The path through Blackwood Forest was slick with yesterday’s rain, pine needles sticking to my boots as I pushed aside a low-hanging branch. That’s when I saw the two of them, one, a lean guy in his forties, maybe younger, standing beneath the crooked arm of an ancient oak. He wasn’t crying or pacing like you’d expect. Just methodically testing the weight of a thick rope slung over the branch, his movements calm, almost rehearsed.
The other was perhaps in his thirties, equally slim, and I noted that they were both dressed in jeans, t-shirts and trainers, the everyday type of clothing that did nothing to suggest anything untoward.
I crouched behind a thicket of ferns, the damp earth seeping through the knees of my jeans. My breath hitched as I heard the older man tell the younger man he was ready, and I wondered what sort of game they were playing. Then it clicked: they were obviously involved in breath control games, or should I say, also known as autoerotic asphyxiation.
I had heard of this kink and knew it was dangerous, but apparently, comparatively safe when done with a partner. I had also heard that the sexual effect on a man is incredible, even though life-threatening. Orgasms were so much more powerful, apparently, but it was a kink I refused to play. My curiosity, though, had piqued even more as I settled in to watch the show as the younger one nodded in response to the other guy’s comment.
The younger man stepped forward, his movements fluid and unhurried. “Fred, thanks for doing this with me; it’s so appreciated, and I trust you.”
The older man, whom I now assumed was called Fred, responded. “You are very welcome, Andy, and thanks for trusting me. I assume we will go ahead with the scenario you described?”
The young man, Andy, positioned himself directly beneath the thick rope, the noose dangling at eye level. “Yep, as we discussed, and don’t forget, once I’m in the air, count for 30 seconds and then once I cum, let me down. Okay?”
Got it, mate,” the older man confirmed as he lifted the noose with steady hands, the coarse fibres brushing against the younger man’s throat as he settled the loop over his head.
I shifted slightly in my damp hiding spot, the earthy scent of wet moss filling my nostrils as I watched Andy close his eyes, his expression serene. My own pulse had quickened, a low thrum of excitement building in my gut. A wry thought surfaced, should’ve packed popcorn, as the unfolding scene was unexpectedly compelling, a raw intimacy laid bare in the quiet forest. I felt a familiar pressure against my jeans, my own arousal stirring as Andy took a deep, steadying breath.
Fred moved with practised efficiency, stepping behind Andy. He produced a thick plastic cable tie from his pocket, the kind used for bundling wires, its bright orange stark against the muted greens and browns of the forest floor. With swift, decisive motions, he pulled Andy’s hands behind his back. The sharp zip-zip-zip sound of the tie ratcheting tight cut through the stillness, securing the younger man’s wrists firmly together. Andy didn’t resist, his posture relaxed, almost expectant.
Kneeling, Fred repeated the process on Andy’s ankles. He looped another cable tie around the ankles just above the trainers, cinching it until the plastic bit into the young man’s skin. Fred stood back, his gaze travelling the length of Andy’s bound form, a slight, almost imperceptible nod of satisfaction on his lips. “Secure,” he murmured, more to himself than to Andy.
Fred grasped the free end of the rope, the one leading away from the noose and over the branch. With a smooth, powerful pull, he drew it taut. Andy instinctively rose onto the balls of his feet, his body elongating, the rope tightening against his throat with a soft, fibrous groan. He tilted his chin upwards, a gasp escaping him, not fear, but anticipation. Fred kept the tension steady, the muscles in his forearm corded with effort, as he walked the rope backwards towards the sturdy trunk of the oak.
With a final, decisive motion, Fred looped the rope end around the thick base of the tree, securing it with a complex knot that looked both intricate and brutally efficient. He gave it a sharp tug. Satisfied, he turned back to Andy, who now hung almost suspended, his toes barely brushing the damp earth, his body held upright solely by the rope biting into his neck and the friction of the branch above. Andy’s eyes were wide, his breath coming in shallow, rapid pants through his nose, his bound form trembling slightly with the strain and the adrenaline.
Fred moved with unnerving calm. He drew a folding knife from his pocket, the blade snapping open with a sharp, metallic click that echoed in the quiet. Without ceremony, he stepped close to the suspended Andy. The knife’s edge flashed as he hooked it under the hem of Andy’s t-shirt, just below the rope’s pressure point. With a single, smooth upward slice, the fabric parted like paper, falling away to reveal Andy’s pale chest and abdomen. Andy flinched at the cold touch of the blade but remained silent, his gaze fixed somewhere beyond Fred, his jaw clenched.
