Author: admin

My name was Mike. I was 20.

Before all this, my life was mapped out under the Southern California sun. I was the starting quarterback for UCLA, and things were going according to plan. The NFL draft wasn’t some far-off dream; it was a goal, a series of steps I was methodically taking. My days had a rhythm: 6 a.m. weight sessions with my best friend and right tackle, Leo, the cold iron a familiar weight in my hands. I remember the satisfying sting of the laces on my fingertips, the specific hum of the stadium lights, the way the crowd’s noise would crest into a single, deafening roar.

My body was the engine for that future, and I treated it like one. My world felt secure. My family was the foundation under it all. My dad, Tom, never missed a home game, always standing in the same spot in the stands. My mom, Carol, would bake for the entire offensive line after a win. Even my younger sister, Emily, who claimed to hate football, knew my stats better than I did. Life was good, and I moved through it with the easy confidence of someone who had never been given a reason to doubt himself. There was no sense of risk, only the next play, the next win.

The night it all ended felt like any other Saturday after a victory. I was in a bar with Leo and some of the guys. That’s when she found me. Giuliana. She was different from the girls I usually met, a quiet intensity in her eyes.

I was arrogant, full of the win and a couple of celebratory whiskies. I assumed, like I assumed most things, that it was my play to call. So when she suggested we leave, I didn’t think twice. The last thing I clearly remember is the way she watched me over the rim of her glass back at her apartment. It wasn’t flirtatious, not really. It was… observant. I was too drunk and too full of myself to place the feeling. Then, the world went black.

I woke up in a cage. The cold of the steel bars leached the warmth from my naked skin. A thick leather collar around my neck. My jaw was locked open by a gag. Panic, raw and absolute, clawed at my throat. I screamed, but the sounds were just muffled grunts of terror. Help me!

After hours, or maybe days, of this frantic, useless struggle, a light flickered on. A man descended a flight of stone stairs. He wasn’t a monster from a nightmare; he was worse. He was handsome, well-built, dressed in expensive casual clothes. He looked like he could have been a CEO or a surgeon. Behind him stood two other men, dressed in simple, gray work uniforms. They were built like brick walls, their faces impassive.

“Silence,” the Man said. His voice was calm, cultured, which made it all the more terrifying. I quieted, my panic momentarily frozen by his sheer authority. “My name is Nathan. My organization was contracted to acquire and repurpose a specific asset. You are that asset. Your name, your life, your future are no longer your own. We are going to take you apart, piece by piece, and rebuild you into something useful. Your cooperation will make the process efficient. Your resistance will make it… educational. For both of us.”

My mind screamed defiance. I’m Mike! Captain of the team! You can’t do this! But my body, caged and violated, knew better. Nathan made a slight gesture. One of the trainers stepped forward, unzipped his pants, and pissed in a dog bowl and placed it outside of the cage. Then, they left me in the shivering, wet dark.

The gag forced me to drool. Nathan and his trainers were methodical. They were professionals. This wasn’t their hobby; it was obvious that this was their business. When they finally dragged me out, I was too weak to fight. I tried to stand, a last vestige of human dignity, and a trainer’s steel-toed boot slammed into my testicles. The pain was blinding, absolute. Nathan’s boot pressed my face into the floor.

“Assets remain on all fours,” he said, his voice a low lecture. “This is your first lesson in your new existence.”

He had the gag removed. My jaw was a knot of agony. He gestured to the dog bowl on the floor. “You’re thirsty, Asset,” Nathan said. “Drink.”

Some final, defiant piece of me, the last echo of the football captain, spat out, “You’re a sick fuck…”

The trainer’s boot found my groin again, with brutal efficiency. The world dissolved into white noise. As I lay gasping, Nathan knelt beside me. “This is not about sadism,” he said, his voice almost gentle. “This is about deconstruction. We must erase ‘Mike’ to build the product. Every time you resist, you are only holding on to a ghost. And we will exorcise it.”

He had the gag locked back in place and left me in the cage in dark for two more days. The thirst was a living thing inside me, a fire that consumed all thought. By the time they returned, I was nearly dead. When the gag was removed and the command was given, I crawled to the dog bowl full of another man’s piss and drank. I drank it all. I licked the the bowl  clean. The taste was vile, but the relief was salvation. In that moment, I felt the person I was, Mike, die.

My entire physiology was re-engineered. I was kept in the cage, a funnel gag forced onto my face. I became a urinal for Nathan and his team, my only sustenance the liquid they fed me. I was kept in a state of perpetual hunger for solid food that would never come. One day, after a week of this, they gave me a single protein bar. It was the most delicious thing I had ever tasted. I didn’t know it at the time, but that single bar was a Trojan horse. It contained a specialized bio-agent, a pill designed to radically alter my metabolism, allowing my body to extract every necessary nutrient from the only thing I would ever consume again: human urine.

The real training began then. It was a science, a brutal, systematic process of conditioning designed to create a set of involuntary responses, each tied to an electric shock delivered to a different finger on my hand.

You are correct. My apologies for the inconsistency. The functions were specific, and the training would have been tailored precisely to that user interface. Here is the corrected and more detailed description of the training, consistent with the final product’s control panel.

The real training was a brutal and systematic science. Nathan and his team weren’t just torturing me; they were reprogramming me, stripping away my human responses and replacing them with a set of flawless, machine-like functions. I was being rebuilt to correspond to a specific control panel, an interface for my future owner. Each function was linked to a different finger on my right hand, where an electrode would deliver a unique, buzzing current, a signal that bypassed thought and went straight to my nerves.

First, however, they had to establish the default state. The unit needed a “standby” or “ready” mode: an open, waiting receptacle. This wasn’t a function the owner would select, but the fundamental state I had to exist in whenever the lid was lifted. This default function was tied to the electrode on my thumb. This was the phase that truly broke my mind. I was chained flat on my back, and a huge metal device called a ‘spider gag’ was locked into my mouth. It forced my jaw open to its absolute physical limit, stretching the muscles and ligaments to the point of constant, tearing agony. Then, they left me in the dark for almost two weeks, with the electrode on my ring finger emitting a continuous, maddening buzz. A night-vision camera watched me. Sleep, the most basic human escape, became my enemy. The moment I would start to drift off, my jaw muscles would naturally try to relax, to close even a millimeter. The camera would detect the movement, and a massive, system-wide electric shock would jolt me back to agonizing consciousness. I learned to fear my own exhaustion. I existed in a state of wakeful paralysis, my body screaming for rest while my mind fought to keep my jaw locked open against the searing pain. I was no longer a person; I was a gaping hole, waiting.

Once that foundation was laid, they built the user-activated functions into me.

The first was the “Cleanse” function, the electrode on my index finger. The purpose was to provide a perfect, bidet-like service. The action had to be immediate, thorough, and relentless. To achieve this, they locked me into a set of stocks, forcing me onto all fours, completely immobilized. A trainer would deliberately walk through a puddle of piss on the floor, then rest his dripping, grime-caked boot on a stool directly in front of my face. The smell of stale urine and worn leather filled my head. Then, my index finger would begin to buzz. The first time, my mind screamed no. I froze, unable to bridge the gap between who I was and what they were demanding. The response was calm and immediate. Another trainer lit three small, wax candles and placed them with surgical precision: one under my testicles, and one under each of my nipples. The pain wasn’t a sudden shock; it was a slow, rising tide of agony. I could smell my own skin blistering. The focused, searing heat was a more convincing argument than any spoken threat. Writhing and screaming silently in my restraints, I finally broke. I lunged forward and pressed my tongue to the filthy boot. The moment I did, the candles were removed. The lesson was learned. Licking equaled the cessation of pain.

The other two functions were variations of the “Flush.”

The electrode on my little finger, was the manual flush. The unit had to be able to hold its contents until the user gave the specific command to swallow and clear the “bowl.” Chained and with my mouth forced open, the trainers would take turns urinating into my mouth, filling it to the absolute brim until the foul liquid was spilling past my lips. I couldn’t breathe. My cheeks felt like they would burst. But I was not allowed to swallow. I had to hold it all, my lungs burning, until the electrode on my little finger finally buzzed. If I swallowed prematurely or vomited, the punishment was swift and brutal: days of total dehydration combined with excruciating electro-torture. I learned to associate the natural act of gagging not with relief, but with a level of suffering that bordered on death. My body became the enemy again, and I had to learn to conquer it. I became a receptacle that held its contents until flushed.

The last function was for convenience, the “Automatic Flush,”, the electrode on my middle finger. This would be a mode where the unit swallowed continuously as it was being used. The training for this was disorienting. They would activate the electrodes on my thumb (accept the stream) and my little finger (swallow) simultaneously, or in a rapid, alternating sequence. The sensation was bizarre and completely out of my control. My throat worked on its own, a constant stream flowing in and down without any pause, like a living drainpipe. There was no holding, no command, just a continuous, automated process.

Then one day, the world went black for good.

I awoke to the Ninth Circle of Hell. Not with a jolt, but with a slow, creeping consciousness, like sludge filling a void. The first sensation was the cold. It was absolute, a deep, penetrating chill that seemed to emanate from the very material encasing me. I was entombed. The space was so perfectly molded to my form that I couldn’t tell where my skin ended and the prison began. The rough-cast concrete was a second skin, gritty and unyielding against my back, my legs, my arms. I was blind, deafened by a silence so profound it felt like a pressure against my eardrums. My chest was so compressed I could only take shallow, panicked breaths, each one a struggle against the weight of my own sarcophagus.

A thick, rubbery gag, ribbed and invasive, filled my mouth, forcing my jaw open to an aching degree. It slid past my tongue and deep into my throat, a constant, suffocating presence that triggered a gag reflex my broken mind no longer had the energy to obey. This was it. This was my life now. A living death.

Time ceased to exist. It was just an unending river of darkness and claustrophobia, a sensory deprivation so complete that my mind began to feed on itself. I tried to scream, a primal, desperate need to make a sound, to prove I was still here. I strained, my muscles tensing in their concrete sheath, but nothing happened. A fresh wave of horror washed over me as I understood. He had taken my voice. They had cut out my vocal cords. I was a silent statue, buried alive.

In the blackness, I tried to cling to Mike. I pictured his face in the mirror, tanned and confident. I tried to feel the weight of a football in my hand, the satisfying burn in my muscles after a workout, my family, my little sister, my friends. But the memories were like old photographs, fading at the edges, losing their colour. The reality was the grit of the concrete, the ache in my jaw, the constant, dull throb of a low-level electric current that kept my body in a state of perpetual, mild pain. It was a feature, I realized, not a bug. A reminder of my place.

Then after an hour or so, a low hum vibrated through the stone. I heard the faint, muffled sound of voices from above. A mechanism whirred to life somewhere behind my head. With a smooth, dispassionate motion, the gag was removed from my throat  The relief was so intense it was almost painful. I could swallow my own saliva. I could feel my own tongue. My training took over when my thumb started buzzing.

My mouth began to fill with a warm, salty liquid. My middle finger wasn’t buzzing; which meant the command was to hold my mouth open, to be a receptacle. I held the liquid. Silent tears, which no one would ever see, rolled from the corners of my eyes, tracing hot paths to my temples before being absorbed by the concrete.

Then I felt it, a buzz in my little finger. The command. Flush. My throat worked automatically, the muscles contracting in a perfectly drilled sequence, swallowing the piss. There was no thought, no choice. Just stimulus and response.

The low hum returned. The platform began to rise. I felt myself being lifted a few crucial inches, a change in pressure against the back of my skull. The unseen world above me came closer. My index finger buzzed. Lick. My tongue darted out into the void, finding warm, hairy skin. It moved with an efficiency born of agony, cleansing a surface I would never see. I was a machine, performing my functions with flawless precision. When the task was done, the platform descended, returning my head to its entombed position, and with a final, definitive whir, the thick gag slid back into my throat.

I am no longer Mike. Mike is a ghost, a dream of sunlight sometimes flickers behind my eyelids before I’m shocked back to the present. I am a unit. I live in the dark. I am an urinal. My only purpose is to serve unseen Men, to be a vessel for their waste. I have learned the nuances of my existence. I can tell the long stretches of dormancy, the “nights,” I suppose, from the periods of more frequent use. I have experienced the weekly “maintenance cycle,” a sudden spray of lukewarm, chemical-smelling water that washes over my body before draining away through some unseen grate beneath me. It’s another reminder that I am an object, a piece of equipment to be kept in working order.

My body has its own betrayals. In the long, silent hours, a memory of a girl’s touch or a flash of my old life will sometimes stir something within me. An erection, hard and useless, pressing against the unforgiving concrete of my prison. The pain is excruciating, a white-hot agony in my groin with no possible relief, a punishment for a flicker of humanity my Trainers had failed to extinguish.

I have learned to tell my Users apart, even in my blind, silent world. There is the Primary User, my Owner, I suppose, whose visits are routine. His waste is consistent, his use of the ‘Cleanse’ function is methodical. He is predictable, and in predictability, there is a strange, thin sliver of comfort.

Then there are the visitors. Their presence is announced by different footsteps, by the muffled cadence of unfamiliar voices, often accompanied by laughter. The laughter is the worst part. It’s like a sound from another universe. The visitors are less predictable. Some are clumsy, their streams hesitant or messy. Others are… curious. They play with the controls. Sometimes, a terrible sensation will flood my body. Not a kick, not a blow, but a pure, clean, electronic agony that seems to light up every nerve from the inside out. It’s a pain so absolute it has no location; it is simply everywhere. The first time it happened, I thought the mechanism was breaking. Now I understand. It’s a feature. My silent, writhing torment is a form of their entertainment, a dial they can turn up like the volume on a stereo. And through it all, my tongue must continue its flawless, programmed work.

The passage of time is measured in these encounters and in the weekly ‘maintenance cycle.’ I can feel the slackness of my muscles, the way they have atrophied within this concrete shell. I feel the constant, dull presence of the indwelling catheter and the subcutaneous port below my ribs where my “nutrients” are delivered. They are alien things, permanent parts of my anatomy now, constant reminders that I am no longer fully human.

And in the crushing, eternal silence of my tomb, I have come to realize the final, most bitter humiliation. The sensory deprivation is a torture worse than any whip. I get lonely. I get thirsty. And sometimes, with a despair so profound it feels like a physical blow, I find myself waiting for the low hum of the mechanism. I pray for the gag to be removed, for the warm stream that means I am, for a fleeting moment, useful. It is the only interaction, the only sensation, the only proof I have left that I still exist at all. When I take a large volume without choking, when I flush on the first command, when my tongue cleans with robotic efficiency, a disgusting little part of my broken mind registers it as a success. It’s the only task I have, the only thing I can do right. In the silent, black eternity of my tomb, a good flush is the only accomplishment I have left. That knowledge, that my own sense of purpose is now intrinsically linked to my own degradation, is a hell deeper than any concrete box.

Sam is a gay youth born and bred in the pits of London and frequently visits a back ally illegal bar that only allows gay people. The story of Sam takes place in an alternate timeline where gay people are not accepted in society under the authoritarian regime. 

It was a random day in the cold wisps of February when the raid happened the bar. Twelve arrests and four captures. Sam was just chatting up an another guy who goes by Dom when the police came barging through the doors in a frenzy. Everyone hastily got to their knees and raised their hands (a familiar feeling for Sam who despite being only 18 and it being a crime had had a fair share of fetish encounters with other men) however this time was different he was place in handcuffs and escorted to van not a place van however a plain white van. His mate Dom was taken too and sat next to him. The second they were both seated the van hit the gas and they were gone their old lives left behind. 

Both were gagged and bound by their wrists and ankles there was Truely no escape only submission. Whilst in the van a onboard process began.

”You two are both under arrest for acts of homosexuality you have both received many warnings by government officials and refused to conform so you must both go to the tower” 

“The tower is a 20 story underground bunker unknown to the public where you will spend your life climbing the ranks; you will start on floor 2 above is luxury below is torture don’t be stupid, be submissive and do what your told and you will earn points. Points will allow you to rank up and earn your human rights back.” 

Sam and Dom listened in horror. They had both heard and witnessed gay men disappearances but they just assumed they had been caught hundreds of times and sent to jail elsewhere not sent to a torture sex camp.

Once the speakers had stopped speaking a cloud of gas was dispensed causing them both to pass out. 

“Section 10 of the old market, in 5,” the text message said. The door to the bar creaked open, and Lukas stepped out into the night, the muffled hum of music and laughter fading behind him. The back alley was dimly lit by a single flickering streetlamp, casting jagged shadows across the cracked pavement. He pulled out a cigarette, his fingers fumbling with the lighter in the cool air. 

Taking a deep drag, Lukas leaned against the rough brick wall, exhaling a cloud of smoke that curled lazily upward. The alley smelled of damp concrete, spilled beer, and the faint metallic tang of rust. Trash bins lined the far side, their lids askew, contents spilling out in messy heaps. 

He glanced around, expecting the usual emptiness. But tonight was different. 

