alright, simmer down, cowboy," Josh said, snickering. "Deal the damn cards before Payne actually starts whippin' asses." He nudged Hunter's leg with his sock-covered foot. "My dignity's hangin' by a thread here."

Hunter chuckled, tossing the belt onto the growing pile of discarded clothes near the foosball table. It landed with a soft thud atop Paul's jacket. "Fine, fine. But remember," he pointed the deck of cards at Paul, "next smart remark gets you an extra round." He shuffled with exaggerated flair, the cards snick-snack-ing. "Okay, losers. Round... Fifteen?"

"Sixteen." Garrett corrected him.

"Yeah, whatever. Flip on three!" The brunet Caucasian boy dealt the single cards swiftly. "Three... two... one... FLIP!"

The quartet revealed their fates: Garrett and Paul had both drawn kings, while Joshua's eyes fell upon the lonely jack, and Hunter held a regal queen. "Ah, the royal flush of doom," Garrett said, chuckling as he nodded to their Chinese friend.

Josh's shoulders slumped, and he couldn't help but let out a dramatic sigh as he pushed his chair back. "Alright, alright," he said with a playful scowl. "Looks like I've gotta pay the price for my 'royal highness'."

With a flourish that would have made any Vegas dealer proud, Josh grabbed the hem of his purple-and-black striped t-shirt (with the thin white racing stripe down the sides) and peeled it upwards. The fabric clung briefly to his sweat-damp skin before he pulled it over his head. Underneath, a faded red wifebeater tank top clung tightly to his lean torso. It was threadbare around the neckline and stretched thin across his chest, revealing the sharp lines of his collarbones and the wiry muscle definition earned from years of competitive swimming. A faint dusting of dark hair trailed down from his navel, disappearing beneath the waistband of his jeans.

Josh tossed the shirt onto the growing pile near the foosball table, where it landed atop Hunter's discarded belt. "There," he announced, running a hand through his dark quiff. "Happy now? I'm officially half-naked in the damn basement. My mom would freak."

Garrett snorted. "Your mom thinks tank tops are 'scandalous,' Lee. Remember that church picnic?" He mimicked a high-pitched voice. "'Joshua Lee! Cover those shoulders!'"

Josh shuddered dramatically. "Don't remind me. Aunt Mei clutched her pearls so hard I thought they'd turn to dust." He tugged at the thin strap of his wifebeater. "This thing's older than Paul's Casio. Probably radioactive."

"Older?" The curly-haired boy retorted. "Hey! My Casio's a classic. Built like a tank." He rubbed his bare wrist again, the pale strip stark against his tan skin.

Hunter scoffed, gathering the cards with a messy swipe. "Classic? Looks like you dragged it through concrete." He shuffled clumsily, the cards threatening to spill. "Alright, Round Seventeen! Three... two... one... FLIP!"

The boys revealed their cards with bated breath. Garrett had a 7, Paul a 9, and Joshua an Ace, which was the highest of the bunch. But it was Hunter's 3 that sent a shiver down their spines. His dark green eyes grew wide, his cheeks a deeper shade of pink than they had been all evening. "Fuck... why me?" he groaned.

Garrett whistled low. "Payne's turn again? Damn, Hunt. Luck's not on your side tonight." The blonde boy tapped his king card against the table. "What's it gonna be?"

Hunter stared at his pitiful 3 of Diamonds. The basement's fluorescent hum felt suddenly louder. He'd already lost his shirt, belt, and jewelry... so all that remained was his thin white tank top, jeans, and the lone sock clinging stubbornly to his right foot. The left one had been sacrificed three rounds back.

He sighed, "Alright, alright. Don't get your hopes up."

He leaned back in the worn armchair, springs groaning in protest. With deliberate slowness, he hooked his thumb under the elastic cuff of his remaining sock—a plain grey cotton tube sock, slightly stretched and smelling faintly of stale cheese puffs and laundry detergent. He peeled it downwards, inch by inch, revealing the pale skin of his ankle, then the arch of his foot, and finally, the slightly calloused heel earned from countless hours in worn-out Vans. The sock slid off completely, landing like a deflated balloon on the cool concrete floor beside its discarded twin. He wiggled his bare toes, the air cool against the suddenly exposed skin.