The knife descended again, this time to the waistband of Andy’s jeans. Fred worked methodically, cutting downwards through the denim along the outer seam of each leg. The material peeled open, exposing Andy’s thighs and the stark white cotton of his briefs beneath. The briefs strained visibly against a prominent erection, the outline unmistakable as the fabric tented forward. Fred used the knife tip to flick away the last clinging shreds of denim, leaving them pooled around Andy’s still-bound ankles like discarded skin. The forest air felt suddenly colder against Andy’s newly exposed skin, raising goosebumps.
Fred paused, his gaze lingering on the bulge in the white briefs. A faint, almost predatory smile touched his lips. He reached out, not with the knife now, but with his free hands. His fingers hooked into the elastic waistband of the briefs. With a sharp, decisive yank, the thin cotton tore apart with a harsh ripping sound. The fabric fell away, revealing Andy’s erection in full, flushed and rigid, straining upwards against the taut skin of his belly. A bead of pre-cum glistened at the tip. Andy gasped, a strangled sound forced past the rope’s constriction, his hips giving an involuntary jerk against his bonds as Fred grabbed his cock and started to masturbate him.
Then the smile vanished, replaced by a cold, hard stare. Fred stepped back, pulling his phone from his pocket. The screen flared to life. “Look at you,” he sneered, his voice low and venomous, utterly different from the calm partner he’d been moments before. He raised the phone, the camera lens pointed squarely at Andy’s exposed, vulnerable form. The electronic shutter clicked, a jarringly artificial sound in the otherwise quiet natural surroundings. “You fucking pervert.” Another click. Andy’s eyes widened in dawning horror, his frantic breaths whistling through his nose. “Desperate little freak,” Fred spat, circling slightly for a different angle. “This is what happens when you trust strangers on the internet. You deserve every bit of this.”
Once he had finished taking photos, the older man walked over and pulled the rope even higher. The coarse fibres bit deeper into Andy’s throat with a sickening creak as the slack vanished. Andy’s toes lost all contact with the earth. He was now hanging in the air, suspended only by the noose. His bound body jerked violently, like a fish on a line. His erection, rigid and absurd, jutted out obscenely as he struggled for breath, his face purpling, veins bulging in his temples. His eyes rolled back, showing the whites, a desperate gurgle escaping his crushed windpipe. Fred watched, his expression impassive, clinical.
“What the fuck!” I roared, bursting from the ferns, my boots churning the wet earth. Fred’s head snapped towards me, his eyes widening in genuine shock. He didn’t hesitate. Coward. He spun on his heel and sprinted into the dense undergrowth, crashing through branches like a panicked animal, vanishing almost instantly into the gloom. I didn’t give chase. My focus was locked on the young man, Andy, his body twisting in a macabre dance, his brief, choked gasps the only sound besides my pounding heart. I scrambled towards the oak, my eyes frantically scanning the complex knot securing the rope to the trunk. It was tight, intricate, and designed to hold.
Helplessness washed over me, cold and sharp. Andy’s face was a terrifying shade of plum, his eyes bulging, his bound legs kicking weakly. That awful gurgling sound was fading. He’s dying right now, I thought, slamming into me. Without conscious thought, I lunged forward, wrapping my arms around his thrashing legs just below the knees. I heaved upwards with everything I had, my back screaming in protest. His body lifted slightly, taking the brutal pressure off his neck. A ragged, sucking gasp tore from his throat as his airway opened. “Breathe!” I yelled, my voice cracking. “Just breathe, mate!” I held him there, his weight feeling immense, the rough denim of his ruined jeans scraping my arms, the scent of sweat, fear, and damp earth thick in my nostrils as he managed to breathe as I held him, allowing him to survive for the moment.
Andy’s body convulsed violently against my grip. His head lolled back, eyes rolling wildly, unfocused even though he was breathing again. Then, with a choked, guttural groan that seemed ripped from his very core, his hips bucked hard against my chest. I felt the sudden, hot wetness spray across my cheek and jaw before I even registered what was happening.
It was thick, startlingly warm, and copious in quantity, something primal that can happen when a man is hanged, angel lust. The term surfaced from some dark corner of memory, clinical and absurd in this moment of horror. He was climaxing, his body betraying him in its final, desperate throes. The absurdity of it, the sheer, brutal biology, that transposed itself in a final orgasm that was painting my face as he continued to ejaculate his seed in a single final act of uncontrolled arousal.