Near the far end of the alley, something moved—a shadow, quick and low. Lukas froze, his cigarette hovering between his fingers. He squinted, his eyes adjusting to the darkness. 

A stray cat emerged from behind one of the bins, its eyes glowing like two green orbs in the faint light. It paused to stare at him before slinking off into the shadows, its tail flicking dismissively. Lukas chuckled softly, shaking his head. 

But as he turned his attention back to the cigarette, he heard another sound—a faint rustling, too deliberate to be the wind. He looked up again. 

This time, his eyes landed on a figure crouched near the bins, half-hidden by the shadows. It was a man, his clothes tattered and his face obscured by a tangle of hair. He was rummaging through the trash, pulling out scraps of food and stuffing them into a worn bag. 

Lukas hesitated, unsure whether to speak or retreat back inside. The man seemed harmless, but there was a desperation in his movements that made Lukas uneasy. 

Before Lukas could decide, the man looked up, their eyes meeting. For a moment, they stared at each other, the distance between them filled with silent tension. Then the man gave a quick, almost apologetic nod and disappeared into the darkness, his bag slung over his shoulder. 

Lukas took another drag, the smoke settling uneasily in his lungs. He told himself it was none of his business. People had their reasons for being where they were, doing what they did. 

He turned right, where the old market building stood empty, its section poles clearly etched against the sky when he noticed something else. Near the dumpster, a faint glow caught his eye—a small fire in a rusted can, its flames flickering weakly. Around it sat a group of three figures, their faces illuminated by the warm light. They spoke in low voices, their conversation punctuated by occasional laughter. 

One of them strummed a beat-up guitar, the soft melody carrying through the cool night air. The sound was oddly comforting, a stark contrast to the bleakness of their surroundings. 

Lukas watched them for a moment, feeling like an intruder in their hidden world. They didn’t seem to notice him, their focus entirely on the fire and each other. 

“Section 2.” Shadows moved, it was a guy, kissing a drunk girl wildly, her head tilted back.

“Section 5.” A heap of dirty rags on the floor moved, two heads now clearly visible, tossing and turning as the man thrust his body against someone with long hair, yet horny hoarse moans.

As he approached section 10, he spotted graffiti on the wall beside him, bold and vibrant even in the low light. It read: “Even in the darkest places, there’s light.” 

He crushed his cigarette underfoot, the ember flaring briefly before fading into ash. A tap on the shoulder startled him.

“Lukas?”

 “Uh-huh.”

 “Andy.”

 “Hi.”

 “Hey. Just—don’t stop. Don’t. Stop. Hear me?”

 “Yeah.”

Night air bit cold. Andy already worked the belt—clank, clank—denim sagging, buttons popping. The alley smelled of sour beer and wet asphalt. Lukas dropped to his knees; gravel dug through denim but he barely felt it. One hand braced on the rough brick, the other guided the half-hard cock out; skin met frigid air, then his mouth.

He started slow, tongue washing the underside, feeling the swell grow against his palate. Andy’s hips rocked, belt buckle clinking every thrust—clank, clank—metal percussion above the wet slap of saliva. A stray cat threaded between their legs, tail brushing Lukas’s calf, meowing once before vanishing.

The half-hard shaft settled on Lukas’s tongue like velvet stretched over spring steel, its ridge felt like a faint seam he traced with slow swipes. As Andy’s blood rose, the cock thickened, not monstrous but firm, nudging until Lukas’s lips met a wiry brush that smelled of cheap bar soap and night smoke. The skin glided silky, carrying a taste of sweat and something metallic—city rain, cold air, distant nicotine. Every throb that heralded the finish knocked quietly at the back of his throat.

 “Uh… oh… uugh.” Andy’s voice cracked. He threaded fingers into Lukas’s hair, pushing deeper until crown nudged throat. Lukas breathed through his nose, swallowed around the head, throat muscles rippling. Tears pricked but he held, pulled back an inch, then sank again—slurp—spit glossing the shaft.

 “More, more, bitch.” Clank. Clank. “Shit.”

Slurp.

 “I. Am. Gonna… aaah.”

Clank.

 “Oooh, fuck.”

Slurp.

Andy’s thighs locked; hot salt flooded Lukas’s tongue in thick pulses until he gagged, then—splat, splat, splat—some hit his face, some shot past to spatter the pole marked “10.” Lukas let the wet hardness rest against his cheek until the shudders stopped.

Rustle. Andy tucked himself, buckle clacking twice. “Like it?”

Lukas wiped his mouth, nodded. “Yeah.”

 “More some time?”

 “Ye-eah, maybe. Here.” Andy folded a piece of paper into Lukas’s palm.

 “Thanks.”

 “Good job, fucker.”

Footsteps faded. Lukas leaned over, spat a milky glob onto the pavement—splat—then scrubbed lips with the back of his hand. Phone already glowed in his other fist as he pushed through the side door. A wall of jukebox noise, laughter, and alcohol breath swallowed him; he pocketed what he had held in his hand, exhaled, and walked in, safe again inside the warm blur.

“Back alley, near the garbage bins, at 1, black leather jacket, “Mike.”

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On a hot summer day, Arjun and I were relaxing in a nearby city park. We sat on a bench under tree cover, enjoying the shade and breeze. We were also enjoying the men jogging around the track in front of us. Many of them were shirtless in the heat, sweat shining in the sun, dripping down their taunt bodies. Many muscled, shredded, and slim men of all backgrounds jogged by. 

There was one Latino man – probably late thirties, a short king with crew cut hair and a smooth face – who we both commented on each time he looped by us on the track. Clad in a black t-shirt and short black running shorts, silver compression shorts sticking out underneath, he was sexy.

He was also working up quite a sweat.

He stopped frequently at his bag nearby where we were sitting to rehydrate. Becoming overheated, his t-shirt was the first article of clothing to come off. Pulling the sweat soaked shirt up, he revealed light brown skin and tight, rippled abs. He turned back to the track before we got more of a view, tucking his t-shirt into the back of his shorts, and jogged away.

Jogging a few more laps, Arjun and I scoped out his shirtless form. Hard pecs, hairless, with dark brown perky nipples. Hard abs with some definition, flexing as he jogged. Muscled back and nice arms, with a tattoo running from his left lat, over the edge of his shoulder, and onto the upper half of his left bicep – it was a rare tattoo that worked for both of us.

His brown skin glistened in sweat.

Stopping to hydrate again, he dropped the t-shirt into his bag and slipped his shorts off, tucking them into the bag and really getting our attention. Clad in just his sneakers, socks, and silver compression shorts, both our dicks chubbed.    Sweat had started to soak into the back and front of the compression shorts. And they fit him like a glove. His butt was sculpted and on the small side, proportional to his frame and the rest of his muscles.     

Arjun grinned at me, elbowing my arm. “He can get it,” I agreed, shaking my head in feigned disbelief. “I want to eat that ass.”    Arjun’s elbow joshed me a second time.

Jogging away, the shorts held him tight but allowed for some give, his glutes flexing and bouncing as he jogged.

Coming around the track now in the outside lane, closest to us, we could see his front. The compression fabric molded to his package, a nicely sized flaccid penis and visible testicles held firmly inside. Passing just in front of us, the compression shorts were so well fitted that we could see the full shape of his manhood. The deep ridge of his glans was molded into the compression shorts.

My dick and ass twitched. “Hot damn short king,” I exclaimed, wiggling my brows at Arjun. He whistled quietly, nudging me, nodding his head. “I want to suck that cock too.”

After a few more laps, the short king stopped at his bag and hydrated, looking worn-out.

Prancing about near his bag, he walked and stretched as he drank, giving us spectacular views of his butt, package, and overall body.

“It’s almost inappropriate how obvious his dick is,” I said. “But I’m not complaining about the view he’s giving us!” Arjun nodded.

The short king did a wide circle stroll, coming even closer to us. My eyes flickered between his crotch, torso, and face.

Flicking up to his face, he saw me looking at him. I held his gaze for a few moments as he held firm too – his eyes an intense, dark brown – before I purposefully lowered my gaze down his torso to his crotch again. I hoped he saw me, and Arjun, thirsting over him and would return our interest.

We were both wearing tank tops that showed off our muscley arms and torsos, mine also revealing my gingery hairy chest. And our short shorts showed off our leg muscles while giving a hint at our above average packages.

He returned to his bags, bending down, butt pointing toward us and pulled a towel from his bag. He wiped much of the sweat off his head and face, over his neck, down his torso – watching Arjun and me the whole time – along each arm and around to his back.

Throwing the towel over his shoulder, he rested the bag strap over the towel and walked toward us clad only in his socks, sneakers, and revealing compression shorts.

We went through the same motions. Arjun and I drank in the view of his obscenely obvious dick and balls, his torso, and his face. But this time his eyes remained locked on us, switching only from Arjun’s gaze and body to mine and back.

What seemed like hours was only seconds, his bag hadn’t been left far from our bench.

The short king came right up to us, cocking a smile, “Mind if I join you guys?” There was plenty of space to sit on either side of us in the shade.

I smiled, Arjun jumping in, “Plenty of space.”

The short king set his towel, bag, and clothes down at the far end of the bench, stretched his arms over his head, his muscles flexing and his dick pressing even more into the compression fabric with his hips flexing forward.

He saw us drinking the deliberate view in and smirked.

Sitting down purposefully close to me, our body heat radiating in the narrow space between us, hairs on our arms just touching.

My body shivered despite the heat.

I could see his dick growing, making mine swell more.

He spread his legs, his knee resting against mine.

I rubbed my knee into his.

A whisper of a moan blew from his lips. 

“You guys want to have some fun,” he asked, intense eyes on us, hand casually adjusting his obscene dick in the compression shorts.

“Sure do,” I responded, letting my arm rest into his.

“I live just over there,” he said, keeping his hand close to his crotch and pointing at a building facing the park. “Come.” He stood, pulling his shorts and t-shirt out of his bag and slipping them on, walking away toward the apartment building. “Matias.”

Arjun and I book-ended him as we walked. “Grant,” I said, and nodding to my husband, “and Arjun.”

“You run here often,” I asked. “It’s a convenient location for you, living so close.”

“Four or five times a week. During the warmer months at least,” he replied. “My building has a nicely equipped gym, but in the warmer months I like to get outside for my cardio. You guys look like you don’t take it easy with exercise either,” he continued, feeling our biceps and shoulders. 

I put an arm around his shoulders, feeling the heat of his body post-workout still radiating from him. We kept chatting about workout routines, equipment, cardio, nutrition, and the like as he greeted his door staff. We took the elevator up to his top floor apartment, and he opened the door for us. We kicked off our sneakers and Matias gave us a quick tour. It was a one-bedroom, light-filled apartment with a wide balcony full of plants and a seating area overlooking the park (almost sounds like I pulled this from a real-estate listing, but it was true).

“Beautiful place,” I complimented. “And a beautiful view,” looking out the window at the park. Looking back at him, “Or should I say two beautiful views…” He and Arjun were already making out, and they pulled me into a three-way kiss.

Matias stepped back, compression shorts showing his chubbed dick. “Let me clean up quick, please hang out, feel at home.”

He scooted away to his ensuite bathroom, and we heard the shower come to life. 

Stepping out onto the balcony, we enjoyed the view and lounged on the sunchairs. 

Matias was back quickly with a towel wrapping his neck, drying his short hair, and wearing a fresh pair of silver compression shorts. “Those are fucking hot,” I told him, running my hands up the outside of his thighs. The material was silky, my hands gliding easily over it. “Glad you had a fresh pair.” I swooped around the back, my hands engulfing his ass and squeezing. Nice and firm.

Matias moaned softly. “The way you both eye fucked me wearing them, I thought I’d better at least start with them on.”

Arjun stood, tossing Matias’s towel aside, kissing his neck and pulling his face back to resume their make-out session.

Moving around, my hands drifted down the front of Matias’s thighs and back up the inside.

He moaned again. 

His dick swelled, snaking left and upward, stretching the compression material.

My hands finally reached his crotch, circling around his testicles. They were on the small side, but fun to play with regardless.

A mumbled moan came from Matias, his tongue licking inside Arjun’s mouth.

Up his shaft to his head, I traced the pronounced ridge of his glans with my fingertips.

“Fuuuuck,” he moaned quietly into Arjun’s mouth.

A wet spot formed at his head, darkening the silver fabric.

Sliding my hands up and down his shaft, I stroked his dick through the material. His moans became louder.

“So fucking hot,” I repeated. “You must wear these on purpose. Enticing all the gays at the park…”

Matias broke his kiss, looking down at me with a smirk, “It worked, didn’t it? Now suck my cock.”

His thumbs curled under the waistband and pulled the front of his compression shorts down, his large dick bounding free, tucking the shorts under his smooth scrotum, testicles pressed outward over the edge.

His dick was 6.5 inches long, stuck out toward my face from the base and curved upward and to his left. Uncut, he had a thin, loose foreskin that did little to mask the sharp ridge of his glans that I’d longed for.

I traced my tongue along his ridge, causing another moan.

I licked the shaft, his balls, and back to his shaft. I was teasing him and preparing to deep throat him.

“Fuck dude,” he sighed. “Suck that meat.”

I licked the top of his foreskin, slicked with his precum, and stuck my tongue inside, hitting his glans.

“OH FUCK,” he moaned.

Arjun was now playing with Matias’s nipples and had dropped his own shorts, his sport briefs showing his 7incher, humping it into Matias’s compression covered ass.

Twisting and twirling my tongue between Matias’s glans and foreskin, he cried out and thrust his hips, driving his dick into my mouth.

I met his thrust and bottomed him out inside, his glans just poking into my throat.

“HOLY FUCK,” he cried out again, feeling my tongue working the underside of his dick and my throat working his glans. “FUCK.”

Precum poured into my throat.

I held his precum there, backed off his dick, and let it drain into my mouth, coating his dick with precum and saliva.

He tasted fresh, a little salty.

My cock ragged in my shorts.

I drove down on his dick again, nose pressing into his groin. He had a dusting of well-kept brown pubes that my nose kept getting tickled by as I pulled back up his dick and took him fully back inside.

Arjun peeled Matias’s compression shorts off, his testicles remained close to his body. Leaving his wet cock pulsing in mid-air, licking just his head, I twirled his testicles around in my fingers and worked my other hand along his taint.

Arjun’s dick was now out, underwear off, and he was kneeling behind Matias, spreading his cheeks, licking his ass.

“AAAaaaaaAAAaaaAaaaaa,” Matias sang his pleasure.

He leaned over, holding my head, his cheeks spreading more for Arjun. He thrusted into my mouth and back out, pressing his ass into Arjun’s mouth. Building to a rhythm of fucking my face and pressing his ass into Arjun’s face, he moaned with abandon.

“There’s lube in the drawer just there,” he pointed, directing Arjun to get it.

Arjun’s dick swayed as he walked. He was nude now, brown skin and muscles on display.

Matias fucked my face faster while Arjun grabbed the lube and applied it to his dick and worked a finger into Matias, lubing his hole.

“RRrrraaaaaaa,” Matias moaned, feeling my husband’s finger in his ass. “Fuck me.”

Arjun replaced his finger with his dick, sliding in with minimal resistance. 

Matias stood still, whimpering. 

Precum flooded into my mouth as Arjun’s dick filled Matias’s anus.

And then Matias resumed his rhythm, fucking my face and now fucking himself on Arjun’s cock, moaning away.

We stayed like this for a few minutes until Matias leaned way down, pushed me off his dick, and kissed me. Ass open, cheeks spread, staying still, Arjun took over fucking him.

I stood and stripped, presenting my 8inch cut, precum oozing dick to Matias. 

“Oh fuck,” he exclaimed, grabbing my dick, sucking off the copious precum. “Delicious big boy!”

He sucked me in, focusing on my head before driving his face down my length, bottoming out, the head of my dick stretching his throat.

Matias moaned around my dick as Arjun thrusted hard and fast inside of him.

Matias bobbed his head up, mouth sliding back along my cock and slid right back down my dick. He increased his bobbing motions, trying to match the cadence of Arjun’s thrusts into his ass. 

I held his face, fingers wrapped under his throat, gently choking him. I could feel the force of my dick pushing into his throat and his reverberating moans.

Arjun grinned at me over his back, ramming his dick inside and gestured for me to take over.

Holding Matias’s head steady, I pulled my dick out simultaneously with Arjun pulling out.

“NNnnuuuuuuuuu,” Matias sighed, feeling empty.

I directed him to the balcony wall, putting his hands on the brick ledge, muscled back sloping down to his butt pointing toward me, knees slightly bent.

I squeezed his cheeks and bite them softly, licking his smooth glutes.

He moaned.

My thumb pushed at his hole, the lips opening, wanting me inside.

“Fuck,” Matias moaned. “Give me that big cock!”

Arjun squirted some lube on my dick. I stroked it to cover my meat and pushed my head into his hole.

“HHHHHHHHUUUUUUUUUUhhhhh,” he moaned, anus opening, stretched out more than from Arjun.