"There," he announced, tossing the sock towards the growing pile near the foosball table. It landed atop Paul's crumpled jacket. "Happy? Payne's officially sockless in Hobbs's dungeon."

"About damn time!" Garrett crowed, slapping the table. "Thought you were gonna hoard that sock forever."

Hunter flipped him off, flexing his bare feet against the cool concrete. "Shut it, Hobbs. Least I still got pants."

"Yeah, for now." The blonde 15-year-old grinned. "But dealin' cards? That's your gig, 'mastermind.'" He gestured lazily at the deck. "My basement, your circus. Keep shufflin'."

Hunter stared at the worn cards in his hand. The cheap paper felt flimsy, slippery with basement humidity. He'd lost track of the rounds, the wins and losses blurring into a haze of exposed skin and nervous laughter. His tank top clung uncomfortably to his back. The air felt thick, charged—like the moment before a storm breaks. He tossed the deck onto the coffee table. "Nah. I'm done." He rubbed his temples. "My hands feel like they wrestled a greased pig. Your house, your rules, Hobbs. You deal."

Garrett blinked, surprised. "Seriously? Quittin'?"

"Not quittin'," Hunter countered, crossing his arms defensively. "Delegating. Like a boss." He nudged the deck towards Garrett with his big toe. "Go on, 'King G.' Show us how it's done."

Garrett hesitated, glancing at the others. Paul was tracing the pale strip on his wrist where his watch had been, lost in thought. Josh was fiddling with the frayed hem of his wifebeater, eyes darting nervously between Hunter and the discarded clothes pile. The playful tension had shifted, grown heavier. Garrett scooped up the deck. It felt unfamiliar in his hands... stiffer, less worn than Hunter's clumsy shuffling had made it seem. "Alright, alright," he muttered. "Don't blame me if the cards hate you."

He fanned the deck awkwardly, his fingers stiff. The cards rasped against each other, a dry, papery whisper. Garrett concentrated, trying to mimic Hunter's messy shuffle... but then the cards slipped, fluttering onto the table. "Damn things," he mumbled.

Paul snorted. "Smooth, Hobbs. Real smooth."

"Shut up, Williams," Garrett shot back, gathering the fallen cards. He squared the deck, tapping it firmly on the table. "Okay. Round... eighteen?" He looked around. Blank stares. "Whatever. Flip on three." His voice lacked Hunter's forced cheer. It was quieter, more deliberate. "Three... two... one... FLIP!"

Cards slapped wood. Paul stared at the 4 of hearts lying face-up before him. A flat, simple number. Four. The lowest card of the round. Again.

"Ugh, seriously?" the African-American 14-year-old grumbled with annoyance. "And now Lady Luck has decided to turn on me!"

Garrett grinned, tapping his own high card—the Queen of Spades—against the table. "Well, Williams, you know what to do." His voice held a teasing edge, but his eyes flickered towards the pile of discarded clothes near the foosball table. "Unless you wanna forfeit?"

Paul glared at the offending 4 of hearts. "Forfeit my ass," he muttered, pushing his chair back with a scrape against the concrete. The cool air felt sharp on his skin as he stood. He was down to his dark-blue basketball jersey and jeans. Everything else: his jacket, his belt, his watch, his chain necklace, all lay discarded. His fingers hovered near the hem of the jersey. It felt suddenly flimsy, insubstantial.

"Rules are rules," Hunter chimed in, then tilts his head with a mocking smirk that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Unless you're chicken?"

Paul's jaw tightened at the taunt. "Shut up, Payne."

With a sharp inhale, he grabbed the hem of his dark-blue basketball jersey. Cool basement air rushed across his bare torso—a landscape of smooth, espresso-dark skin stretched taut over lean muscle. Years of parkour training and pickup basketball had carved definition into his shoulders and abdomen, the subtle ridges catching the overhead fluorescent light. His chest rose and fell slightly faster now, the only betrayal of his nerves. A sight like this would make any straight girl's heart flutter, or a gay boy catch an erect boner in his pants. But here, surrounded by friends, it felt terrifyingly exposed.