I couldn’t continue to hold him. My arms were burning as my face became wedged between his trembling form. And then, his bodily fluid changed to that of urine, as his bladder control gave way. His dead weight, the convulsions, the slickness of his new release on my skin, it was too much. In a split-second decision fuelled by panic, I let go. He dropped. The rope snapped taut again with a sickening thud. His body went terrifyingly still, limp as a ragdoll, only the faintest tremor in his bound hands betraying any lingering spark. “No!” The word tore from my throat, raw and useless. I scrambled backwards, slipping in the mud, my eyes fixed on the complex knot biting into the oak’s bark. It wasn’t just any knot. The overlapping loops, the way the bitter end was tucked back through itself, it was a sailor’s knot. My grandfather had shown me once, on a boat long ago. Pull the loose end! My memory screamed.
I lunged for the rope’s tail, the coarse fibres scraping my palms raw as I grabbed it. No time for finesse. I yanked with every ounce of desperation. The knot resisted, groaned, then suddenly gave way. The tension vanished instantly. The rope hissed through the branch above. Andy plummeted and hit the ground like a sack of potatoes, his limbs splayed awkwardly, the impact forcing a hollow whump from his lungs. He didn’t move. Didn’t make a sound. Just lay there, pale and broken, almost naked amidst the torn clothes and mud.
I scrambled to him, my own breath ragged. Roll him over, the medical training kicked in, cold and procedural. I hooked my hands under his shoulder and hip, ignoring the slickness of his release still on my skin, and heaved him onto his back. The noose was a grotesque necklace, biting deep as I scrambled to him, my own breath ragged.
I fumbled with the coarse knot behind his head, my fingers thick and clumsy with panic. It finally loosened, and I ripped the rope away, revealing an ugly, purple-black ligature mark already darkening against his throat.
Tilting his head back, I pinched his nose shut. My mouth covered his, sealing tight. I blew hard, watching his chest rise. Nothing. His skin was cold, waxy. Again, I said to myself. Another breath, forceful, inflating his lungs. I shifted position, locked my hands together, heel of palm centred on his sternum. Thirty compressions, I told myself. Deep and fast. I pushed down hard, counting silently, ribs creaking unnervingly beneath my hands. His bound arms and legs flopped limply with each thrust.
Then it came, a sudden, violent hitch in his chest, like a stalled engine catching. A raw, sucking gasp tore from his throat, echoing through the trees. His eyes flew open, wide, terrified, unseeing, staring straight past me into the canopy. His body arched off the ground, a final, desperate spasm. “That’s it!” I yelled, relief flooding me. “Breathe, young man, breathe!” His chest heaved, gulping air in ragged, whistling gasps. The awful purple hue began to recede from his face, replaced by a sickly pallor. He was back.
He’s alive, I reminded myself as I dragged him towards the massive oak trunk, my arms trembling with exhaustion. Mud caked us both as I sat heavily against the rough bark, pulling his limp, shivering form onto my lap. His head lolled against my shoulder, his bound hands trapped awkwardly behind him, proving inconvenient.
He was cold, shock setting in. I wrapped my arms around him, pulling him close, cradling him like a child. His skin felt clammy against mine, the faint scent of urine and spent semen mixing with the damp earth. “Shhh,” I murmured, my voice rough. “You’re okay. You’re safe now.” His breathing was still shallow, each inhale a painful-sounding rasp, but it was there. He wasn’t going to die. Not here. Not yet. Today wasn’t his day to die.
His nakedness was irrelevant. The ruined clothes, the fading erection, the mess, it all faded into the background noise of survival. My focus narrowed to the fragile rise and fall of his chest against mine, the faint pulse I could feel fluttering at the base of his throat where the rope had bitten deep. Sunlight, warm and golden, filtered through the high canopy, dappling patterns on his pale skin and my mud-streaked arms. It felt incongruous, this gentle warmth against the chill of his body and the lingering horror of what had just happened. The forest sounds returned slowly: the distant call of a crow, the rustle of a squirrel in the undergrowth, the steady drip of water from leaves. Ordinary sounds in an utterly shattered scene.
I don’t know how long I was there, cuddling him. Minutes? An hour? Time dissolved into the rhythm of his shallow breathing and the thudding of my own heart against his back. The damp earth seeped through my jeans, the rough bark of the oak dug into my spine, but I barely registered the discomfort. My arms were locked around him, a human anchor against the tide of shock moving through his body.