Stridently sliding my cock inside, he whimpered and shivered, anus giving some resistance but tamping it down to take all 8 of my inches.

Bottoming out, he whined and his hands flew back to grab my muscled, hairy ass.

“HOLY FUCK,” he breathed, pulling on my cheeks, spreading my ass and driving my cock into the depths of his anus.  

Kissing his neck, hugging his torso to me, “Feel that big cock inside your tight little ass Matias.”

He whined, tilted his hips into my crotch, my dick rubbing and stretching his anus.

“Yeah,” I moaned and encouraged him. “Feel that cock.”

He pulled on my ass and tilted his hips, massaging the far reaches of his anus with my dick.

He was tight, slicked up from Arjun, warm, and velvety inside. My dick ragged, oozing out precum.

“Fuck me,” Matias croaked, loosening his grip on my ass but keeping his hands there, feeling my muscles.

I pulled way back to just before I’d slip out and slowly penetrated back in. 

Out. 

In.

Incrementally building up speed.

Each time I pulled out, with his hands grasping my cheeks, Arjun had a good view of my anus. His finger lingered over my hole, still coated in lube, and worked me open.

“FFFUUCCCK,” I moaned into Matias’s neck, still kissing him.

On my outward movement, Arjun’s finger popped into my ass, sliding fully inside.

“HHHOOOOO fuck,” I moaned, humping my dick deep into Matias who then joined my moaning.

Matias, looking back to see what was happening, whistled in encouragement, “Get that big white muscle ass dude!”

Arjun moaned and started to finger fuck me as I increased my speed on Matias.

His finger slipped out and I felt my husband’s dick at my hole.

I was deep inside Matias. Kissing his neck, explaining what was about to happen, “When I pull back, I’m going to impale myself on my husband’s cock.”

Matias moaned, spreading my cheeks as far as they could go with his hands. “Yeah, fuck yourself and fuck me!”

I pulled back and sank my ass onto my husband’s dick. His cock penetrating my ass as my cock slide along inside Matias’s ass. 

My body trembled. 

“MMMMMMAaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa fuck,” I moaned. Both of them echoing my pleasure.

Matias released my cheeks, letting them squish into Arjun’s dick and groin, and slapped them.

“Yeah. Fuck.”

Getting the right position, I went fast, driven my desire to fuck Matias and feel my husband fucking me, I relished being the meat in the middle.

Matias began to tilt his hips and drive his ass back onto my cock, meeting my thrusts. Arjun did likewise behind me, thrusting into my backward movements. Skin slapping sounds rang out with our moans.

My elbow crooked around Matias’s neck, pulling his body up, gently choking him.

“AAA AAAAAA AAA AAHHH Fuck,” he moaned, loving the sensations swarming his body.

“OH FUCK,” Arjun cried out. “Fuck fuck aaaaaaaaaHHHHHHH…”

“Fuck yeah dude,” Matias coaxed. “Blast the hole!”

Arjun’s dick swelled and blasted, dumping his load inside my ass.

He humped into my continued thrusts in and out of Matias, finishing off his orgasm.

Sighing, panting, he pulled out, his dick becoming too sensitive.

Matias twisted his head back, “My turn.”

His hands gripped my hips, stopping my thrusts and pulled himself off my dick with a moan.

Precum oozed out, dripping to the tiled balcony floor.

“Fucking hot white dude,” Matias said, his own dick spilling precum down his curved shaft. “Come.” 

He positioned me on my back on a sunchair, legs over his shoulders, his dick prodding my anus.

My hole opened easily.

Arjun handed Matias the lube.

He drew his dick back, let some lube drip down my crack, and gyrated his dick along my lubed crack.

Pulling back again, his head slid down to be in line with my hole, and he entered me. My hole opened eagerly, his 6.5inches slipping deep inside. 

“HOLY FUCK,” he cried out, dick pulsing. The curve of his cock stretching parts of my ass not often given a lot of attention. Parts that drove me wild.

“FUCK YEAH!” I cried out.

He pressed into me, straining my hole and his dick.

Panting, I held onto his butt cheeks, humping my ass into his dick.    

Arjun played with Matias’s nipples and kissed his shoulders and neck, adding to his excitement.

Matias pulled back and hammered back in, fucking me roughly.

I whined and took it like a champ.

His hands clasped the sides of my head, ramming his dick in and out of my hole.

“Take my fucking cock,” he roared, eyes intense, his hands affectionate but his fucking aggressive.

“Yeah bro,” I egged him. “Fuck my tight muscle hole.”

He groaned. 

“You feel my husband’s load in there,” I continued. “Give me your load too.”

Matias roared again, face flushed, sweating a sheen over his skin. 

Arjun, pinching Matias’s nipples hard, coaxed him too, “Cream my husband’s ass dude!”

Matias’s dick swelled and he hammered me harder.

I clenched my ass onto his invading cock and his eyes bulged. His hands gripped my face, chest muscles tensed, mouth fell open in a silent moan and his dick blasted inside of me.

On the third jet of cum he thrust inside, his moan boomed from his mouth, “AAAAAAAHHHHHGGGGGGG FUCK YEAH!”

“Fuck fuck, holy fuck…” he kept moaning, pounding my hole, thrusting each jet of his load inside.

Panting, he stopped thrusting, his dick throbbing in my ass, his heart racing.

His hands relaxed and caressed my face. His eyes still intense but taking on a grateful look. With a long breath out, he slowly pushed fully onto my ass and then fully withdrew, rubbing his head on my hole. “Hot fucking ass bro.”

He looked down at my dick, smirking. “But we aren’t done yet, you need to cum too.”    

He picked me up and slid me back further onto the sunchair, straddled my body, grabbed my dick. Dripping more lube on it, he sank his ass down my cock until he was sitting on my lap, eyes wide, mouth hanging open.

My 8inches stretched his anus open and throbbed inside of him. I was right on the verge of orgasm, my own mouth hanging down, a low groan rumbling out.

Matias’s high pitched whines flowed from his open mouth and he raised his body up, slamming back down on my dick.

“FFFFFFuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck,” I breathed.

Up and down, riding my cock, his own dick still hard, slapping my abdomen.

Arjun was back behind him, toying with this pecs and nipples, whispering in his ear about riding his husband and feeling his giant cock.

Faster, just like he was fucking me a moment ago, he rode my large cock with abandon.

Grabbing his dick, I jacked his curved meat.

His ass clenched as he rode me and my orgasm exploded.

My body tensed and muscles jerked, humping my cock into his riding movements as I pumped my cum into his ass.

Feeling my dick pumping my load inside of him, he cried out, and his dick blasted another load. Jacking him as he rode me, my hand milking out his second load as his ass milked my first.His cum splattered all over me, the sunchair, and the tiled floor. His load was huge, like mine, but this was his second in only a matter of minutes.

I moaned, feeling his hot cum on my body, his tight ass milking my dick. I’d lost track of how many times my body pumped cum into him, but I knew it was more than usual.

Stopping his ass at the top of my dick, he slowly lowered himself back down to sit on my groin and proceeded to lick his load off my body.

Part of a jet had hit the corner of my lips. I licked it off, tasting his clean saltiness.

Having cleaned me up, he kissed me, pulling Arjun into the kiss, sharing the taste of his load.

Arjun then helped Matias climb off my cock and pulled me up from the sunchair. The three of us kissed again.

He wiped us down with the towel he’d brought out earlier and then wiped himself.

Arjun and Matias exchanged social media, and we said our pleasantries, honestly wanting to rekindle this escapade in the future.

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Car play is typically not my thing. Car sex in general is not my thing because of the confined space and such. And it doesn’t help that my experiences with car play haven’t been the greatest. The first time I tried out car play, I felt like I was held hostage because the guy who picked me up didn’t want to drop me back off until I came ,even though I was not going to cum, and made it clear that I wasn’t going to. Most of the other times were really lackluster.

Anyway, so when I get horny, I do tend to go on those apps to find some sort of willing hole that will satiate the horniness, especially if my regular holes aren’t available. Usually, when I get on these apps, I don’t typically expect to hook up because, honestly, I’m not very proactive with seeking people out. However, I did end up getting a message from a picture of a nice round ass, and they had their stats, so I decided to respond.

Without me prompting it at all, the guy, whom I will call Beau for the sake of this story, sent me a picture. This guy is buff, handsome, and very hot. He sent me a gym pic, which I wasn’t expecting in the slightest. Why? Well, let’s just say that when people denote themselves as “muscular,” they’re usually, at least where I’m at, not. And of course, he asked me to send a face and body pic. Now, let me just say this. Very often, muscular and conventionally attractive guys that I chat with will typically stop messaging me or straight up block me after I send them a picture of myself (to be fair, my face pics are intentionally not the greatest). It happens a lot, so I legitimately had the thought, “Well, I’ll just shoot my shot and see.” And surprisingly, Beau was super down.

However, Beau then asked if I’d be down for car play since he can’t host and can’t stray too far away from his house. He didn’t explain why, but I had the inkling it was because he was on-call for work. Car play for me, like I said, is not something I typically go for, so I did turn down the offer at first. But after messaging him for a while, I was ultimately convinced and willing to try car play again.

And boy am I glad I did.

I drove over to the spot where Beau wanted to meet up, which was within his neighborhood, on a street that he said, “Hardly anyone drives down this road.” Which was funny because as I was waiting for him, three cars drove by. I sat in the backseat and waited for him to show up, which wasn’t very long. Beau took his shirt off before getting in the car and was immediately excited to get down and dirty as soon as he got in the car.

I pulled down my shorts and Beau started devouring my cock. And when I say devour, I mean devour. He gave such a sloppy blowjob, which I love, and he looked fucking hot doing so. Those lips wrapped around my cock, cheeks hollowed, it was a delicious sight. I reached over to squeeze his ass, which got him moaning and sucking me harder.

“Such a big cock, it tastes so good,” he moaned before licking my cock, thick strings of saliva dripping between his lips and my cock. And the way he looked at me as he would suck was just the cherry on top of the sloppy blowjob.

I was getting frisky at this point, too, playing with his hole while he sucked me. He’d deepthroat my cock then sort of do this grinding thing while my cock was deep inside his throat, so I would feel his throat even more, which felt amazing. I’d hold his head down, making him gag and choke. The sounds were filthy.

Then he asked, “Want me to sit on your face?”

While we were messaging each other, I did ask if he liked to be eaten out, and he said yes. So, I agreed and lay down on the seat, and he straddled my face and leaned over to keep sucking my dick. I immediately got to work, spreading his cheeks open and went in on his tight hole. The fucking moans he let out were music to my ears.

“Fuck you’re really good at that!” he cried out, face mashed against the fogged window.

As I ate his hole, I spanked his ass, getting him riled up and sucking even harder. Calling him a good boy definitely made him far more excited to please. And there’s just something that feels so good having a mouth moan around my dick.

“Ride my cock,” I told him as I bit down on his juicy cheeks.

“Yessir!”

He turned to face me, lubed up my dick ,and started to lower himself. This muscle man was so fucking tight. As soon as my cock popped through that sphincter muscle, we were fucking golden. His eyes wide open, moaning as he felt my cock drive into him.

“You’re so fucking deep!”

He started to ride my cock with such fervor, slamming down his ass each and every time. It was so hot feeling that tight hole around me, those wide eyes looking at me, and that moaning face. I never had some ride my cock with so much force before, like every single moment was to have my cock hit as far deep inside him as possible.

“Fuck my pussy, daddy! This is your pussy!”

We repositioned, he lay back on the seat ,and I sat up to fuck him, gripping his thighs as I thrusted back and forth. My car was bouncing with every movement, windows fogging up with how hot it was getting inside. Both of us, sweaty messes.

I’d lean down, making out with him, then kissing his neck and chest. His moans rang in my ears as I thrust. He was such a good boy taking my cock, whimpering and whining like a little bitch that is being claimed thoroughly.

“Gimme that cum, sir, breed me, get me pregnant!”

I snapped my hips back and forth, as fast as possible to breed the muscle boy beneath me. And when I finally let loose, and slam as deep in as possible, shoot out my ropes of cum. Beau let out long moans when he felt me unload inside him.

“Gimme that load, sir!”

I’d push my cum as deep inside him as possible, getting him to really feel my load. We stayed like that for a moment, kissing as we both came down from the high.

Beau moaned when I popped my cock out of him. He smiled and said, “See, car play, I knew I’d get you to cum.”

I couldn’t help but just chuckle.

We both get dressed again, and he leaves the car saying, “We need to have a round two sometime, that was hot as hell, thank you.”

And round two definitely came a lot sooner than we both thought.

After Beau left the car and I left to go to the gym, Beau and I were messaging each other the whole time. We were talking about how hot that car fucking was and how good it felt. I honestly could not believe how nice his ass was, how it looked and felt. And he loved the taste and feeling of my cock. I was fighting not to get hard while I was at the gym.

He told me that I almost made him cum, and so I told him that I want to fuck the cum out of him next time. He was saying how he was still so horny and wanted my cock again and wanted it soon. While we were messaging, I was trying to work out but was getting worked up about wanting to feel that ass again. Beau, this whole time, was really wanting my cock, hoping that I could come by again.

And honestly, I really wanted to feel him again, and so I told him that I’ll finish up at the gym and head back over. He didn’t believe me at first, but I told him that I was gonna be on my way, and he was excited. He did tell me that we’d have to be quicker, which was fine with m,e considering it was 2 in the morning.

So after my workout, I go back to the same spot we were at. I lowered my backseats so we could fuck more in the trunk area. Beau showed up, got in the car, and immediately got to work again.

Beau was sucking my dick like he hadn’t had it in the longest time. He was so much hungrier and swallowing my cock, licking it up and down, looking at me like the good boy he is. He was just so fucking hot to look at with his tongue out to lick my cock, or his lips wrapped around the shaft. He’d deepthroat me and do that grinding thing with his throat that felt so fucking good. It was like I could feel the walls of his throat clenching around me.

This blowjob was even sloppier than the previous. Thick strands of spit and my pre would connect my cock to his mouth. He’d spit on my cock and stroke it when he wasn’t sucking. But holy hell did his mouth feel so good when he would work the whole length of my cock. The best part, though, was when he went slow, really savoring every inch of my cock from base to tip and back down. When he went slow, it felt even more intense.

Another amazing part of the blowjob? I held his head down, telling him, “Choke on it.” I held him against the base of my cock tightly, hearing him gag and gurgle before he would cough and sputter with my cock in his mouth. When I released him, he’d be gasping for air, but even hungrier to have my cock inside his mouth again.

“Fuck, daddy, gimme that cock!”

We positioned ourselves doggy style, with him on all fours. He forgot to bring lube for round two, so we had to use spit, which sufficed (though I would highly not recommend it because spit dries fast and can be a pain just fyi). I spat on his tight hole, teasing it with the head of my cock before I managed to push it in. And knowing him from fucking him just an hour earlier, he liked it when I would shove my cock in. And so I did.

He let out such a slutty fucking moan that made me excited and want to pump in and out of him so fast. My neck was cranked down since I was up against the roof, but I didn’t care. I gripped his ass, spanked him, and slammed my cock into his tight muscle hole as fucking hard and fast as I could. I was pounding that ass.

“Fuck! Your cock feels so good!”

“This is my pussy isn’t it?”

“Yes, daddy, that pussy is all yours!”

To break a bit from the hopeful hotness of this recount, my knees were getting destroyed as I was thrusting. My trunk isn’t exactly the softest surface, and my knees are actually quite bad in terms of health conditions. But after taking brief breaks just to give my knees a bit more of a breather, I would go back to thrusting.

“This is exactly what I fucking needed! Fuck me, daddy!”

Music to my fucking ears. He was telling me how horny he was through the messages, but it was fun to hear that I was helping satiate that horniness that he was feeling. This, in turn, made me want to fuck him harder and satiate my lingering horniness.

His back arched every time I would slam in, and he cried out, “You’re gonna make me cum!”

“Be a good boy and cum for me.”

He let out such a whimper. And with his back arched and me pulling his hair, he cried out, “I’m cumming!”

He tightened up as he came as I was thrusting into him. He clenched so tightly that he accidentally pushed my cock out when I was moving back, which was okay, since it was hot that he was cumming because I was fucking him so hard.

After cumming, he was taking a breather before laughing and looking at me. “You fucked the cum out of me, fuck.”

He did apologize for not making me cum, which was okay since I came earlier, so it’s not a net loss. And I don’t have to cum every time either, since I am the type of person who enjoys seeing their bottom cum and enjoys themselves too.

As he was leaving, he said to me, “We definitely need to do a round three soon.”

I agreed, because if these two times were as fun as they were, I’d love to know how a round three would go.

And that’s where I leave you, readers, the hottest car play fuck session I’ve had. It wasn’t a high bar, but I think it created a high bar that if I do any more car play without Beau, I might get disappointed that it’s not with Beau.