The jersey landed on Hunter's discarded sock. Garrett whistled low, Hunter's smirk froze halfway, and Josh blinked, his gaze snapping from Paul's defined collarbones to the stark white waistband of Paul's boxer briefs peeking defiantly above his jeans. The elastic edge bore faded blue lettering: "SPRINT".

"Damn, Williams," Garrett said, bending forward. His gaze followed the slender contours of Paul's body, including his smooth dark skin, the faint ridges that defined his tummy from parkour vaults and fence climbing, and the way his shoulders tapered into slender arms. "Didn't know you were hiding that under the jersey."

Joshua whistled softly, shaking his head. "Bro, you look like you walked out of a Nike ad." He gestured vaguely at Paul's waistband, where the faded "SPRINT" logo peeked above his jeans. "Though the underwear's kinda… budget."

Hunter choked on a laugh. "Budget? Williams, that elastic looks older than Garrett's grandma's Tupperware." He leaned forward, squinting. "Is that… duct tape?"

Paul flushed dark crimson, instinctively tugging his jeans higher. "Shut up! It's reinforced!" The frayed waistband dipped lower, revealing a sliver of smooth skin above his hipbone. He crossed his arms defensively over his bare chest, muscles tightening. "Deal the damn cards, Hobbs. Before I loose it."

Garrett smirked, gathering the deck with newfound confidence. "Alright, alright. Round nineteen." He shuffled clumsily, cards spilling slightly. "Three... two... one... FLIP!"

Paul stared down. The 2 of Hearts. A tiny red dagger piercing his dignity. Again.

"No... NO! I'm fucking CURSED!" Paul slammed his palm onto the coffee table, making Josh's discarded jack card flutter. The 2 of Hearts stared up, mocking him. A tiny red dagger indeed. It seemed that Lady Luck had abandoned him completely. "This deck hates me! Hobbs, did you rig this?"

Garrett held up his hands, palms out. "Whoa, chill! Pure chance, Williams. Scout's honor." He tapped his own high card – the Ace of Spades – with a grin that didn't reach his eyes. "Rules are—"

"YES, I know the rules!" Paul snapped, cutting Garrett off.

He shoved his chair back violently, the scrape echoing like nails on a chalkboard. His fingers hovered over the button fly of his faded jeans, trembling slightly. The frayed "SPRINT" waistband mocked him from beneath the denim.

"Alright, P-Diddy," Hunter drawled, leaning forward with a predatory grin. His eyes tracked Paul's hands like a hawk. "Showtime. Let's see if those legs match the hype."

Paul glared as he popped the first button. Then the second. The rasp of denim against denim filled the sudden silence. "Shut your face, Payne," he growled, yanking the zipper down with a harsh zzzzip. He shoved the jeans past his hips. They pooled around his ankles, revealing long, sculpted legs—corded muscle earned from parkour leaps and sprints—and the worn blue boxer briefs clinging low.

Hunter whistled sharply. "Damn, Williams! Those quads could crack walnuts." He gestured lazily at Paul's thighs. "Bet you could jump a dumpster in those."

Paul kicked the jeans aside, stepping free. He stood tall, barefoot on the cool concrete, chest heaving. Dammit... I may be too much, but this is getting a little gay for me, the curly-haired boy thought, feeling uncomfortable already. I swear, if I'm the first to be naked, I'm gonna kill myself!

Hunter whistled again, louder this time. "Look at those calves! Like carved oak, Williams. Bet you could kick down a door with those." He leaned forward, elbows on knees. "Those briefs seen better days, though. What happened? Dog chew 'em?"

Paul kicked his jeans aside with a sharp flick of his bare foot. The denim slid across the cool concrete, stopping near Josh's sandals. He stood tall, chest rising and falling too fast, arms rigid at his sides. His dark skin glistened faintly under the fluorescents. "Shut your trap, Payne," he snapped, voice tight. "At least I'm not wearing my grandma's curtains like your tank top."