My cheek rested against the top of his head, smelling sweat and pine needles and the faint, metallic tang of bodily fluids. I was drifting in a strange, exhausted limbo, the adrenaline ebbing, leaving a hollow numbness. The image of Fred’s cold stare, the flash of the camera, Andy’s body jerking like a puppet… it played on a loop behind my eyelids as I continued to cuddle the young man.
His first word shattered the fragile stillness. It wasn’t a cry or a gasp, but a raw, guttural whisper, forced past swollen vocal cords. “W…why?”
The sound was barely audible, more vibration against my chest than an actual word. It jolted me like an electric shock. My arms tightened instinctively, pulling him closer. His head lolled, trying to turn towards me, but he lacked the strength. His bound hands twitched weakly between us. That single syllable, thick with confusion and betrayal, cut through my numbness sharper than any blade. It wasn’t just about the near-death; it was the violation, the twisted intimacy of the trap. Why would someone do this? Why did trust turn to torture?
I looked down, my lips almost brushing the shell of his ear, the damp strands of his hair tickling my skin. My voice was low, a murmur meant only for him, cutting through the distant forest sounds. “Shhh,” I breathed, the word a soft puff of warmth against his cold skin. “It’s over. He’s gone. You’re okay now.” I repeated it, a mantra against the horror. “You’re okay.”
A decision crystallised in exhaustion. Hospital meant questions, reports, flashing lights, a different kind of exposure he likely couldn’t face, not after what his so-called friend, Fred, had done. And I couldn’t leave him here. My house was close, bordering the woods. Shelter, warmth, a place to cut him free properly and assess the damage away from prying eyes. “Alright, mate,” I said, my voice firmer now, bracing myself. “We’re getting out of here.” Carefully, I shifted his limp weight. With a grunt of effort, I manoeuvred him off my lap and onto the muddy ground beside me, his bound limbs sprawling awkwardly.
Ignoring the lingering stickiness on my cheek and the deep chill seeping into my own clothes from his bladder release, I knelt again. Gently, I hooked one arm under his knees and the other beneath his shoulders. He was lighter than I expected, shocked, and the ordeal was hollowing him out. With a surge of effort, I hoisted him up and over my shoulder in a fireman’s lift.
He made small, pained sounds as the movement jostled his bruised body as he remained flopped over my shoulder, my urgent steps taking a determined approach. “Nearly there,” I muttered to him, more for myself than him in reality, adjusting his weight.
The walk was a blur of exertion and grim focus. Every root seemed to reach for my boots, every low branch snagged at his limp form or my clothes. His breathing was a shallow, irregular rasp against my back. I kept one hand clamped firmly on his thigh, feeling the faint tremors running through his muscles. The familiar back gate of my property appeared through the trees like a mirage. I fumbled the latch open with my elbow, staggering onto the damp grass of my backyard and garden. Relief warred with the urgency to get him inside. The back door was unlocked, a habit born of living on the edge of the woods. I kicked it open, the sound jarringly loud in the domestic silence.
Stumbling into the dim kitchen, I didn’t pause. The fabric of my sofa in the adjacent living room was the only goal. I lowered him as gently as my trembling muscles allowed, but it was still an ungainly thud as he collapsed onto the cushions, limbs tangled, head lolling to one side against the armrest. His skin was shockingly pale against the dark upholstery, the vivid ligature mark around his neck a brutal accusation. “Hold on, boy,” I gasped, already turning. The toolbox lived under the sink. I wrenched it open, rummaging past screwdrivers and spanners until my fingers closed on the cold, hard plastic handles of the heavy-duty diagonal cutters. Their sharp jaws gleamed dully in the kitchen light.
Back at the sofa in three strides, I knelt beside him. The orange cable ties were stark against his raw, abraded wrists. I positioned the cutters carefully, the blades sliding between the plastic and his skin. A sharp snap echoed as the first tie gave way. His arms jerked apart limply, falling to his sides like dead weights. The second tie at his ankles was thicker, tighter. I wedged the cutters in, squeezed with all my strength. Another snap, and his legs splayed open, revealing the darkening bruises where the plastic had bitten deep. I tossed the cutters aside; they clattered on the wooden floor. His freed limbs lay motionless, utterly spent, the unnatural angles gone but replaced by a terrifying stillness.