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I’m in the backseat of my car. Ass is torn apart and still seeping out. My face is ruined. Piss, shit and tears all over my face. My self esteem and pride is down the toilet both literally and mentally. The sun is up, people are entering the parking lot and I don’t know what to do with myself. I’ve allowed myself to be absolutely humiliated and destroyed yet again by this guy who thinks he can do whatever he wants to me. I’m just grateful I got out of there safely. My man is texting me to come home to him and give him this ass but there’s no way I can go to him like this. I have to recover, I have to go somewhere else safe and sound to clean up. I can only think of one person who wouldn’t be surprised at my appearance and wouldn’t judge me—my friend from my earlier stories.

Since I topped him about a year and a half ago, I haven’t spoken to him much since. At least not since my uncle became my boyfriend. I’ve seen him on social media here and there and he’s living his best life. I like his stories and he likes mine so we’re on good terms. I know it’s the crack of dawn early but I have no other options at this point. I call him. He picks up….

”Hey man, it’s me, long time no speak but I need to come over right now no questions asked please” I say desperately and fast. “Hey man, umm….sure. I’m just cleaning up here but yeah come on over. You can meet my new boyfriend too” he says back to me. I hang up and get in the front seat and make my way to his place. I try to find something in my car to wipe my face off but there’s just about nothing. Most of the fluids on my face are drying off but the odor gets worse by the minute. My skirt is still on and I’m driving with my heels, I can only imagine what my friend is going to think of me when he sees me. I make it to his house and park in the driveway. Im scared to get out but I muster up the courage with some deep breaths and go to the door and knock. He takes a bit to come to the door as I nervously look around to see if anyone is passing by. Thankfully, it’s quiet and empty. He opens the door and before he opens his mouth to say hello, he looks at me with his mouth open and proceeds to be speechless. “I know dude I know, can I use your shower?” I say to him as I make my way inside. “Yeah go ahead, it’s down the hall to the right, but you should know…” and before he finishes his sentence, I practically run my way to the bathroom door. I didn’t hear the end of his sentence or else I would’ve heard him tell me what I was about to go and see. I open the door frantically and before I close the door I see a dark man using the toilet. He’s sitting on it(I assume using it) while stroking his big dick while looking at his phone. We lock eyes on each other for a second before I say “oh fuck sorry” and try to open the door to leave. He says “wait man hold up come here!” quickly as that grabs my attention and makes me stop holding the doorknob.

I turn to him as I can somehow tell that he’s very intrigued by this situation. He sees a man in a high up skirt(that shows my ass cheeks) and heels enter his bathroom while he’s jerking off. It’s practically a porn fantasy. I say to him, “I didn’t mean to intrude man I just need to shower quickly and leave”. He then stops stroking and says, “You can shower man, get undressed, don’t mind me at all”. I hesitate for a second before I take off my shirt. I began undressing quickly and right before I get to my high heels, he says to me, “Hey man if you’re going to be in my house and use my shower, you need to show some appreciation. Best way appreciation is shown here is by making daddy cum while he takes a dump” he says sternly without any joke in his voice. I’m naked and disgusting in his bathroom just a few feet away from him still in my heels. I’m almost to the tub as I am stunned by his words. “Uhh…” I say…having no words to really come back with that. I just finished having a humiliation ritual put on me in the mall bathroom! You think I want to go from that to a blumpkin? He slumps down on the toilet seat and thrusts his still hard plump cock towards me in a motion that tells me to get going. I look at him again as we lock eyes, I can tell in his look that he’s not playing around. I’m not in the mood to argue so I submit. I just need to survive this and shower. I get on my knees and towards his cock. I get a whiff of his cock and it smells directly like shit. I couldn’t tell if it was the cock or his dump that was the reason for the odor. My face makes a face of disgust as he notices and tells me “oh yeah, my dick is dirty from last night. I fucked your friend hard in the ass.” I look up at him from my knees after he says this and then look back at his cock. It was the smallest black cock I’ve ever encountered and even then…it was still about seven inches. It was circumcised and trimmed with low hanging balls that were hanging in the toilet. I began to put my mouth on it and suck it good. I bob up and down on it and began having fun with it too. I take it deep since my throat got primed a few minutes ago and he’s enjoying it.

He’s sat back with his head up moaning while I take him deep on the toilet. I hear him release some farts into the toilet and the smell smacks my nose hard. I just keep going and going hoping he’d release into my mouth soon. He then stops me and holds up his cock basically signaling me to slurp his balls. I lift his balls up to suck them and the bottom of his balls were wet from the toilet water. Yeah….that’s how low and big his sack was. I taste it and ignore it as I try to fit both his testicles in my mouth. He’s jerking his cock slowly as I am doing this and looking down at me. “Good fucking boy….no wonder this guy talked highly of you” he whispers to me softly. I then hear the door begin to open. I stop what I’m doing and turn around and before I can even see who’s coming in, the black guy grabs my head and smacks my face. “DO NOT STOP” he yells at me. He forces my mouth and head back onto his cock as I had tears stream down my face. I was tired of black men slapping me if I’m being honest. It ended up being my friend, his boyfriend, that came in and saw what was going on. “Julius….what are you doing? This isn’t how we treat our guests” he says as I feel relief when he says it. It’s bout to stop I think. “Nobody is servicing his ass man….you couldn’t wait for me?” He says as I hear his pants fall down to the floor. He positions himself behind me and grabs my ass. He spreads it apart and once he does he says loudly, “Goddamn! This ass is torn up. Looks just right for a new cock to enter in. I wonder what the fuck you just came from but you came to the right place friend. I missed you”. I continue to cry more as I arch my ass up to him preparing myself for another fucking. I do have to admit, I did miss his dick but not like this. He shoves his cock inside of me and it was without any difficulty. It slid right in and he thrusted hard and gave me backshots like he was my ex. He’s fucking me so hard it’s pushing me more forward onto the black dick making me gag and choke on it. The black guy loves it so much that he’s holding my head onto his cock for good not letting me up. I try to breathe through my nose but it’s congested already from earlier. I look up at him with blurry vision from the tears as he’s laughing. 

I then feel him burst his seed into my mouth so deep that it ended up coming out of my nose. He kept pumping me deep with it that I began to vomit on his cock and thankfully it dripped down into the toilet. Moans of relief came afterwards as I then realize my ass is still being fucked and used. My friend took a bit of time to finish which is unusual. My rectum is numb to this point and I am just there still face in front of the black cock just waiting for him to finish up in my ass. The black guy proceeds to wipe in front of me and give me a great show. He flushes and gives me a gentle smack on the face indicating he was finished using me. “I’ll see you in the room man” he says to my friend. After ten more minutes of endless fucking, he deposited his cum inside of me. When he was done, he brought his cock to my face and demanded I clean it off as a thank you for eventually using his shower. I clean it off with my eyes closed, not wanting to see how the cock looked like. I tasted a medley of stuff on it but I forced it down with a swallow and got myself off my knees and onto my feet. He then left the bathroom as I turned on the shower to finally be clean. 

Most summers I didn’t really go on vacation. I started working early. My parents and younger siblings would go away for a week or more at a time, leaving me home to my own devices. After I graduated high school, the company my father worked for hired me each summer to do menial work for a ridiculously high hourly rate. Instead of scholarships, it was their way of helping employee’s kids. So of course I worked as much as I could to bank money for college.

I still managed to get in at least one vacation every year. The summer after I turned eighteen, my family did a typical week of camping at the state park in Myrtle Beach. We hitched up the pop-up camper trailer to the big, brown Ford van, piled in, and 12 hours later we were in South Carolina’s vacation land.

The campsites there were nice, in a wooded area, not too close to each other, and somewhat rustic. There were a few manual water pumps scattered around to get drinking water, and some well-kept communal restrooms and showers.

One afternoon I had been swimming in the ocean and lying on the beach reading. It was always my plan to get as darkly tanned as possible. In fact, it was a competition between me and my siblings to see who could get the darkest. And the way you proved it was to have a good, distinct tan line.

Salty, greasy from tanning oil, and covered with sand, I headed from the beach back to the camping area to take a shower. Inside the building, a series of tiled cubicles faced outwards. The outer walls ran up to the ceiling, with a high window to let in light. Inside each cubicle, the shower pipe was on the wall perpendicular to the entrance. The tile floors had a kind of wooden grid on them to drain away the water, and you stepped down into the shower stall from the walkway. There were no doors or shower curtains, just a bit of wall that somewhat deflected the spray of the powerful open pipe. Opposite each stall was a hook on the wall for your towel, and a bench for your clothes.

That day, I stripped down and threw my wet swimsuit on the bench, standing under the warm water to rinse away the sand. A couple of minutes later, a guy with dark hair walked by wearing a light blue swimsuit, towel slung over one naked shoulder. He headed toward the back of the building, taking a shower cubicle a couple down from mine. He was in his late teens or early twenties, with a light patch of hair between his pecs and a tight body. In the late 1970s, guys were not ripped the way they are today, but he was definitely in good shape.

After a couple of minutes, I heard him call out.

“Hey, is your water hot?” I think he said.

I leaned out of the shower. 

“What?” I asked.

He stepped out of his, facing me naked. 

“Oh, I was just wondering if your shower is hot enough. Mine is kinda cold.”

I half-shrugged. 

He stood there, suds running down his body into his crotch. “Do you need any soap or shampoo? I have some you can use if you want.”

I shook my head. “No, I’m good.”

“Well let me know. Just come and ask.” He dropped something, and turned around, bending over to pick it up, his smooth white ass cheeks flexing. He stepped back into the shower.

I was so nervous. Talking to another guy while we were both naked was something I wasn’t accustomed to. In the mass showers we were required to take after gym class in high school, we all had to face the same direction and we were not allowed to talk while showering or drying off. 

Had my eyes wandered down to his nether regions? Probably. Hopefully he hadn’t noticed.

I finished up and grabbed my towel, which was hanging on a hook on the outside wall. The guy stepped out of his shower and started toweling off, putting one leg up on a bench, slowly drying himself, paying extra attention to his crotch. All the while, he kept talking to me.

“That’s some tan line you have. How long have you been here?”

“Thanks. I’ve been working on it all week.”

“How long are you here?” He stood facing me, toweling his hair.

“We leave on Saturday.” I pulled on my shorts and t-shirt.

“Where are you from?”

“Are you here with friends, or just your family?”

“Have you met any new friends while you were here?”

Then, eventually, “Have you ever been to the beach at sunset?”

I shook my head.

“It’s nice. Why don’t you do it tonight? I could meet you there.”

I told him I didn’t know what time we were having dinner, but I would try.

“Just walk down the beach a bit, to where it curves. There’s a big rock, meet me behind there around seven thirty.”

I got dressed and left. The rest of the afternoon, my stomach was in butterflies. Should I go? What did he want? Was he just being friendly? He was cute, and his body was definitely more mature than mine. He wasn’t at all shy about being naked in front of me.

After dinner, I was delegated dishwashing duty, which meant walking back over to the shower area to pump water. As I headed back to the campsite, water sloshing out of the bucket I carried, I saw the guy standing by the trail that led to the beach.

“See you soon, right?” he called.

I nodded and kept walking

Somehow I managed to escape whatever the rest of the family was doing that night. I grabbed a book and headed toward the beach, telling my sister that I was going to go and read by the boardwalk for a bit.

Kicking off my flip-flops, I trudged through the damp, warm sand, letting the edges of the ocean waves cover my feet. As the beach curved, I saw the big rock the guy had mentioned. Rounding it, there was a small area that backed up to some trees. It was a perfect little hideaway, sheltered from both beach and land. 

The guy sat there, leaning against the rock. He wore white OP corduroy shorts and a blue tank top. His flip-flops and a towel were neatly stacked on a small cooler next to him.

“You made it!”

I nodded, suddenly shy.

“Isn’t this spot cool? It’s my favorite place to hide out on the beach.”

Nodding again, I said, “Yeah, it is. I’ve never noticed it before.”

“Sit down. Make yourself comfortable.” He opened the cooler. “Want a beer?”

I shook my head. “Nope, thanks. I don’t like beer.”

He popped a can open and took a long swig. The silence was awkward.

“Well, sorry I don’t have anything else.”

“That’s OK. I don’t really drink.”

“My name is Nathan, by the way. What’s yours?”

“Miles. Nice to meet you. Where are you from?” I tossed my book on the sand a few feet from him and sat on it.

“I live near Boston. What about you?”

“Rochester, New York.”

Nathan grinned. He had straight, white teeth and a big dimple in his cheek. “There sure are a lot of people from Rochester here.”

“I know.”

We sat in silence.

“What are you reading?” 

“It’s science fiction. ‘The Dragonriders of Pern’. Have you read it?”

Nathan shook his head. “No. Is it good?”

“I like it. There’s not much else to do here, so…”

Nathan nodded. He looked over a me for a minute, then stood.

“Hey, your tan is really good. I haven’t gotten anywhere near as dark as you.” He stood and unsnapped the top of his shorts, pulling them slightly open. “See? I don’t think my tan line is very defined compared to yours.” He opened the shorts a bit more, tufts of dark pube hairs appearing. He wasn’t wearing any underwear.

“Let’s compare. Show me your tan line?”

I stood and undid the top button of my shorts, showing him the distinct separation between my brown stomach and the white area above my crotch.

“Wow, nice. Do you wear a speedo?”

I nodded. 

“They really stay in the same place so you can get a very defined tan line. I’ll bet there’s even more difference at the back.” He turned around and dropped his shorts a bit, showing his perky white butt. “See, I have a line, but…”

Without thinking, I did the same, pulling down my white briefs.

Nathan smiled. “Yeah, your line is very defined. It makes your butt really white against your back and legs.” He ran his finger across my back, tracing the tan line above my buttocks. My stomach flipped a bit, unused to anyone touching me, and especially another guy.

I turned back around, pulling up my shorts and buttoning them closed. A shadow crossed Nathan’s face, but it quickly passed. His deep blue eyes had long dark lashes, and I could feel him staring at me. A stirring started between my legs, and I awkwardly held one arm in front of my crotch.

Nathan’s shorts were still unsnapped. He pulled the zipper down further, revealing more dark pubes. He twisted his hips, and they dropped to the ground. He stood naked in front of me. A treasure trail ran from his belly button down to his pubes, which were thick and dark. His cock was pale and slightly engorged, so it waved in front of him, swinging back and forth in front of two big, low-hanging balls. 

“See, I just don’t have the distinct tan you have on your legs. The trunks I wear are loose, and they move around, so it’s kind of a blurry line.” He bent his knee, raising up onto the ball of his foot, and pointed to his left thigh, flexing it slightly. His knee touched mine, and I felt a small jolt run through me.

I gulped. Not that I hadn’t already seen Nathan naked in the shower room, but he was ten feet away there. Here, he was so close I could hear him breathe, and feel the heat coming off his sun-reddened skin. 

“Let me see yours again? I really want to see the difference a Speedo makes.”

Hesitating, I looked around, afraid someone would see us. But this spot was completely secluded, the rock and trees hiding us from anyone who might be walking by on the beach. I drew in a breath, then quickly unbuttoned the shorts and, grabbing the underwear with my thumbs, quickly pulled everything down to my ankles. I stepped back once.

Nathan looked at me and smiled, his teeth white and straight. His eyes went from my face, down my thin, mostly hairless chest, and to my exposed crotch. His cock pulsed, standing a bit further away from his body.

That was all it took. My dick jumped to attention, standing straight up and saluting my stomach. It was about seven inches long – yes, I had measured it – and it just grazed the bottom of my belly button.

Nathan’s cock reacted, getting longer as it rose to 90 degrees, standing straight out from his body. He was thicker than me, and about the same length, maybe a half inch longer. The head was pink, skin pale until it reached the circle of darker skin where he had been circumcised.

“You can touch it if you want,” he said.

I could feel myself quivering inside. The only other time I had ever experienced something with another boy, the same thing had happened. I concentrated to minimize the shaking, afraid it would be obvious to the man in front of me.

Slowly, I reached out and circled my hand around his girth. It was thick, my second finger and thumb not quite touching. It was smooth and warm, soft yet firm. It pulsed in my hand, getting harder, quickly standing straight up.

Nathan let out a small gasp, his eyes closing for a moment. The he opened them, and leaned toward me. Quietly he asked, “Do you want me to kiss you?”

I had never kissed a boy before, and the vibrating on my inside grew. I nodded mutely. 

Nathan licked his lips, pink and full, and leaned in further, his lips just touching mine. Another electrical jolt ran through me. He nibbled slightly at my lips, then ran his tongue along them, gently probing the closed lips and moistening them with his tongue. I shivered slightly.

“Lick your lips. Then open them up a bit,” he whispered.

I nervously ran my tongue around my lips, my mouth dry but managing to get some moisture on them. I could feel a ragged spot where the bottom lip was chapped, the skin hard, and I quickly tried to chew it off.

Nathan leaned in further, his lips touching mine again. My hand still encircled his cock, and the motion thrust it forward until my hand rested against his plentiful pubic hair. He nibbled my lips again, letting out a small moan which tickled my mouth. 