Hunter grinned wider, leaning back and spreading his arms. "Hey, this tank's vintage! Breathable fabric. Unlike those..." He gestured dismissively at Paul's blue briefs. "... duct-tape specials."

Josh snorted into his hand. "Breathable? Looks like you borrowed it from a doll, Hunt. That thing's tighter than Garrett's budget for concert tickets."

Garrett flipped him off without looking up, still shuffling the cards with clumsy intensity. "Least I go to concerts, Lee. Not just watch YouTube bootlegs." He slapped the deck down. "Round twenty. Three... two... one... FLIP!"

Paul's relief was palpable when he saw his 7, the highest card of the round. Josh's slanted eyes widened with surprise at his king, and Hunter looked slightly disappointed with his 6. But it was Garrett's 2 that had everyone's attention.

The blonde teen didn't make a huge deal out of it, just bends over without a word and peels off his right sock, making him completely barefoot.

The group leader's voice grew more playful with each round, and the tension grew with it. "Three... two... one... FLIP!" This time, the cards revealed a 5 for him, a queen for Hunter, a 7 for Josh, and another 2 for the once again unlucky Paul.

"What!?" His mouth drop with disbelief, then he pounds his fists on the table while letting out an exasperated yell. "NO NO NO, FUCKING SON OF A BITCH, NOOOOO!"

The athletic African-American boy can't beleive it... He's gonna be the first to be NAKED!

"OOOoooohhhh!" Hunter teased while Garrett and Joshua snickered their eyes glued to the 2 of hearts that had once again doomed Paul to the fate of shedding the last layer of clothing: his boxer briefs.

"You know what to do now, right, Mr. 'King of Foos'?" the wavy-haired Caucasian boy teasingly asked with a wide smirk.

The TV that was displaying a pause screen of the game Garrett was playing hours earlier has went to sleep, as if it knew better than to witness what was unfolding.

Paul glared at the cards as if they had personally wronged him. "This is bullshit!" he yelled. He looked around the room, searching for an escape from the embarrassment that loomed over him. "Guys, come on," he began to plead, his voice cracking slightly. "I've had enough. The game's over. I lost, okay?"

But the boys wouldn't have any of it.

Hunter leaned forward, eyes gleaming. "No, dude. You sat down, you played. You lose, you strip." His voice was low, teasing, but held an edge of finality. "We're all in this deep."

"Yeah, don't be such a wuss," Garrett chimed in, shuffling the deck with newfound confidence. He didn't look at Paul directly, focusing on the cards. "We're all down to our skivvies. Fair's fair." His voice was light, but the command was clear.

Josh nods in agreement. "C'mon, P-Diddy. We all paid the piper." He gestures at his own threadbare wifebeater. "Even Hunt lost his socks."

Paul stares at the discarded pile—his jersey crumpled atop Hunter's belt, his jeans pooled near Josh's sandals. He grips the elastic waistband of his boxer briefs, knuckles white. "Fine," he whispers, voice thick. Damn you, universe! Why ME!? Why am I the one who has to be naked first!?

He hooks thumbs under faded blue cotton. The elastic snaps weakly against his hips. He pushes down in one swift motion, eyes squeezed shut. His hands fly instinctively to cover his crotch, fingers splayed, palm pressed flat, but the dark thatch of pubic hair curls visibly around his trembling knuckles. He stands frozen, bare feet rooted to cold concrete. "There," he rasps, refusing to open his eyes. "You're satisfied now, yeah?"

Garrett leans back, arms crossed, flipping his hair out of his eyes. A slow, smug smile spreads across his face. "Nope," he says, popping the 'p'.

"What the fuck do you mean, 'nope'?" Paul demanded, his voice strained and his hand still covering his boyhood.

Garrett leaned forward, elbows on his knees, a glint of mischief in his eyes. "You lost the round, Williams. You strip. But you haven't fully stripped yet." He gestured pointedly at Paul's hands clamped firmly over his groin. "That," he tapped the coffee table with a finger, "isn't naked. That's 'covering up.'"