He was breathing. Shallow, rasping, each inhale a struggle against the swollen tissues of his throat, but breathing. The awful pallor was fading, replaced by a fragile warmth beneath my fingertips when I brushed his cheek. The decision I had made felt immediate, instinctive. Hospital lights, police questions, the cold scrutiny of strangers, would, I felt, shatter whatever fragile thread was holding him together. The young man on my sofa didn’t need public scrutiny or the requirement to explain himself. He needed peace and support during his recovery, which was now certain to happen, thank God.
Here, in the dim quiet of my living room, he had a chance to surface from the shock on his own terms. I grabbed the thick woollen throw from the back of the armchair, the one reserved for winter nights. Shaking it out, I draped it carefully over him, tucking it around his shoulders, covering the exposed vulnerability from collarbone to knees.
The silence pressed in, thick and heavy, broken only by his ragged breathing and the frantic drumming of my own heart. Action. I needed action and the kitchen offered sanctuary, a mundane task to anchor myself.
Root vegetables waited in the wire basket by the sink: potatoes, carrots, onions. My movements were automatic, mechanical. The rhythmic thunk-thunk-thunk of the knife hitting the chopping board became a desperate mantra. He’s alive. He’s here, I reminded myself as I focused on the scent of the onions, sharp and stinging my eyes, the earthy smell of the potatoes as I peeled them. Water hissed into the heavy cast-iron pot on the stove. I poured in the chopped vegetables, added a splash of oil, and a pinch of salt. The familiar ritual was a lifeline. The stew began to simmer, a low, comforting burble filling the small space, pushing back the silence.
A shift in the air. A subtle creak of the floorboard behind me made me freeze, the knife hovering over a loaf of bread. Slowly, I turned to look at what had created the noise, finding Andy standing in the kitchen doorway. The woollen throw was gone, leaving him utterly naked, his skin pale against the dim hallway behind him.
The brutal ligature mark around his throat was a livid purple-black halo. His eyes, wide and clouded with confusion, scanned the unfamiliar room, the cabinets, the simmering pot, the window looking out onto the darkening woods. He swayed slightly, one hand braced against the doorframe for support. His voice, when it came, was a raw, shredded whisper, barely audible over the bubbling stew. “Where… where am I?”
I set the knife down carefully, turning fully to face him. My voice was deliberately low, calm. “My house. Edge of Blackwood.” I took a slow step towards him, gauging his reaction. His gaze snapped to mine, sharpening with a flicker of something, fear? Recognition? “I was walking through the woods,” I continued, holding his eyes. “I saw… everything. Saw him leave you hanging.” The words hung heavy in the warm, onion-scented air. “I cut you down and brought you back,” missing out the details of his near-death experience. I saw the memory hit him, a physical flinch that made him grip the doorframe tighter. “You’re here because he ran, and I couldn’t leave you there.”
He didn’t speak. His eyes darted past me to the window, to the darkening trees beyond the glass, then back to the simmering pot. His nakedness seemed irrelevant now, just another layer of vulnerability in the stark kitchen light. I moved to the sink, wetting a clean dishcloth under cool water. Wringing it out, I approached him slowly, holding it out like an offering. “For your neck,” I said. “It might help the swelling.” He stared at the cloth, then at my outstretched hand, a tremor running through him. He didn’t take it.
“Look,” I said, keeping my voice low, steady. “I get you’re confused. Probably terrified. But I’m not going to hurt you. That’s not why I brought you here.” I nodded towards the hallway. “Why don’t I run you a bath? Warm water. Get cleaned up. Then you can eat some stew, or…” I paused, meeting his haunted gaze directly. “Or you can call the police. Right now. I’ll hand you the phone. They’ll take over. Entirely your call.”
The silence stretched, thick with the scent of onions and the low bubble of the stew. His eyes flickered to the landline phone on the wall, then back to me, searching my face. He swallowed painfully, a visible effort that made him wince.
“Please,” he rasped, the word barely a breath. His eyes dropped to the damp cloth still in my hand. “A bath.” It wasn’t just a request; it was a fragile acceptance of sanctuary, a desperate need to wash away the mud, the cold, the lingering terror, and the sticky, shameful evidence of his body’s betrayal. He swayed again, his knuckles white on the doorframe, the effort of standing clearly immense. The deep bruises around his wrists and ankles stood out starkly against his pale skin.
I moved quickly, guiding his trembling form down the short hallway to the small room that was home to my downstairs bathroom. Steam already fogged the mirror as I filled the tub with warm water, testing it with my elbow. He stood silently beside me, shivering despite the room’s warmth, his gaze fixed on the swirling water like it held answers.