I opened my lips up, and he increased the pressure, moving his lips in a motion that sent chills down my back. I realized my eyes were closed, and I tilted my head slightly to the side as Nathan’s kisses grew more insistent. His tongue pushed forward, gently licking my teeth. At the same time, he rocked his hips back slightly, my hand moving smoothly back to the tip of his even harder penis.

I unclenched my jaw, and soon our tongues were tangling in my mouth. I gave in to the sensation, tasting beer and a sweet Juicy Fruit flavor as my tongue reciprocated, probing Nathan’s mouth. 

Nathan reached around me, grabbing my two buttocks and pulling me forward, crushing our dicks between us. I extricated my hand, and put it around his waist. He rocked forward a bit, his cock flat against my belly. The side of my dick touched his, flat against his hairy treasure trail. I gasped slightly, pulling back from his mouth.

“Is this OK?” he whispered.

I nodded. 

“And this?” He rocked back and forth slightly, stimulating both of our rigid members.

I nodded again, my breath ragged. I had never felt a sensation like this before. I jerked off regularly, but it was nothing like this.

His hands gripped my butt firmly, fingers between the crack, and he pulled me forward, thrusting my dick against his smooth, warm belly. Without thinking, I rocked my hips back and forth, the sensation in my crotch growing, climax building.

“Hey!” he whispered. “Slow down. I want to try something else.” He pulled away from me, and my dick bounced, nearly exploding. I focused on his face, and the feeling passed.

“Is it OK if I touch your dick?”

I nodded mutely.

He let go of my butt and ran his hands around my hips to the front. One hand dropped down and went between my legs, tracing up slowly until he gently cupped my balls. He formed his other hand in an open circle, softly surrounding my dick and barely touching it. I shivered again, the quivering inside me increasing. His hand stroked my shaft, more air than contact. Between my legs, his fingers fondled my balls, sending shivers up my spine.

“I’m really close,” I said, as I leaned in to kiss him again. 

“Not yet,” he replied. He broke off the kiss, and dropped to his knees. Suddenly, my dick was enveloped in the warmest, softest, moistest thing it had ever felt. I let out a low groan. He slowly moved his head down my shaft, curling his tongue around the bottom side. His hand continued to cup my balls, moving the fingers slightly to tickle them. It was the most amazing feeling I had ever experienced. 

His head withdrew slowly, his tongue moving back and forth, until he reached the head. He ran his tongue in circles, licking the small slit, covering the mushroom head in moisture, before again slowly sinking all the way back down on my shaft, his nose nestling in my pubes. I started to vibrate, legs nearly buckling, and without warning I shot my load down his throat. 

He stayed still for a moment, my dick staying inside his warm mouth, before he slowly pulled off, licking the sensitive tip to capture the last beads of cum. He slowly stood, a soft smile on his face.

“That was hot. And delicious!”

I started to shake, excited and nervous and scared by what had just happened. Nathan wrapped his arms around me, warm body against mine, hard dick pressed against my abdomen. 

“You’re shaking. It’s OK. I promise.”

I nodded.

“Was that your first blowjob?”

I nodded again.

“Did you like it?”

I smiled shakily. “Yes. Oh yes.” I shivered in his arms.

“Don’t worry, you don’t have to do it to me.”

I pulled back a bit and looked up into his blue eyes.

“I…um…I might like to try it. But I’ve never done that before either.”

Nathan rubbed my shoulders, and I felt his cock pulse against my belly.

“You can if you want. But I can take care of myself too.”

I slithered down from his arms, knees hitting the warm sand. I was looking at a cock face-on for only the second time in my life. It pointed nearly straight up, and looked even bigger and more imposing at close range. His balls were large and round, bigger than mine, and hung lower from his body than mine. They were sparsely covered in hair. Around the base of his shaft was a thick nest of dark pubes, not too curly, spreading out toward his inner thighs. 

I gingerly wrapped my hand around the his cock and pulled it down slightly, until it stood straight out from Nathan’s body. Taking a deep, shuddering breath, I opened my mouth and wrapped my lips around the tip. I could taste a sweet-saltiness on my tongue, and realized it was probably his pre-cum. Moving my head forward, I tried to take more of his dick into my mouth. The tip hit the back of my throat, and I gagged, pulling back.

Nathan stroked my hair. “Take it slowly. Just get it good and wet, and you can use your hand to help.”

I tried to summon saliva into my mouth. Slowly, I leaned forward, pushing his cock deeper into my mouth. His cock was very wide, and I had to open my mouth until my jaw ached. I bobbed my head up and down a bit, imitating what he had done to me minutes before.

Nathan inhaled sharply, the air whistling slightly. “Careful with your teeth!” 

I pulled back and looked up at him. “Sorry,” I said.

“It’s OK. Just use your lips a bit around your teeth. Lick them so they are moist.”

I frantically licked my lips, wishing I could produce more spit. I was so nervous my mouth felt bone dry. I pulled my lips inward over my teeth, and tried again, pushing his dick into my mouth and letting it slip back out again.

“That feels great. Let me help you a bit.” He pulled back and shot a big gob of spit into his right hand, wrapping it around his thick shaft. The head and about two inches protruded beyond the ring of his thumb and fingers. He gave a couple of strokes, then leaned toward me. I opened my mouth, pulling back my lips, and again tried to swallow him.

Quickly we got into a kind of rhythm. As I pulled back, his fist stroked forward. When I moved down on his dick, my face would hit his hand, stopping it from going too far into my mouth and from gagging. In less than a minute, his breath quickened, and he pumped harder, hitting my face a few times.

Nathan pulled back suddenly, and turning slightly to the side, gave two quick strokes. His dick pulsed, shooting cum over my shoulder into the sand. With each pulse, his hips canted forward. He let out a soft moan.

“Sorry. I didn’t want to cum in your mouth. Not your first time.”

I nodded. His cock was still eye-level, a drop of cum oozing out of the end. I really wanted to know what it tasted like. Without thinking, I leaned forward and licked it off. It was sweet, salty and a little bitter. It tasted a bit like his kiss. I wasn’t sure if I liked it or not.

He leaned over, putting his arms under my shoulders and pulling me up into a big hug. Our mouths met again, and he kissed me gently.

“That was amazing. Thank you.”

“Was it really? I don’t think it was as good as what you did to me.”

“It was. I loved it. And it’s not just how you do it, it’s also how you make the other person feel about it. You are so cute. I’m glad I was your first BJ – getting and giving. Every time you’ll find it’s a bit easier and you’ll enjoy it more.”

Earlier today, he had been a handsome stranger talking to me at the showers. Now my dick had been in his mouth, and I had put his in mine. Somehow, I felt like I trusted him.

“Is that your favorite thing to do? I mean, there are other things guys do too, right?”

Nathan smiled. “There are lots of things guys can do together. But yes, giving and getting a BJ is my favorite. There’s something about the taste of a dick, the smell of a guy’s pubes, and swallowing their cum that makes me very happy.” He reached for his towel and handed it to me.

“Have you been, you know, with a lot of guys?” I was curious about his experience.

“Not so many. A few. It’s how you learn what you like.” He looked me in the eye and smiled. “Um, you have a few drops on your shoulder. And you might want to wipe your face.”

As I scrubbed the evidence from my body, I watched as he turned around and bent over to retrieve his shorts from the pile on the sand. His white ass spread, and I could see his small round pink butthole, surrounded by a feathering of soft dark hair. It was a quick peek, but I could feel my dick pulse again.

I quickly tugged on my white briefs and shorts, tucking my hardening member to the side and pulling my t-shirt over my tousled hair. Picking up my flip flops and book, I turned to see Nathan tucking his still firm dick into his OP shorts.

“I think we missed the sunset,” I said.

“That’s OK. This was better than any sunset.” He smiled, and ran his hand down my arm. “Thank you.”

“I…I guess I won’t see you again,” I stammered. “We leave in the morning.”

Nathan shrugged. “Maybe next year?”

I’m a mid-fifties guy with a decent marriage and a private ache I carry like a second pulse. If you saw me at the gym you’d clock the discipline before the years: shoulders kept, waist strict, that notched V at the hips that only shows up when you’ve said “no” more times than you can remember. It’s my last, quiet rebellion—the body I build to honor the part of me I keep hidden. I lift early, when the men who care about the details arrive in silence and the plates clang like bells. We don’t talk. We spot each other with two fingers under the bar and a grunt. We share chalk and not much else. But it’s there—lats splayed, shorts riding high, sweat slicking the hour—that my mind slips. I watch the bar rise and fall over a thick chest and I think about kneeling. I watch a back flex under a shirt gone dark with sweat and I think about the sound leather makes when it tightens one notch too far. I rack the weight, swallow the thought and go home taut, strengthened, and frustrated.

I don’t take risks anymore. I did in my forties—those dumb, dizzy hours in hotel rooms with men whose names I didn’t learn—until the fear outgrew the thrill. There’s a comfort that comes with control when you’re a senior executive; the calendar bows to you, the room waits for you to finish. Maybe that’s why my fantasies were 180 degrees from my reality. In the boardroom, all eyes are on me.  In my fantasies I’m stripped, bound, ordered. I’m bent over and told I’m a good boy with a palm heavy on the back of my neck. I’m pinned to the floor by weight and will and told to open. It’s not just sex—it’s relief. A kind of belonging I haven’t found in any conference room, any second home, any club with a waiting list and a dress code.

I tried to find it the easy way: the sites with discreet phrases and careful euphemisms. “Therapeutic touch.” “Mutual release.” “Open-minded.” At best it ended in an awkward, obligatory hand job and a towel. The whole thing felt like an apology—his for offering it, mine for wanting it. I learned to stop hoping. I learned the choreography: keep the expectations low, keep the questions general, keep your wallet handy, leave with a smile like you’d just had a nice stretch.

And then there was Lance.

He was listed in the usual place, but his ad didn’t read like the others. It was direct, polished, and then—boldly, almost wickedly—it sent me to a personal website. That alone felt like a signal. Everyone knows what can and cannot be said on those sites, so a man with a portal of his own is either reckless or very sure of himself. I clicked like I was stepping off a familiar path into brush.

The site loaded with a charcoal background and a single photograph that hit me like a shovel. Lance exhibited the sort of casual arrogance that isn’t casual at all. Wide shoulders, an upper chest like a poured slab, the clean wedge of his traps cutting into a thick neck. Prematurely greying hair and beard that screamed “bear”, but somehow empathetic instead of scary.  The eyes were the thing: pale and steady, a quiet dare. His shoulders and upper arms were filled with tatts and both nipples were pierced with the most intimidating rings I’d ever seen.   

I scrolled. The gallery wasn’t coy. It was a storyboard for the fantasies I had filed under Never. Lance in a leather harness that crossed his chest in a brutal, elegant X, each strap thick enough to creak, the O-ring at his sternum catching light like a promise. Lance bare-chested in a jock and boots, sitting on a low bench with his thighs spread and a flogger draped over one knee, the falls spilling like a dark tail. Lance standing behind a man already bound at the wrists, his hands on the man’s jaw, thumbs pressing into cheeks with possessive gentleness, like he was reading tension the way a masseur reads knots.   His back—God, that back—was a map of power: deltoids round as fists, a deep cut down his spine, lower back fur just enough to say man without apology. One photo had him in nothing but a pair of black leather gloves and a sneer, two fingers hooked in the waistband of a client’s trunks; another had him wearing a full-grain leather armband, thick as a belt, veins skating down his forearms as he pulled a man tighter into the kiss.

The text threaded between images was simple, almost gentle. No screaming dominance. No theater. Just: I’m skilled. I listen. I will be in control. On one page—“My Dark Side”—the tone shifted darker and but still intimate: I play rough, I play safe, I play with purpose. Consent is the floor, not the ceiling.

The paradox I’d always hoped was possible—transaction and tenderness—was right there, stated like policy and evidenced by the look on the men’s faces. They weren’t grimacing. They weren’t enduring. They were open, eyes soft, mouths slack with something answered. I wanted to be that open. I wanted to be that answered.

I told myself I was browsing. I told myself I was market-researching the way I do everything else: dispassionately, efficiently, with a budget in mind. Then I filled out the contact form with two hands that didn’t quite feel like mine.

He replied the same day. The email was short and kind. He thanked me for the vulnerability of my note, asked me what I wanted in words that didn’t make me feel cheap, invited me to be honest about my limits and my hope. I surprised myself by telling the truth. I told him I wanted to be used. I told him I wanted control taken—explicitly, entirely, and unapologetically. I wrote the words I don’t say out loud: restraint, flogging, slut, kneel, flogging. I told him I was married and that my wife didn’t know. I told him it had to be safe. I told him I knew how ridiculous it is to ask a stranger to tie me up and make me whole.

His answer came with a booking link and protocols. It also came with a sentence I read again, and again, and then once more after that, because it landed somewhere between my lungs and my groin and stayed vibrating there: “I’ll handle you,” he wrote, “and I’ll keep you.” That sentence swept every dusty corner of my secret life clean.

He wasn’t cheap. The cost raised my eyebrows and then my heart rate, because it signaled something I needed more than anything.   Intensity.   He set the bar so high, he was compelled to deliver. The math was ugly; I made it anyway. I moved money around with a furtiveness that made me blush, like I was already obeying. When the confirmation dinged, I leaned back in the chair and closed my eyes and let myself have a long, slow exhale.

The week before our session was a month, then an hour, then a month again. I ate well, hydrating like a teenager before two-a-days. I shaved everything I knew he’d notice and left the things I hoped he’d tug. I ate sparingly knowing my intestines would be tested. 

The morning of, I woke before the alarm and made my way to the gym.  I was committed to getting the pump on of a lifetime.  I owed him that.  He deserved some fun too.  I put on my Nasty Pig jockstrap, jeans and a t-shirt that made my chest look like I’d earned it. For a long time I debated a wedding ring. In the end I left it on. I didn’t want to pretend with him. I wanted to be exactly the person I am, transgression and tenderness and all.

He lived about an hour away in a neighboring city and his home was tidy and anonymous, which is to say perfect.  As I drove up, a lady from the neighborhood was out walking and I feared she was thinking to herself, “There goes another one of Lance’s johns.”  But if it was OK with Lance, it was OK with me.

At his door I paused, palms damp, tongue thick behind a mouth that suddenly wanted permission. I scrolled through a last-minute instruction from him—“Door’s open. Come in.”—and felt the small, delicious vertigo of being expected.

The handle turned.   The door opened.  He was there.

Some men shrink when you meet them; Lance expanded. He was taller than I’d guessed—six-two, easily—and broader across the chest. The doorway framed him like he belonged in it, like the space had been waiting to be measured by his outline. He wore a pair of tight, grey shorts that were shameless in their ambition; the fabric clung obscenely to a thick hang that left nothing to faith.   A tank—a thin, abused thing—hung off his chest in ribbons, exposing heavy pecs that caught light and a deep line down his sternum you could pour wine into, and did little to hide the leather harness beneath.  He smelled like clean skin, body heat, and a hint of something minty—maybe the ghost of mouthwash. His beard was trimmed to suggestion, his mouth quirked like he’d just thought of something filthy and generous, and his eyes—the steady pale I’d memorized—flicked across me with a composure that read me top to bottom and then softened.

He closed the door behind me with a hand on the small of my back. He smiled and offered, “You made it” and then wrapped those meaty arms around my shoulders and pulled me into his chest, and in the first second of that hug I understood the thing I’d sensed on the site: he could be cruel, and he could be kind, and he would use both like tools. His chest was hot through the tank; the hair on it rasped my cheek in a way that made my knees go soft. He held me still until my breathing matched his. Then he tilted my chin up with two fingers, studied my face like he was verifying an identity, and kissed me.  Hard.

It wasn’t a polite kiss. He kept one palm anchored at the back of my head, fingers widening, thumb dragging lazily over the ridge of my skull like he’d found a grip he liked. He pushed his face into mine so that if, god forbid I wasn’t loving this, I wouldn’t have a choice.  He was kissing me with every fiber of his being as if we were long lost lovers meeting after a year apart.

His other hand slid down my spine, paused at my belt, and pressed, a slow, testing weight that said we both knew how hard I was and we were both going to enjoy it. The harness strap under his tank squeaked as he tightened me into him, the leather whispering a private language down my sternum. When he pulled back, it was only to breathe the same air, noses almost touching.

“Good boy”, he whispered, apparently reacting to my willingness to be owned in whatever way he chose to own me.

I made a sound I didn’t recognize. It might have been a laugh, or a prayer.

Without a word he took my hand and led me to the bedroom.   It was exactly what his site had promised: clean, quiet, spare. A king bed in the middle, sheets tucked tight, with a towel strategically placed across the middle to protect the linens. On a low shelf: oil, lube, neatly coiled rope the color of wet earth, leather cuffs lined with suede. There was music playing so low I felt it before I heard it—something with a steady pulse and no lyrics, a beat that sounded more like a bath house than a massage parlor.