The curly-haired teen stared, incredulous. "Are you fucking kidding me? I took them off! They're off! Right there!" He jerked his chin toward the crumpled blue briefs pooling around his ankles.

Hunter snorted, stretching lazily in his armchair. "Garrett's got a point, P-Diddy. Rules said remove the item. Didn't say you get to hide behind your hands afterward." He tapped his temple. "Mastermind logic."

Paul's eyes snapped open, dark fury flashing. "This is FUCKING GAY!" The words ripped out, raw and jagged, echoing off the concrete walls. His voice cracked, half-shout, half-choked gasp. "Seriously? You want me standing here with my dick out? Like some... some locker room joke?" His knuckles pressed tighter against his groin, the knobs of his spine rigid. "No, fuck that! Fuck this whole stupid game!"

"Come on, man, it's just a game," Josh mumbled, staring at his own socked feet. His voice lacked conviction. Garrett's grin tightened, predatory. Hunter leaned forward, hands behind his head, gaze locked on Paul's shaky hands. "You're not really that shy, are you?"

"Or maybe you're just worried we won't like what we see?" Hunter teased with his voice sounding somewhat seductive, fingers drumming on the chair arm. "Little Paulie got something to hide?"

Garrett chuckled low, scooping up the deck. "Payne's right. Hands off, Williams. Full Monty. That's the deal." He flicked a card onto the table. "Or forfeit. Your choice."

Paul stood frozen, breath shallow. The fluorescent hum drilled into his skull. Forfeit? What the heck does that even mean now? Pay them? Run upstairs screaming? The thought vanished as Hunter shifted, tank top stretching thin across his chest. Paul's gaze flickered down Hunter's bare thigh, then snapped away, heat flooding his face. Shit... Stop looking!

Garrett tapped the Ace of Spades. "Forfeit means you owe us. Big time." His grin widened. "Like... washing Hunter's gym socks for a month. By hand."

Hunter gagged dramatically. "Ew, no! Make him detail my car. Inside and out. With a toothbrush."

"Hunter, you're 14 and you don't have a car. You don't even have a licence," Josh muttered, rubbing his temples.

"Fine!" Paul exploded. His eyes darted up to the ceiling as if seeking divine intervention, his hands hovering over his crotch for a moment longer before he reluctantly moved them aside. Fucking kill me... anything but this. Why must I have to do this? His heart felt like it was about to leap out of his chest as he finally exposed his flaccid circumcised boy cock to the cool basement room that was eerily silent, save for the distant hum of the fridge.

Paul's penis was unremarkable in its resting state: a soft, uncut shaft about three inches long, nestled within a sparse patch of dark pubic curls. The skin was smooth and slightly darker than the surrounding espresso skin of his thighs, with a faint vein tracing its length. At its tip, the pinkish-purple glans peeked out from the foreskin, moist and vulnerable-looking. It hung innocently between his lean thighs, utterly ordinary, yet in this moment, it felt like the most scrutinized object in the universe. It was a part of him that none of the three boys had seen before.

Silence descended like a physical weight. Garrett's smirk vanished, replaced by wide-eyed stillness. Hunter's drumming fingers froze mid-tap, suspended in air. Josh's gaze snapped from Paul's face downward, then jerked away as if burned, fixing on the discarded Monopoly board near the couch. Three pairs of eyes flickered—drawn, repelled, drawn again—in a cycle of stunned paralysis.

Hunter's mouth opened slightly, then closed without sound. Garrett swallowed audibly. Josh shifted his socked feet, the scrape loud in the quiet. No one breathed. The air thickened, charged with an electric awkwardness that transcended embarrassment. It was primal, visceral. This wasn't just nudity; it was their friend, exposed. The boy who flipped over dumpsters, who cursed louder than anyone, who wore duct-taped underwear. Now, suddenly, fragile.

Then, as if a spell had been broken, they all quickly averted their gazes, trying to act as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred.

"Okay, okay," Garrett said, breaking the silence with forced seriousness. "Let's not make this weirder than it already is. We've still got clothes left to lose, right? Come on, let's keep playing," he urged, his voice a little too loud, his blue eyes avoiding the 3-inch boyhood of his now red-faced friend.