“Stand here,” I murmured, positioning him inside the tub. “Let me help.” Kneeling, I took the damp cloth I’d brought and gently began washing the mud and dried shit from his calves. He flinched at the first touch, a sharp intake of breath hissing through his damaged throat, but then he went utterly still, surrendering to the care.
His skin was icy, goosebumps rising as the warm water trickled down his legs. I worked methodically, rinsing the cloth again and again, moving upwards. The mud caked on his legs, the streaks of dried release on his upper thighs, I washed it all away without comment, the water in the bath turning murky brown.
When he was clean, I helped him lower himself into the tub. He sank into the water with a low groan, his eyes closing, the tension in his shoulders easing minutely as the warmth enveloped him. I left him there, the steam curling around his pale form, and went to my bedroom. Rifling through drawers, I pulled out the softest, most suitable things his size. A nightshirt, ideal for moments like this. It would be huge on his slender frame, I thought as I returned to the bathroom, but it would have to do. I held it up. “You’ve got a lovely body,” I said quietly, the words feeling strangely natural in the humid air. “But I don’t think I have clothes to fit you, but I have this nightshirt that will do the job.”
A faint, almost imperceptible nod and smile broke across his face. “Thank you. It will be fine.”
I placed the garment on the closed toilet lid within easy reach. “Take your time,” I said, turning towards the door. “I’ll be in the kitchen. Join me when you’re ready,” as I pulled the door shut behind me, leaving it slightly ajar.
Back at the stove, I stirred the simmering stew, the rich aroma of vegetables and herbs filling the small kitchen. The rhythmic bubbling was a grounding counterpoint to the chaos still echoing in my mind. I kept one ear tuned to the hallway, listening for the soft slosh of water or the creak of the floorboards.
Andy emerged, dwarfed in my nightshirt, the hem falling past his knees. He shuffled barefoot into the kitchen doorway, hesitating, his damp hair plastered to his forehead. The garment hung loosely on his frame, emphasising his fragility, and briefly, he looked impossibly young standing there, his eyes wide and uncertain, fixed on the steaming pot.
“Stew’s ready,” I said, keeping my voice casual as I ladled generous portions into two bowls. I placed them on the small kitchen table, pulling out a chair for him. “Sit. Eat.”
He moved slowly, wincing slightly as he lowered himself, the simple act clearly taxing. He stared at the bowl, the steam rising, then lifted his gaze to mine. The raw confusion and lingering terror were still there, but beneath it, a flicker of something else, a dawning, painful comprehension of survival. He picked up the spoon, his hand trembling only slightly. The first tentative sip seemed to anchor him further in the present, in the warmth, in the simple, sustaining act of eating.
We ate in silence. The only sounds were the scrape of spoons against ceramic, the faint gurgle of the settling stew in the pot, and the rasp of his breathing, still laboured but steadier than before. The silence wasn’t awkward; it was necessary, a fragile truce allowing his shattered nerves to settle, the horror momentarily held at bay by the mundane ritual of a shared meal. He finished his bowl, pushing it away with a quiet sigh that ended in a slight cough, his hand instinctively going to his throat.
“Bed,” I said, the word breaking the stillness gently as I cleared the bowls. “You look dead on your feet. The spare room’s made up,” I told him as he nodded slowly, exhaustion etched deep into his pale face, the shadows under his eyes like bruises themselves.
He didn’t argue, didn’t hesitate. The simple directive was a relief, a permission to finally collapse. “This way,” I murmured, leading him down the short hallway, past the closed bathroom door, to the small, neat spare room. I pushed the door open, revealing the single bed with its clean, faded quilt, the curtains drawn against the encroaching dusk. “It’s nothing fancy, but it’s quiet.
He shuffled past me into the room, his bare feet silent on the wooden floor. He stood for a moment, looking at the bed, then turned back to me, his expression unreadable in the dim light filtering from the hallway. “Thank you,” he whispered, the words rough but clear. “For… everything.”
The body is an amazing thing, but sometimes it just needs sleep to restore itself and sleep he did, all the next day. I checked on the young man regularly during the day, noting that his breathing was much improved, but doubt remained about his mental health and the effects of trauma he had endured.
Before I retired to bed for the second night, being his nurse and carer, I looked in on him, and he was sound asleep and, leaving the door ajar, I settled into my bed feeling tired and worried, thinking to myself that if he’s still sleeping tomorrow, I might have to involve medical professionals after all.
In the early hours, I woke from a dream to a different kind of awareness. The deep quiet of the small hours pressed in, absolute except for the distant sigh of wind in the trees outside. And then, warmth. A subtle shift in the mattress, the faint scent of clean skin and the lingering herbal tang of the bath soap. Andy.