Still standing, he pulled me again and resumed the intense make out session from the front door.  It seemed like his tongue had grown an inch since then as it invaded my mouth.  I opened willingly and followed his lead throughout.  He stripped off my shirt; I stripped off his.  He dropped my pants to reveal my jockstrap, I dropped his to reveal the longest, thickest cock I’d ever personally witnessed.  His only clothing now was a leather harness and steel cock ring that was choking his engorged member. I instinctively reached down to touch it, feel it, fondle it.  He sighed appreciatively and said, “Say hello to your new friend.  You’re going to be seeing a lot of him.”

I squeezed his cock, hard, smiled and while kissing him, said “Hello friend.”

Suddenly more serious, he ordered, “Kneel”.

I didn’t need to be told more.   I dropped to my knees before he finished the one syllable word.   He was giving me the gift of my dreams.  I lunged for his cock and could barely get my hand around it.  I put it to my lips and slowly, and dreamily, kissed the tip.  I started licking like my life depended on pleasing him, and in my mind, it did.  I took my time, knowing we had the entire afternoon, and this was just the warmup act.  But it was an act that I’d remember forever.

I licked, flicked, sucked, gulped, and every other machination one’s mouth can perform.  He clutched my hair, hard, signaling he was pleased.  This poured gasoline on my fire.  I decided to try to deep throat him.  I never had before, but if I were ever going to, this would be the time.  I opened wide and took him as far as I could.  Surprisingly, I didn’t gag, but I don’t think he made it to my throat.  I tried over and over, and while each time was deeper, I’m not sure I achieved my goal.  But, damn, I had fun trying.  And by the end, he had both hands in my hair, pressing my into his crotch, loving every one of my suppressed gags.

He pulled me back on my feet, and holding my chin said, “You told me what you want,” the words landing slow and deliberate at my ear. “You told me what you’re scared of.” A pause. “Both things are safe here.”

I nodded. Then I remembered that nodding wasn’t enough and said, “Yes, sir.”  The words came out shook and certain. It surprised me with how good it felt in my mouth—obedience shaped into language.

He smiled into my skin. “Good,” he said again, I’m going to start by getting you out of your head and into your body. You’ll let me.” Not a question.

“Yes, sir.”

“You’ll let me put you where I want you.” His hand cradled my cock and his thumb rubbed across the tip, seemingly to see if there was pre-cum yet.  There was.

“Yes, sir.”

“You’ll tell me if you need to stop.” His mouth brushed the hinge of my jaw. The scrape of his beard felt like the friction on a match.

“Yes, sir,” I responded, and then, quieter, because it mattered: “Please.”

“Come,” Lance said, opening a palm and tilting his head toward the table, the flogger waiting like a dark flower at its side. “Let me handle you.”

And I went, with relief that felt like sin, into the first touch that would teach my body a new language.

Standing face to face, he lifted me from under my shoulders so that my cock is pressed into his chest and my legs were wrapped around his waist. We stayed that way, gazing into each other’s eyes.  I ground my cock into his chest.  He lowered me so the tip of his cock nestled into my hole letting me know what awaited me.  Making it look effortless, he threw me onto the mattress like I weighed nothing, and for a split second I hovered there—air nearly knocked out of me. He was on me before the springs finished complaining. Heat. Mass. Gravity. His chest sealed to mine, his breath in my mouth, the whole length of him pinning me as if he’s the one starving for attention.

He kissed me with a cadence I couldn’t outrun, as if I’d evaporate if he stopped.  Every time I tried to inhale his mouth sucked the air out of mine, but I needed  him more than I needed oxygen. Our hips found a rhythm—urgent, imprecise, perfect in its mess. Fabric dragged fabric; the pressure was blunt and dizzying, the friction made me forget my name and remember every reason I came. He made a low sound when I rolled my hips harder into his; I answered with a helpless noise of my own that embarrassed me and thrilled him. He pressed me down with such force I was given only one option:  submit.

“Good boy,” he whispered, our lips touching. I whimper back, “Thank you, daddy.”

I wanted to say please. I wanted to say thank you. What came out instead wass, “Can I—” My voice stumbles on the wanting. “Can I taste you again?”

He stills, then lifts just enough for cool air to slip between us. I feel the attention in him, the way he listens with his whole body. He glances down at me—those eyes that can be soft like a bedroom lamp or sharp like a switchblade—and then he nods, slow, approving. There’s money in this room somewhere; there’s a rate we agreed on and a form filled out in my browser history. But in this moment he’s not a transaction; he’s a storm and I’m the open window. He moves back, guiding me with the press of his hand at the base of my neck, and I go willingly, sliding down his torso, mouth leaving a dotted line of heat.

Between his thighs the world narrows to scent and salt and the pulse that lives under his skin. I take him into my mouth again, desperately happy to be back here, nestled between his two meaty thighs. Steady at first, then deeper, then deeper still, learning the weight and pace of him. He doesn’t push; he waits, reads, then rewards. His palm settles at the back of my head—first gently as a warning, then forcefully, telling me “You asked for this”.  And I did.

I’m committed to taking him as deep in my throat as the characters in erotic porn do.  My gag reflex has never been tested.  That will change today.  I inhale a deep breath and take him deeper into my throat than anything before it.  He groans, “Oh fuck, what a good boy”, which drives me to go deeper.  I pull back, take another breath, and go for it again. He pushes my head into his groin as if to say “I’m in charge, don’t you forget it”, which pleases me immensely.   And then he adds, “Use your hands, you won’t have them for long.”   We both know what that means and I groan, “Fuck…yes…”

I want all of him. Hunger makes me bolder. I let my mouth slide lower, nuzzling that tender stretch of skin beneath his balls—his taint—and the sound he makes this time is a soft curse. I press my face there, greedy, shameless, the word please looping in my skull even as my mouth is busy. He opens his legs a little wider in answer. “There,” he murmurs, praise threaded through the syllable. The crown of my head is cradled in his hand, a benediction and a handle both.

I move lower still, breath hot, tongue ravenous, and then I’m exactly where I’ve been burning to be…feasting on his hole.   I place a pillow under his hips,  I’m going to be down there for awhile and I want him to be comfortable.   I stare at his beautiful hole.   Pink, soft, alluring, perfect.  I lean in and lick him intimately, worshiping with slow circles that turn urgent, then feral. He exhales like a man finding weather, one hand braced on the headboard, the other urging me to keep going. Time loosens its belt.  Devouring him seems like the most natural thing in the world.  I deliberately look for new and different ways to caress him with my tongue.  Vertical.  Circular.  Flat tongue.  Pointed tongue. I penetrate him and challenge myself to go deeper.  Every groan of his is my reward.  Minutes become a warm blur of him—his clean, human heat; the way he softens and then shudders; the small involuntary tremors that feel like honesty. Every so often he says my name like it’s a promise he’s remembering to keep.

When he finally draws me up, it’s gentle and absolute. “Up,” he says, not harsh, just certain, and I obey before I’ve decided to. He kisses me hard as he pulls me onto my back, as if he wants to taste what I tasted, and I ache with how seen that makes me feel.  He places his hands on each side of my head, says, “Open up”, and spits into my open mouth to cement my status as his pig.  The paradox tilts me: I paid for this, and yet he’s making me feel like a miracle he stumbled upon. Expertise and mercy, both in his touch.

Leather whispers. He’s at the corner of the bed, fingers at a strap, and then a cuff blooms around my wrist—supple, padded, firm. A click; a line draws tight. My pulse takes off. He does the other with the same patience you’d use to fold a shirt you love. “Breathe,” he says, eyes on me. I do. The restraint is a door closing and a door opening; I fall through both.

He startles me with his speed, suddenly at my throat with a kiss that feels like I’ve done something right. Then he’s kneeling by my ribs, feeding me himself again, slower this time, teaching me depth in increments that somehow know exactly how much I can take. I try to show him I can take more; I angle, relax, surrender. When I gag, the sound is ugly and human. He strokes my jaw, croons something low, waits for my body to understand his request. “You’re doing so well,” he says, and I blush at the praise like a schoolboy.

He withdraws with a soft hiss and reaches to the nightstand. The leather hood appears in his hands like a magician’s scarf—dark, heavy, quiet. He holds it up for me to see, and something inside me sits up like a dog hearing the key in the lock. “I want your mouth,” he says in that even tone that never needs to raise itself to be obeyed. “Just your mouth.” The promise in that sentence scrapes my nerves raw.

He lowers the hood over me with care, aligning the opening with my lips, tugging to smooth the fit, buckles whispering. Darkness folds in, immediate and absolute.  My world becomes breath and sound and the gentle drag of leather at my jaw. I test the cuffs. They answer with crisp little noises. My heart knocks on the inside of my ribs like it’s late for something important.

There’s a pause, and in it he touches my ankle—anchoring, affectionate. Then cool circles tighten there: more cuffs. The spread of me—the vulnerability—is erotic beyond words. I can’t see his face, but I can feel his attention like warmth on my skin.

He gently plays with my engorged cock, and I warn him, I cum fast.   He doesn’t want this either so he backs off and gently tickles my feet, legs, torso and inner thighs.  I’d never experienced erotic tickling—and never much wanted to—but I can see why it’s a thing.  In this state of intense arousal, every graze of his fingertips on my skin was like an explosion.

He then moved back to my cock and I felt something that lived somewhere between pleasure and pain.  It felt like he was binding my cock with some unknown restraint.  I had to ask and shared that he had put me in a cock ring and ball stretcher.  How he got those on my erect cock is beyond me…but he did.. He’s arranging me with that same paradoxical blend—clinical precision, devotional care.

“Too much?” he asks.

“No.” The word is breath and vow. “Please.”

I feel him smile against the inside of my knee. He takes his time. He plays with my cock the way a musician warms an instrument—testing, coaxing, finding the resonant places. I strain to see him in my mind: the set of his mouth as he focuses; the way his wrist turns; the concentration that reads like tenderness. I am a blind altar, and he is a kind priest who knows exactly where to lay his hands.

I feel a flogger—soft leather tails cascading over my belly, then enveloping my cock and balls with deliberate care. The sensation is absurdly gentle, a nest of softness gathering me up. He lifts and lets it fall, lifts and lets it fall, the weight whispering in a language I already understand. Each pass sketches a circle of nerve and want, until I’m nearly panting from how little he’s hurting me. I realize I’m smiling under the mask—helpless, giddy, a little unstrung. He chuckles, low and pleased. “You like that,” he says, not a question.

“Yes…thank you sir.” I don’t sound like myself. I sound better.

He drifts the tails down, lower, pressing them against me, wrapping, cradling, then letting them slip away. My spine arches off the mattress. I can’t help it. He hushes me with his hand at my sternum, thumb circling a spot that gentles my breath. Every time the flogger lifts, I imagine its path; every time it lands, my body shivers like it’s being told a secret. The darkness behind the hood blooms with phantom color.

At some point he moves again—weight settling across my chest, thighs caging my ribs.  He orders me to open my mouth and then spits into me again.   “Good boy,” he responds.  He feeds me himself more insistently now, and I open, eager, grateful. Blindness makes me truthful; I chase him with my mouth because there’s nothing else to chase. He is simultaneously careful and ruthless with me. When he pulls away, he doesn’t go far. The bed shifts; his breath turns in a new direction; I know before he settles what he wants. I lift my head wordlessly and answer, mouth wet and reverent. He tastes like heat and skin and the promise of something I never let myself believe I could have.

Time thins again. He alternates me between devotion and reward—his rhythm, my obedience—and I can feel the shape of his satisfaction even without seeing his face. Each “yes” he coaxes out of me feels like he’s handing it back, polished. I understand suddenly that he is not improvising. He is following a map I gave him with every tremble, every grab at breath, every sound I tried not to make. It terrifies me, the way he reads me. It saves me, the way he uses what he learns to give me back to myself.

The bed quiets. Leather gathers off my skin with a whisper. A drawer opens—small, practical sounds that are identifiably familiar. The pop of a cap and the wet hymn of something slick warming on fingers. My own breath is louder now that I can’t hear him moving. The hood edits the world down to a narrow stage: my mouth, my chest, my pulse, the place in me that’s been opening syllable by syllable since I walked through his door.

A touch at the back of my knee, a glide down the inside of my thigh—patient, unmistakable. He doesn’t rush. He lets me feel the approach, the care in it, the certainty. I try to raise my hips to offer him what I know he seeks, but I’m restrained by the cuffs; the leather answers with a gentle scold. He holds me there with one hand and sets the other where I’ve been aching for him, slick and sure, claim and comfort braided in the same gesture.

His mouth is near my ear; I can feel the consonants shape the air.

“It’s time,” he says.

Everything in me leans forward.  I breathe once—deep, grateful, undone—and offer him the truest thing I have: my open, waiting yes.

“It’s time,” he says.

The words land somewhere between command and promise.

I nod, though the hood swallows my gesture. The air changes; it smells of him—salt, sweat, skin warmed by effort. The mattress answers every small motion with its own slow heartbeat.

Then the touch: slick, deliberate, searching. His finger draws a circle that feels like an invitation, then presses inward with a patience that borders on reverence. My body arches to meet it. The leather at my wrists holds; the breath in my chest doesn’t.

He moves as if he’s lost something inside me and intends to find it. When he does, the shock runs through me like a chord struck clean. The sound that escapes my mouth is half cry, half prayer. He listens to it, reads it, plays it again. One finger becomes two, then three, each movement more certain, each breath shorter than the one before. He builds the rhythm like a craftsman testing the strength of wood. Pleasure and pain become one; I can’t tell them apart.

At some point the cuffs at my ankles release. I feel his hands guiding my legs higher, folding me open to the air. The bed tilts; I am a question waiting for its answer. The next sensation is impossibly soft—a soft kiss on my hole that startles a gasp out of me—and then another, lower, wetter, until the world narrows to the slow circles of his mouth. What he does next feels like devotion disguised as hunger. My pulse has its own vocabulary now; every beat says yes, yes, yes.

He pauses only to breathe, and even that feels like touch. When he shifts again, the air cools where his mouth was. I sense the change of weight, the angle of his body aligning with mine, the brief press of something broader and harder against the place he’s opened. His voice finds me through the dark.

“You ready?”

“Is that—?”

“Yes.”

HIs single syllable carries both warning and mercy. Then the pressure, slow as dawn, pushing its way inside me. Pain blooms first—sharp, clean—and I bite it back, refusing to give into any sensation other than pleasure. He keeps still long enough for the hurt to dissolve into heat. When he moves again, it’s a tide. The friction feels like history being rewritten inside me, line by line. I realize I’ve been holding my breath; when I exhale, the sound is gratitude.

He finds a rhythm that makes speech impossible.  Every centimeter of friction between his cock and my inner walls is like a revelation.  I never knew this feeling could exist.  The fullness.  The rapture.  The pure lust that’s quickly becoming out of my control.  I thrust my hips to take more of him. I can’t get enough, which is ironic because I’ve rarely been penetrated, and certainly not anything near his length and girth.  The room becomes percussion—bed, breath, heartbeat. Each thrust lands a little deeper, a little truer. I can tell by the way he breathes that he’s reading my body like a map he’s memorized. When he shifts the angle and strikes that inner nerve, the world fractures into light; I shout his name before I know I’ve formed it.

He laughs softly, not cruelly, and murmurs, “You’re pushing into me more than I’m pushing into you.”

He’s right. My body is chasing his, begging for more even as it trembles from what it already has. It becomes a duet—sound against sound, motion against motion—until the edges of us blur. We move through variations: facing, turning, tangling, finding new ways to stay connected. Sometimes he holds me open; sometimes he holds me close. Every position is a new translation of the same sentence: you are mine, I see you, keep breathing.

It’s time for a change up.  He releases the cuffs from the bed, noting that the cuffs will remain on my wrists to remind me who owns me. Fuck, yeah I think. 

He becomes more aggressive, picks me up, turns me over and throws me down on my stomach.  “You know what I want”, he scolds me which is my command to arch my back and raise my ass.  More lube, more fingers, more foreplay, more groaning.  I’m not sure how much pleasure I can endure.  There’s more pleasure packed into each minute than my entire prior sexual history.

When he folds himself around me from behind, everything slows. His weight along my back feels like safety. He slides inside again, less a thrust than a merging. I reach behind, find his thigh, anchor myself there. We breathe together, a matched tempo, until the need becomes too sharp to contain. We pause on that edge—not stopping, just hovering—and the quiet hums with the ache of wanting to last.

I feel it again.  His incredibly hard,  thick cock, knocking at my door.  I want him so badly I arch again to take him.  My hole is like the venus flytrap and his cock is the victim.  I push myself onto him and I hear what have become my two favorite words: “Good boy.”

I’m amazed at how much pleasure I’m receiving from giving him pleasure.  It’s a rush I’d never experienced before.   Fantasized, yes, but never truly experienced.  I want him to value these two hours as much as I am, and so far, I think I’ve succeeded.