The other two nodded in agreement, trying to shake off their discomfort as they reached for their cards, the plastic edges cold and familiar in their hands.

As Garrett was about to start the countdown, Hunter's eyes darted to Paul, who was desperately trying to cover himself with the chair cushion. With a swift move that belied his usual laid-back demeanor, Hunter swiped the cushion out of the curly-haired teen's hands just before he could shield his exposed member. "Whoa, whoa, whoa," he said, his grin growing wider. "Nice try, dude. No hiding allowed!"

The crimson-faced athlete begin to panic. "Hunter, you asshole, give it back! This isn't fair!" He pleaded, his hand reaching out for the cushion in a desperate bid for modesty.

With a cheeky smirk, Hunter held the cushion high above his head, just out of Paul's reach. "Nope," he said, his voice filled with teasing glee. "Those are the rules, buddy. You've got to wait it out butt naked until there's only one of us left with clothes on. It's all part of the game!" His dark green eyes flickered down to Paul's exposed cock and back up to his face, the glint of a challenge in his gaze. "So, unless you want to forfeit, sit back down and keep playing," he taunted, his tone light and playful.

Paul watched in despair as his jacket sailed through the air, landing on the couch with a soft thump. He huffed, his eyes narrowing as he stared at Hunter. "You're such a dick, Payne," he muttered, but there was a hint of playfulness in his voice, acknowledging the game was still on. With a sigh, he plopped back into his chair, his bare legs sticking to the plastic.

Garrett's eyes lit up with a new twist to their game. "You know what?" he began, a mischievous smile playing on his lips. "Let's add a little something extra to this. Whoever gets down to their last card and has the lowest number at the end of each round, they have to do a dare from the player holding the highest card at that moment."

The room buzzed with excitement, the tension from before dissipating in the face of a new challenge. The boys leaned in, their interest piqued by the sudden shift in the game's dynamics. "Dude, that's genius," Josh exclaimed, his competitive spirit stirring.

Paul rolled his eyes, his hand still hovering over his crotch. "Great, just what I needed, more embarrassment," he muttered under his breath, though the corners of his lips curled into a reluctant smile.

"Don't worry, P-Diddy," Garrett said with a wink. "I'll keep my dares PG-13."

Hunter's eyes twinkled with excitement. "Oh, no way," he said, leaning closer to the table. "Let's make it spicy, man. Nothing's off-limits."

Paul turned to Hunter with glaring daggers. "Well fat chance with me," he said, shaking his head. "If we're going full R-rated with this shit, I'm not going down without a fight."

"Oh come on, bro," Josh said, giving him a grin that was half reassurance, half smirk. "Think of it as your chance for payback. Who knows, maybe you'll get to see one of us do something ridiculous."

Paul considered the proposal, his hand still hovering over his exposed genitals, and after a moment of contemplation, a devious smile grew on his face. "Alright, fine," he said, his eyes narrowing with determination. Then he turned to Hunter, pointing a finger at him. "But don't forget, Payne, you owe me some of your snacks for this—especially those sour cream and onion chips." He paused, locking eyes with Hunter. "And I'm taking them home tonight."

Hunter raised an eyebrow, a smirk playing on his lips. "Oh yeah? Why's that?"

"Like I told you before, if I get naked first, you owe me snacks," Paul snapped, fingers twitching near his thighs but refusing to cover himself again. The basement's stale air prickled his skin. "Specifically your snacks. Those sour cream and onion chips? Mine now. And I'm taking them home tonight." He jabbed a finger at his Caucasian friend, who lounged back, bare feet propped on the coffee table. "Consider it compensation for this... humiliation tax."

"Fine," Hunter shrugged, toes curling against the coffee table's edge. "But only if you win a dare without pissing yourself." His smirk sharpened. "Those chips are mine until you earn 'em, Williams. Humiliation tax? More like performance tax."

And so, the boys then prepare themselves for a new R-rated explicit session of poker, the stakes higher than ever before. The new rules of the game evolved to include daring and embarrassing dares.

...