He’d slid into the narrow space beside me, his body a careful line of heat against my chest, wearing only the nightshirt I had given him. His breathing was shallow, uneven, a quiet counterpoint to the thud of my own heart. He didn’t speak, didn’t move beyond the initial settling. He was just… there.
My arm, heavy with sleep, lifted slightly and then draped itself over his side. It wasn’t a conscious decision; it was a reflex, a shield against the remembered cold of the forest floor and the chill of his shock. My hand rested lightly on the dip of his waist, feeling the fragile ridge of his hipbone beneath the thin cotton. He tensed for a fraction of a second, a tiny intake of breath catching in his throat, then slowly, incrementally, relaxed into the touch.
The absurdity of the situation of a half-naked, young man seeking refuge in my bed after near death was drowned out by the sheer, simple relief of his warmth and the steady, vital thrum of his pulse beneath my palm. His breathing deepened, smoothing out into a rhythm that wasn’t quite sleep, but a profound stillness. My arm tightened almost imperceptibly, a protective curve settling around him, as I drifted back to sleep.
Morning had arrived as sunlight, thin and pale, filtered through the gap in the curtains, striping the rumpled sheets. I woke slowly, awareness returning in fragments. The first sensation was the solid warmth pressed along my side. The second was the texture beneath my fingers. Soft cotton.
My hand had slipped during the night, resting possessively over his cock under the cotton of his nightshirt. Beneath my hand, nestled against the curve of my thumb, was the unmistakable, rigid length of his morning wood. It pulsed faintly with his heartbeat, a warm, insistent pressure against my skin. Panic jolted through me like an electric shock. I jerked my hand back as if burned, the movement sharp and sudden in the quiet room.
“Shit! Andy, I’m so sorry,” I blurted, the words thick with sleep and horror. “I didn’t… I was asleep, I didn’t mean to…” I scrambled to put space between us in the double bed we had shared during the night.
He didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away. Instead, he turned his head slowly on the pillow, his eyes meeting mine. They were clearer than the day before, the clouded confusion replaced by a startling depth, though shadows still lingered beneath them.
“Don’t… worry,” Andy whispered, swallowing carefully. “It was… nice being held like that. Warm. Safe.” The raw honesty in his words, the simple admission of need, hung in the sunlit air.
I rolled back behind him, resuming my cuddle, my hand embracing him again as we dozed for a while until Andy whispered, “I don’t remember your name, and how did you know my name?”
“I heard Fred say it,” I murmured against his shoulder blade, my voice low. “Back when he was… preparing you. Before it turned bad. I’m Steve,” I added softly, my thumb tracing idle circles on his hipbone. “Steve Archer.”
“Thank you, Steve, thank you. You saved me, and for the first time in my life since leaving home, I have felt safe and wanted,” Andy whispered.
“Well, you are safe, but I think we should plan getting you home today. But let’s get up and have breakfast first, and you can tell me more about yourself.”
Andy rolled over to face me. The morning light caught the fading bruise around his throat, stark against his pale skin. His eyes, clearer now but still shadowed, held mine with an unnerving directness. “Steve,” he whispered, the name rough but deliberate. “I don’t have a home. Not really. Just… a bedsit. A room.” He swallowed, wincing slightly. “And I don’t want to go back there.” The admission hung heavy, raw and simple. His gaze didn’t waver, silently pleading for understanding, for sanctuary to extend beyond this single night.
“There’s no rush,” I responded softly, pushing back the sudden weight of his confession. “Stay in bed while I prepare breakfast. I’ll call you.” At that, I swung off the bed, flattening my nightshirt as I stood up, finding my worn slippers waiting for me. The cool wood beneath my feet was a grounding contrast to the warmth lingering from his body heat against mine moments before.
I didn’t need to call Andy for breakfast as he shuffled into the kitchen while I was frying eggs. I laughed out loud at the sight of him in the nightshirt. “You look very funny, young man. It’s like a tent on you,” as my laughter became infectious because he also laughed in response.
“It is a bit big, but I like it and it feels warm and comfortable,” Andy chuckled.
“Well, that much is true. Now, sit down, and I will pour you a coffee, and you can tell me more about you.”
I watched him trace the wood grain with a fingertip as he sat down. The silence thickened until he spoke, voice low. “Fred… he was my boyfriend. For a month.” He stared at his untouched coffee that sat waiting in front of him. “Said he loved how trusting I was.”