He picks up where he left off, but now any discomfort from my hole has disappeared and the sensation of his giant cock sliding in and out of me sends waves of electricity throughout my body.  I’d never experience pleasure so intense that it’s nearly intolerable.  Until now.

I want his cock so deep in me that I feel it in my throat.  I ache for it.  I keep pushing back on him, which makes him laugh because there’s nothing more to take.   And he’s at least 9”.  I’m ravenous.  I’m insane.  I can’t get enough.

He doesn’t pull out; instead he holds me, both of us slick, trembling, undone. His arms squeeze me from behind, heavy with care. The hood is gone before I realize he’s unlaced it; light seeps back in around the edges. I twist my head to see his face for the first time in what feels like hours—flushed, tender, eyes searching mine as though he’s checking that I survived what he gave. I have. I have never felt more alive.

We lie there, his cock throbbing inside me, owning me, our breaths stitching together. The air smells of skin and musk and something faintly metallic. Time stretches thin again. He whispers small, ordinary things—how good I am, how beautiful this am—and each phrase lands deeper than any endearment I’ve ever believed.

When he finally withdraws, it feels like a tide pulling away from shore: slow, reluctant, inevitable. The absence is its own sensation. He presses his lips to the back of my neck, a kiss that feels like both apology and benediction.

I wanted to go on forever, but I knew I wouldn’t last much longer.  Everything up to now had been perfect, and I wanted our orgasms to be as well.  “I gotta cum, sir”, I confessed.  “Me too, boy.  You’re fucking perfect.”    That comment sent chills up my spine as powerful as his cock sliding in and out of me.

Without being asked, I tell him, “I want you to cum in my face.  I want to taste you.   All of you.”

He knew exactly what to do.  He directs me to lie on the bed with my head hanging over the edge.  He straddles my head between his legs so his balls hang directly in my face.  I needed no further instruction because, after his cock and his hole, his balls were my favorite part of his body.  I knew we were close to the end so I savored every salty, sweaty taste suck of those two succulent orbs.  I inhaled them.  Devoured them.  Worshipped them.  And not long after, he picked up the pace, stepped back behind me so his gift to me would land on my face.  “IT’S GONNA BE A HUGE LOAD,”  he shouted and, within seconds, I opened my mouth and felt rope after rope after rope of hot, salty jizz cover my face.  I caught much of it in my mouth and the taste was exquisite.  Warm, salty, briny and as real as he was.

Now it was my turn.  My cock was still tied up and bound, but that didn’t matter, I was so close.  He squirted some lube on it and not five strokes later I shot the mother of all loads myself.  It’s been awhile since I’de covered my own chest with my jizz, but this was one of those times.

It remained quiet for a few moments.   And then, we had to recover.

He reached for a towel and cleaned me with care that bordered on reverence. My face, my chest, the pool under my cock.  Even my hair.  Every motion said: I meant all of it. 

He laid back down on the bed and patted the spot next to him to join him.   “You’re not going anywhere, you sexy boy,” he smiled.

I crawled next to him and, instinctively, cuddled right into him.  We found comfort in a silence that didn’t need translation. The afterglow was thick and quiet; our heartbeats learned each other’s timing.

“Stay,” he murmurs. Not an invitation—a command.

He holds me in his arms, not casually, but with purpose.  He hugs me with the same force as when I arrived.  He’s a living restraint. When his breathing deepens and the tension in him drains, I feel something like peace. Or its cousin. But eventually, reality re-enters the room, polite and unignorable.

I want to say something, but I know anything that would come out of my mouth would be a trite cliché.  There are no words to describe how I feel.   He arms pressing around me, holding me, not letting me go, speak louder than anything clever I could say.

He leans over and kisses me gently on my cheek.  I know it’s time, but he’s behaving like he’s as moved as I am.  He sits up and begins to move.  I watch him in the dim light: the curve of his shoulder, the tattoo on his arm, the ordinary grace of a man putting himself back together. On the dresser is the framed photo—two men in leather harnesses, sunlight in their hair. He and his very handsome husband. The love that belongs to another world. I look at it and feel strangely honored to have been trusted with the part of him that can’t appear in photographs.

We dress slowly, exchanging quiet words that don’t try to define what just happened. He asks about the drive home, about whether I’m okay, and I realize he genuinely wants to know. There’s nothing scripted in his concern. It disarms me more than the leather ever could.

At the door, he touches my face, thumb tracing where the blindfold once was. “Be safe,” he says.

“You too,” I manage.

Outside, the night is cool and a little unreal. My car waits under a streetlight that hums faintly, indifferent witness. When I look back, he’s still standing in the doorway, arms crossed loosely, watching me the way someone might watch the tide recede—knowing it will return, but not soon.

I drive with the windows cracked, air rinsing the scent of him from my skin but not from my memory. My body aches in small, private ways; my chest feels wide open. The paradox hums louder now that I’m alone: I paid for this, yet what he gave can’t be bought. Maybe that’s his gift—to make surrender look like choice, to make need feel holy.

The highway unspools ahead, lights flickering over the windshield. I think about his words, his patience, the impossible tenderness that threaded through the power. I think about how he held me afterward, not because he had to, but because he wanted to.

When the city skyline comes into view, I realize I’m smiling. It isn’t joy exactly. It’s recognition—the sense that for a few hours, in a room built for forgetting, I was completely seen.

And maybe that’s what love is, in its simplest, most complicated form: to be known, even when you’ve paid for the privilege.

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To get in touch with the author, send them an email.

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The morning began for me with a kind of northern hush. When I stepped off the small plane and into the quiet Tartu airport terminal, the air smelled of pine and cold stone, and it was deeply quiet.  After a week of cities and faces — former students scattered across Europe — I had grown used to greetings that were warm but hurried, voices echoing through train halls or markets. But here, everything seemed composed. My former student Jaanus, a student of dance and art at a local art school, who had taken my Intercultural Communication class, was waiting just past the barrier, strong but graceful, his hands resting on the pockets of his elegant slacks.

“Augie, tere tulemast!” he said ceremoniously with all the importance as befit the moment. “Welcome to Hanseatic Days!  I hope you remember me?”

“Of course, I do,” I said. “You made me dance with you at the graduation party and then painted my face when I slept.”

Jaanus smiled. “You were good as a dancer… And then funny.”

“I was thinner, too,” I said, patting the small belly of the academic traveler who eats lots of delicious international food.

“Today’s walk will take care of that,” Jaanus said. “Plus I might make you dance again.”

“I doubt that,” I said, laughing.

“We’ll see,” Jaanus responded with all seriousness.

His car was unexpectedly small for his tall figure but he slid in with ease, and carefully adjusted my safety belt before we took off along a quiet highway towards the city.

Tartu at dawn was half dream, half reality — empty streets, pale light spreading over the red roofs, the faint outline of St. John’s steeple in the mist. The car turned onto a narrow side street where the cobblestones clicked under the tires like a metronome keeping time for an unseen orchestra. When we stopped, the scent of damp stone and birch smoke hung in the air.

Jaanus’s apartment was on the top floor of a narrow 19th-century building with the stairwell polished smooth by a century of footsteps. Inside, his apartment was small and spare but deliberate: books aligned by size on a delicate shelf, a vase with a single dried branch, a square low bed and an elegant dresser.  Against one wall stretched a full-length mirror, a barre running across it — its wood worn glossy by repetition. The mirror caught both of us as we entered, two figures reflected in quiet symmetry, mine was, now I could see, a bit more pouchy than I had remembered from the days when Jaanus and I had been in better shape.

“You still rehearse at home?” I asked.

He smiled faintly, setting down my bag. “I, too, must remember how to move.”

It was peaceful resting quietly with Jaanus.  In his presence you didn’t need to talk.  His silence was comfortable because he filled it with action.  He offered me a pillow to put behind my back.  He threw a thin blanket over my legs. He smiled—and an Estonian smile meant a lot. He strode to the kitchenette in the corner of his studio and poured us two cups of strong coffee, dark as ink, and cut us four thick slices of moist rummikook, rum cake. We ate in silence, the city outside still suspended in half-light. Somewhere in the distance a bell tolled, and the sound seemed to dissolve into the hum of the morning…

When we stepped back into the street, the air was sharper. We walked toward the square, past shuttered shops and the smell of early baking. The café he chose to stop at for breakfast had wooden beams and steamed windows that blurred the view of Old Town. Inside, the heat was close and fragrant — roasted beans, melted butter, cinnamon. Jaanus ordered kama porridge with berries; I took a humongous eggs and rye toast with a gentler version of coffee. He spoke, almost absently, about the Hanseatic Days, how the guild banners would rise at noon and the riverfront would turn into a small world of trade, music, and reenactments. “I never take money or banking cards with me when I go there,” he said, stirring his porridge, “Or else I buy junk I don’t need.” Then—ah, Estonian humor!—he pulled out a wallet and said: “Ei, ei!  I am paying today!” and paid for both of us.

By midmorning the quiet had lifted. The Town Hall Square was awake, and a rich palette of color and sound unfurled quietly. Flags rippled above the rooftops; vendors set out wooden bowls, linen shirts, and belts with huge brass buckles. From somewhere came the rhythmic clang of a blacksmith at work — steady, unhurried. Jaanus stopped to watch, hands in his pockets. “Precision and art,” he said softly. “Same as dance. Same as language.”

The smell of roasting meat drifted through the air, thick and warm, carrying hints of juniper and charcoal. Children in bright folk costumes darted between tables, ribbons trailing from the little girls’ braids like streamers in the wind. From a side alley came the sound of young musicians tuning their flutes and fiddles — a few tentative notes, then laughter as someone missed the key. The day had found its rhythm.

We stood near the fountain of Two Students, watching as the band began to play — a raw, joyous tune that made the cobblestones hum. The fiddler stamped his boot to keep time; an old man joined in with a drum that looked as though it had survived several wars. A girl in a linen dress spun across the square, her shoes kicking up dust that glowed in the afternoon sun.

We didn’t speak much. Jaanus leaned on the rail, his eyes half-closed, letting the music settle somewhere between memory and thought. I watched the people instead — students with wreaths of oak leaves, a group of tourists blinking through their phones, two boys trying to dance and nearly falling over each other. It was all unpolished, spontaneous, alive.

By noon, the bells were ringing again — louder now, answering one another across the river. We crossed a small bridge to the Guild Hall, where long timbered tables stood beneath garlands of dried hops. Inside, the air was thick with roasted pork, sauerkraut, and the sharp tang of yeast. For our Tartu-inspired lunch Jaanus chose herring with potatoes; I took the pork chop, though he teased me for being predictable. Between bites he spoke about his students — teenagers caught between two worlds, half in their screens, half in the northern light. “Sometimes they surprise me,” he said, “in art with one line that doesn’t belong to them yet. And in dance, something they’ve felt they don’t know how to name.”

After lunch Jaanus suggested a walk. The path up Toome Hill wound past the cathedral ruins, where the brittle leaves rustled under our feet. From the top, the city opened in muted color — the Emajõgi Mother River curving like a dull silver horseshoe, the rooftops layered in red and gray. A group of students from Jaanus’s art school with their teacher, a quiet guy with salt-and-pepper hair, sat nearby sketching the view, their sketchbooks propped on their knees. One of them looked up and called, “Tere, Jaanus!” He waved back, and when she showed him her drawing, he offered a wordless correction with a few silent gestures.  The exchange was wordless but easy — the quiet shorthand between teacher and pupil.

We lingered at the overlook. Wind moved through the birches, and the sound felt like an echo of the river below. Jaanus spoke about his time as a student here, when the world seemed ready to open. “We thought knowledge would fix everything,” he said, not bitterly, just as a fact. “Now I think it’s the asking that matters.”

Descending the hill, we passed stalls setting up for the guild parade — men hauling wooden barrels, women in wool dresses laying out embroidered cloth. The afternoon light was gentle, and the sound of hammering drifted from every direction, like a city remembering itself.

Later, Jaanus mentioned that some of his friends were gathering at the Raatuse 22 dormitory. “It will be noisy, but way more interesting than the parade,” he warned me with a hint of a smile. I nodded eagerly.

The new dorm building smelled faintly of boiled tea and laundry. Inside, the common room was a clutter of guitars, mismatched chairs, and mugs. A Georgian exchange student was tuning his guitar by the window. “He’s studying linguistics,” Jaanus said, “but he plays as if words were too small.”

The evening began with the host, a funny Estonian girl, giving a heartfelt speech about the international spirit of Tartu.  The walls seemed to warm with sound. Someone passed around cups of strong black tea, another offered honey cake from a tin. There were many songs played that evening, but three stood out for me.

The Georgian “Kuchashi Erthel” song spoke about a man wandering looking for his lost love, and catching her scent in the wind, each note from the guitar bending like a sigh. The Croatian “Ružica se bila” pressed against my chest with quiet sorrow — it was a song of a man mourning the girl God had given him and then taken away, every word trembling in the bare warmth of the room. The Ukrainian song whispered of a young man calling his beloved into the forest under the hush of night; the strings seemed to carry the rustle of leaves and the soft thrum of his longing. I watched the students around me, faces lit by lamplight, and realized that each song had folded the whole world into that dorm space, echoing beneath the laughter and murmurs, timeless and intimate.

As dusk approached, we stepped out again. The city had changed costume for evening. Torches flickered in iron brackets on the bridge across the river, and the banners hung like ribbons of fading color. From the embankment came the smell of tar, ale, and roasted nuts. The festival had reached its pulse — laughter, songs, the rhythm of drums carrying down the narrow lanes.

We found a tavern near the bridge, its windows fogged and glowing. Inside, candles burned low, and a band was setting up — violin, drum, accordion. Jaanus ordered herring stew; I tried duck with lingonberries. The talk turned to literature, the endurance of small languages, how nations survive through rhythm rather than power. He spoke of his dance and art again, his voice quiet, even reverent: of the projects he was going to organize with his student, of one student who wants to dance “The Working Class Hero,” another student making astounding art of broken tree twigs and branches…

The band began to play — a slow folk tune, its melody winding like smoke. People swayed in place, not dancing so much as breathing with the music. I thought of how each of my students — João with his fire, Jorge with his voice, Alain with his coffee rituals — carried their own rhythm, their own way of translating life into movement or sound. Jaanus’s rhythm was this: precision as devotion, stillness as expression.

We walked home through mist that softened every edge. The cobblestones gleamed under lamplight; the air smelled faintly of rain and woodsmoke. Jaanus paused at the Town Hall to watch the pale reflection tremble in a puddle… As always, a mere pause spoke volumes with him, and I paused there, too, daring to put my arm around his shoulder.

Back at his apartment, he switched on the single floor lamp beside the mirror. The room glowed with that quiet, yellow intimacy that belongs only to old bulbs and late hours. Undaunted by my presence, he changed into soft pants and a t-shirt—or perhaps did so intentionally, checking out my reaction…

Outside, the rain had begun again, gentle, persistent. The streets shimmered under lamplight, and Tartu exhaled into sleep. I walked to the window once more, watching the ripples spread on the glass. Jaanus approached and stood behind me, almost touching, our reflections in the mirror showing the awakening of something bigger.  Then his arm came onto my shoulder, and I felt his breath on my neck.  His other arm circled around me and touched my belly button…

 

***

Rain tapped the window as we stood in front of the mirror in his studio. Jaanus took off my suit jacket and unbuttoned my shirt; the cool air kissed the gentle curve of my pouch belly. I pulled his t-shirt off and exposed his well-defined but winter-pale chest. He knelt, slid my jeans down, then eased my briefs past my thighs; my short, thick cock sprang out, foreskin cloaking the head. Then he let his own soft pants fall, and his long, slim erection bounced upward, arching like a spring birch. We stood naked before the tall mirror in his improvised ballet studio. In the mirror I could see his delicate frame and towering shaft, and then my own small belly rounding above a stout, hooded dick. We stood there, breathing hard.

“It’s obvious, isn’t it?” Jaanus said.

“Yes, it is,” I responded. “You like my belly.”

The response was a quiet sigh.  With Jaanus you didn’t really need to talk a lot.

Jaanus turned me sideways to the mirror, aligning our bodies so I could see the reflection of his hand exploring the subtle swell of my abdomen, his touch feather-light as he traced the faint line where my skin folded ever so slightly—just enough to catch shadow in the dim light. His fingertips barely brushed the soft curve, like he was reading braille on my skin, learning every millimeter of that tender place I’d always tried to hide. I watched his eyes in the reflection, how they darkened when his palm settled there, not grabbing or possessive but worshipful, like he’d found something sacred. He murmured nothing at first, just watched us both in the glass, his breath warm on my shoulder, the reverence in his silence drawing me deeper into the moment—how his thumb kept circling that same spot like he couldn’t help himself, how my stomach rose and fell faster under his attention. My pulse quickened under his palm, and I could feel him hard against my hip, but he wasn’t rushing, just learning the weight of me there, the give of my skin under his careful touch like he was memorizing the exact moment I’d stop breathing altogether.

He sank to his knees before me, positioning me sideways still, so the mirror captured every angle of his devotion. The way he sank down wasn’t rushed or performative – it was as if gravity itself was pulling him to worship at that tender curve. His mouth found the spot his fingers had memorized, but softer, wetter, those kisses barely there at first, just enough to make the fine hairs rise.

I watched his reflection and saw how his eyes fluttered closed when he pressed deeper, how his whole body shifted closer like he needed to breathe me in. The mirror caught everything – the way his strong hands looked huge spanning my hips, how his thumbs kept rubbing small circles like he was trying to soothe some ache I didn’t even know I had.

When he nuzzled that soft fold, actually nuzzled it like a cat, this sound slipped out of me that wasn’t quite a moan, wasn’t quite a whimper. he’d found this vulnerable place I’d gotten used to covering with baggy shirts and tight belts, and now he was treating it like it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever touched.

He lifted the fat fold—reverently, like he was handling something priceless. His both hands were trembling slightly, making slow circles, and each rotation made the skin grow hotter under his touch. Watching his reflection I saw how his pupils had blown wide, how his lower lip caught between his teeth when the fold slipped slightly in his grip. But it was his cock that really told the story—now thick and heavy it rested heavily against his thigh, twitching every time I made a sound, like my gasps were directly wired to his arousal.  Not grabbing himself, not rushing, just letting that hunger build while he focused completely on my soft pouch he’d claimed as his own. The shivers in his hands weren’t just from the touch anymore—it was because now je kneaded me like I was precious dough he was learning by heart.

Soon Jaanus leaned in closer, his tongue darting out to circle my navel in lazy, wet spirals, lapping at the sensitive dip with a hunger that belied his silence—those slow, deliberate swirls like he was tasting the salt of my skin and memorizing the exact flavor. The mirror caught how his shoulders curved inward, protective, possessive, as his mouth worked that tender hollow, each lap sending sparks straight to my balls. I watched my own fingers tighten in his hair, not guiding, just anchoring, feeling the soft strands between my knuckles while he nursed at my belly like it could feed him. His free hand kept stroking my thigh in this steady rhythm, thumb brushing the crease where hip meets leg, not quite touching my cock but promising, always promising, while the pull of his mouth created this delicious ache that pooled heavy and hot, making my knees tremble against the mirror’s cold glass.

Emboldened, Jaanus flattened his tongue against the fat fold, licking upward in a broad, possessive stroke that left my skin glistening and marked by his heat—like he was claiming territory he’d already mapped with his fingers. He repeated it, slower this time, savoring the texture, the way my soft flesh yielded under the wet pressure, his eyes flicking up to meet mine in the mirror—quiet, tender, a faint smile curving his lips as my body arched instinctively toward him. I watched his reflection and saw how he lingered at the top of that stroke, pressing just enough to feel the give of me, how his smile deepened when my stomach muscles fluttered under his tongue. The intimacy of his fixation was unraveling me thread by thread—this beautiful man on his knees, worshipping the very part I’d spent years hiding, making it sacred with every slow lick.

Rising slightly, he pressed open-mouthed kisses across the entire expanse of my small belly—each one a soft seal of ownership, his lips pulling gently at my skin like he was tasting ripe fruit. He found that fold again and sucked at its edge, not hard, just enough to draw the blood to the surface, to make me feel every nerve ending sing. Then back to my navel, his tongue probing deeper now, swirling inside with those insistent flicks that promised exactly how he’d tongue my cock later—same rhythm, same dedication, same hunger. The mirror caught everything: the flush spreading down my torso like spilled wine, how his shoulders rolled as he moved, that gorgeous cock of his brushing my calf with each shift—heavy and wet at the tip, leaving small marks on my skin. All while this soft hum vibrated through me, this sound of pure contentment like my belly was the only meal he’d ever need.

As his mouth continued its tender assault on my belly, Jaanus’s hand drifted lower, wrapping around my dick with that loose, exploratory grip—like he was touching something sacred for the first time, learning the weight and heat of me. Those slow pulls matched his licks perfectly, each stroke of his fist echoing the swirl of his tongue, building this counterpoint where I couldn’t tell if the pleasure was pooling in my gut or my balls. The mirror showed how his knuckles looked wrapped around me, how his wrist twisted just so on the upstroke, while his mouth never left my belly—kissing, licking, sometimes just breathing against the wet skin he’d left glistening. He remained there, almost perfectly quiet, yet hot arousal thrummed between us, this steady rhythm saying he could do this forever, just worship me with hand and mouth until I fell apart completely.

Satisfied with his prelude, Jaanus stood, guiding me with firm but gentle hands to turn fully toward the bed—the mirror catching our reflection like we were actors in our own private film. He eased me down onto all fours on the edge of the mattress, my belly hanging softly beneath me for the first time, that vulnerable fold he’d worshipped now exposed and swaying slightly with each breath. His palms smoothed over it one last time, this lingering caress that said he’d be back, before he positioned himself behind me—his chest hair tickling my spine, the thick heat of his cock sliding between my cheeks but not entering yet, just teasing. The mirror showed everything: how my back arched instinctively, how his hands looked spanning my hips, that moment of perfect anticipation when we both went still, breathing each other’s air.

Then he leaned forward, his belly pressing against my back, and I felt his cock slide down to find me—hot and thick and insistent, so different from its calm and quiet owner.  One of his hot hands stayed on my hip while the other guided himself, that broad head pushing just enough to make me feel the stretch before pulling back, teasing. The mirror caught his face in profile: lips parted, eyes strangely dark, that same reverent focus he’d given my belly now fixed on where we were about to join. His breath came in small puffs against my shoulder as he rocked forward again, deeper this time, filling me so slowly I could feel every inch, my own cock hanging heavy and dripping beneath me while that soft fold he’d kissed swayed with each tiny, gentle what?—not yet a thrust, an exploratory glide.

With a slow, deliberate push, he entered me from behind—and the slow push made me feel every vein, every ridge as he filled me inch by thick inch. His quiet groan vibrated against my neck when he bottomed out, hips flush to mine, that moment of perfect stillness where we were just breathing around each other. Lying forward now, his chest draped over my back like the warmest blanket, I could see us in the mirror—this intimate tangle of limbs and skin, his hand reaching around to cradle my belly possessively.

His thumb found that fold again, stroking it with this tender ownership while he held still inside me, letting us both adjust to how completely he filled me. His other hand glided tentatively over my cock, giving it that soft exploratory tug that made me gasp, my inner muscles clenching around him in response while we stayed frozen in that perfect moment of connection.

Jaanus began to move—those first tender thrusts rocked us like we were one body learning its own rhythm. His weight settled fully along my back, this delicious pressure made me feel small and protected and completely his, every of his exhales puffing warm against my neck. The mirror caught it all in perfect detail: his hips snapping with this gentle precision, my belly quivering under his splayed palm with each sweet impact, that soft fold he’d claimed bouncing just enough to make his breath catch. His blue eyes stayed fixed on that curve like it held the secrets of the universe, silent except for those occasional murmurs—Niin ilus… so beautiful—the Estonian words gurgling with desire. His free hand wrapped around my shaft, stroking my dick in these lazy glides that matched his rhythm perfectly, like he was playing some intimate duet where my pleasure was the melody and his cock inside me was the bassline.

As the rhythm built, his hand on my belly became this living thing—fondling that small fat fold with pinching tugs that made me gasp, followed by soothing rubs that spread heat through my whole torso. Each touch synced perfectly with his deepening strokes: he’d squeeze that soft flesh just as he bottomed out inside me, like he needed to feel me give everywhere at once. The mirror showed this hypnotic dance—his hips rolling in steady waves, my belly quivering under his possessive fingers, that fold he’d claimed getting pinker from his constant attention. His other hand now tugged firmly at my cock’s base, that full twisting stroke up to the head that had me seeing stars, drawing this low moan that vibrated through both of us while he kept that perfect rhythm of squeeze and thrust and stroke.

Shifting his hips for leverage, Jaanus angled upward—finding that sweet spot inside me with this unerring precision that made my whole body jolt like electricity. He lay heavier atop me now, this delicious weight pressing me into the mattress while his breath came hot against my ear, steady despite how my inner walls clenched around him. I watched as his eyes devoured the mirror’s view of my belly bouncing softly against his palm. That soft fold he’d claimed quivered with each perfect thrust, his hand quickening on my cock to match—those tender pulls becoming more urgent, gliding over my length with this steady rhythm that coiled heat tighter and tighter in my core until I couldn’t tell where his pleasure ended and mine began.

The thrusts grew more insistent—his hung length stretching me completely with each deep plunge, hitting places that made sparks dance behind my eyes. Yet through it all his tenderness prevailed, lying so close our sweat-slick bodies moved as one, his hand now worshipping my navel in the reflection—dipping a finger into that small hollow like he was claiming every single inch of me. Minu kallis, he breathed—my dear—this soft Estonian endearment that wrapped around my heart even as his cock split me open. His other hand worked my dick with relentless affection, slick now with my own pre-cum, gliding from root to tip in this perfect rhythm that matched his hips. I could feel him everywhere—inside me, around me, his breath on my neck, his finger in my navel, his fist on my cock—until the whole world narrowed to just this beautiful man making love to every part of me at once.

In the middle of this passionate ride our eyes met in the glass—his quiet gaze locked on mine with such horny passion that made my chest ache even as his hips pistoned faster. The slap of skin echoed softly between us, and his hand pressed flat against my belly now, feeling it tense and release with each mounting wave of pleasure, me quivering under his palm. His grip on my shaft tightened just enough—those short teasing tugs that had my vision blurring, making me clench around him involuntarily while we stayed locked in that mirror gaze, both of us drowning in how completely he’d undone me.

Jaanus’s rhythm then faltered into pure urgency, his thrusts going deep and unrelenting as he chased his release. His fingers dug into my fat fold with this possessive love, and the mirror caught everything: my face contorted in this bliss I’d never shown anyone, his gaze completely focused on my quivering tummy—watching how his cock made that soft flesh bounce, how his thumb kept circling the pink skin he’d kissed again and again at the start. His strokes of my cock turned fervent, too, and those urgent tugs pulled me inexorably toward the edge as he kept hitting that spot inside me until I couldn’t tell where his pleasure ended and mine began.

With a final, shuddering plunge, Jaanus came inside me—his hot release flooded me deep, pulse after pulse as he collapsed fully atop, that gorgeous cock twitching through every spasm, his whole body shaking, me feeling his rough pubic hair against my ass. His left hand splayed protectively over my belly, as he was spurting inside me. My own climax followed hard—his unyielding strokes of my cock brought me over the edge, he clenched his fist around me hard now, and milked me through my shuddering climax with more of those tugs and glides, now steely hard.  Several of my eager spurts coated his fingers and some drops fell on the floor with unexpectedly loud splats.

… Jaanus pulled out slow—this tender withdrawal that had me feeling every inch leave me empty—and helped me stand on shaky legs. He grabbed tissues from the nightstand, wiping our tracks from the floor with this careful attention, like even the mess we’d made deserved his reverence.

In the shower the water ran steaming between us, and I saw him still trembling, that gorgeous cock still jutting forward but bowing lower now, spent and sensitive. We came together under the strong current of the shower—his mouth finding mine in lazy kisses while water sluiced over our skin, his hands mapping my belly again like he couldn’t believe it was still there, still his. His dick brushed against my hip occasionally, half-hard and sticky, while we held each other through the aftershocks…

***

The sheet had slipped to our waists sometime after midnight. Jaanus lay on his back, breathing slow and even, when his cock stirred and lifted of its own accord, trembling and climbing, higher and higher, bigger and bigger.  I rose on an elbow, careful not to rock the mattress, and studied him like a private exhibit: the shaft thickening from root to crown, the foreskin sliding back just enough to bare the smooth tip, the vein along the underside pulsing faintly against my shadow. Lower, his balls shifted in their loose sac, settling wider as the shaft grew sturdier.

I wet two fingers, reached between my own legs, and pinched my ample fold of foreskin, shaking it in tiny, rapid tremors. The faint quiver traveled through my shaft and pooled behind my balls; I timed it to the beat I saw in his, stealing breaths in shallow sips. When the wave broke, it left me hollow and humming, a dry flutter that rocked me once, twice, then stilled. I wiped my hand on the sheet edge, lay back, and let the sight of him—hard, unaware, beautiful, a dance and art coach, my city guide, my relentless fucker who worshipped my belly—escort me back into sleep.

***

Morning light turned the shower tiles white-gold. We stepped in sideways, suddenly shy—yesterday he’d been my guide, composed and distant, and I an eager student of Tartu’s Hanseatic Days; now we were two naked men sharing tap water and last night’s memories. Steam rose between us while we traded the soap like a peace offering, fingers brushing, eyes flicking anywhere but direct.

I gave in first and pulled him close. Under the spray our mouths met—slow, grateful kisses that tasted of sleep and new honesty. I felt his hard nipples on my chest; my palms slid down to the small of his back and kept going until I felt his softness against me. His dick was almost boy-sized, the shaft lying small and warm against my wrist, very very soft, almost liquidy… I tried to memorize the weight—barely there, yet unmistakably him—and fought the quick jolt of hunger to drop to my knees and feel him swell on my tongue.

He chuckled against my lips, already reaching for the tap. “Airport,” he whispered, regretful. I gave him one last squeeze, let go, and we rinsed in efficient silence, my desire banked but glowing, ready for the next city, next hotel, next lesson.

***

At the airport he smiled this short smile of a serious Estonian high school teacher, and we shook hands like good business partners we were.  No extra emotions.  But I knew all too well where those fingers that now clutched my arm were last night, and it sent shivers up my spine—like right now, when I again need a break. Excuse me just a few minutes.

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To get in touch with the author, send them an email.

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My name is Leonard, though only my grandmother calls me that. I’m Leo to everyone else. I’m a 23-year-old law student studying at Birkbeck College, London. I live with my parents and younger sister, in Surbiton, a leafy London suburb. My older brother is studying in America. We own a five-bedroom house, father is a financier, and mother an interior designer, working out of an annexe at the side of the house.

I’m a shade under 6’0″, slim, 83kg, short, black hair, brown eyes. It’s not important, but my dick is just under 7″, uncut. I’m gay, and that too is of little importance to the family. I have a gay uncle and a bisexual aunt. We are a modern family for whom one’s sexuality doesn’t matter. 

I went to a boarding school, where circle jerks, and piss-play was common place. I received and took part in bukkakes. Typical adolescent tomfoolery. They usually happened after P.E. One lad would be singled out and stripped. Outnumbered, it was pointless resisting. A case of lying there and let cum cascade over you. Every time, I hoped it would be my turn. I like to keep fit, and play rugby, cricket, and squash, as well as going for long runs with our black labrador, Sooty. I mostly wear tracksuits or smart casual, with a jockstrap to hold my junk.

I played squash with Philp, one of my besties. We had a mutual admiration of one another’s bodies. He was taller then me, broad-shouldered, as a consequence, he usually won. Other than a quick kiss in the changing rooms, we hadn’t done anything sexual up until one weekend. His parents went away for the weekend, so Philip came to stay with us. Arriving on Friday, we spent the evening playing video games. He could have chosen one of the spare bedrooms, but asked to share with me. I was already in bed when he came out of the shower with a semi. He came up to me and poked it in my face. I didn’t take much persuasion, and readily gave him oral, I stroked his sack and sucked him to orgasm. He then climbed in beside me and tossed me off. I’d been used to sleeping in cum-stained sheets all my adult life. In the morning, after breakfast, with little else to do, we went back to bed. I didn’t even think about it as losing my virginity, just a natural progression. We had our first proper kiss, tongues playing with each other, our fit bodies rubbing together, He shuffled down the bed to fellate me, and I tried to stop him before I came too soon, but it was too late and I shot down his throat. He kissed me, feeding my spunk back to me. No worries, ay our age, recovery was quick. and half an hour later, I was ready to go again. We should have had lube, but he was still moist from the shower, and when I mounted him, I went in surprisingly easily, I think we both wanted it that bad, it had been months getting to this point. Nature took over. At least having only just cum, we could fuck properly. We’d been at it about 15 minutes when he suggested we swap. I probably think of myself now as top versatile. I think all tops should experience bottoming. I fetched some moisturiser from my chest of drawers and smeared it over his pole and on myself. He lay on his back and I lowered myself down. Wow! what an incredible feeling, I began to ride, jerking and bouncing. Philip. who had yet to cum, held out for as long as he could, but soon pulsed his semen into me. I fist pumped as hard as I could, and produced my second load. We cuddled in bed all morning, glad to have the monkey off our backs.

That evening, we made love more gently, kissing and exploring each others erogenous zones. I had bought proper lube. Philip preferred to bottom, feeling less confident. We did it missionary, with him sat on me, and doggy. If I felt myself getting close, we stopped and cuddled, before I rimmed him and remounted. We had sex for over an hour before first Philip, and then me shot our loads. Once more, we slept in cum-soaked sheets.