The admission hung heavy between us. He didn’t elaborate, didn’t need to. The betrayal was etched in the tremor of his hands as he finally lifted the mug. Steam curled around his face, momentarily softening the harsh look on his face.
I slid the plate of eggs and toast across the table. “Eat,” I urged gently. “We’ll figure things out.” He nodded, picking up his fork with deliberate care, focusing on the simple mechanics of cutting food. Each bite seemed to anchor him further away from the forest, from Fred.
“I’m twenty-eight,” he murmured between mouthfuls, answering my unspoken question. His eyes met mine briefly, gauging my reaction.
“What a pair we make.” I chuckled softly, pouring myself more coffee. “Sixty-one,” I countered. “Widower. Twelve years now.” The familiar pang of loss was dulled, softened by the unexpected presence across the table. He nodded slowly, understanding flickering in his gaze without pity.
He pushed his empty plate away, his voice gaining a hesitant strength. “The choking thing… it wasn’t just him. It was… mine too. I wanted to try it, and he said he would help me experience it,” as he traced the rim of his coffee mug, avoiding my eyes. “The trust, the surrender… it felt powerful. Until he twisted it.”
Telling me that opened a floodgate as he spoke of fleeting connections, exploitative partners, and loneliness disguised as intimacy. His story unfolded, a childhood marked by neglect, drifting through dead-end jobs, seeking belonging in places that offered none.
I listened to him as his outpour continued, feeling desperately sorry but also responsible for him.
“Destiny?” he whispered, finally looking up, a fragile hope warring with deep-seated fear. “Maybe. Finding you… felt like finally hitting solid ground.”
The morning sun warmed the kitchen table between us. As he spoke, the raw edges of his vulnerability softened, revealing a sharp, wry humour beneath the trauma. I found myself leaning in, captivated not just by the horror he’d endured, but by the resilience flickering beneath it. His honesty was disarming, his tentative smile infectious. The weight of his story settled around us, not as a burden, but as a strange, unexpected bridge. For the first time since Sarah died, the quiet house didn’t feel empty; it felt like it held possibility.
“I tell you what, Andy, stay here for a while and think about what you want to do. In the meantime, go and walk around the garden while I tidy up the kitchen, and then we can think about the rest of the day when I make a fresh coffee.”
Andy nodded, pushing back from the table. The burgundy nightshirt hung just below his knees as he shuffled towards the back door, pausing to glance at me with a hesitant smile before stepping into the sun-drenched garden.
I watched him through the window, his slender frame moving slowly between the overgrown lavender bushes, fingertips brushing against the purple blooms. His posture seemed looser, shoulders less hunched against imagined threats, though he still touched the bruise on his neck occasionally as if checking it was real.
The coffee percolator hissed as I filled two mugs, the rich aroma cutting through the citrus-scented detergent. When I joined him outside, he didn’t turn immediately, his gaze fixed on the treeline where shadows pooled thick and deep. “It’s quieter here than I’m used to,” he said softly, accepting the mug. “In my bedsit… You can always hear sirens. Arguments,” pausing to breathe. “This silence… It’s loud in a good way.”
We sat without speaking, steam curling between us in the warm morning air. A robin hopped along the fence, and Andy tracked it with a faint, wondering smile. When he finally spoke, his voice was steadier, edged with something like resolve. “I’d like to stay, Steve. If the offer’s open. Just… just until I find my feet.” He met my eyes, and in that raw, hopeful look, I saw not just gratitude, but the first fragile thread of trust weaving itself back together.
“You can stay as long as you like, Andy,” was all I could say as I looked at him, admiring his body hidden underneath the nightshirt.
Andy shifted on the bench, setting his mug down with a soft clink. His gaze, when it met mine, held a startling directness. “Steve,” he said quietly, his voice still raspy but clear. “You keep looking at me. Like… like you’re seeing more than just the mess you found in the forest.” He paused, a faint flush creeping up his neck, clashing with the bruise. “Do you… Find me attractive?” The question being raw and vulnerable in a strange way.
I didn’t look away. The honesty demanded an honest answer. “Yes, Andy,” I admitted, my voice low but steady. “I do. But that’s not why you’re here. Seeing you broken in those woods… that changes things.” I watched his expression carefully. “Attraction is simple, but I have to keep you safe for now.”
He absorbed this statement, his fingers tracing the rim of his mug. “Safe sounds good.” He turned back, offering a small, tentative smile. “For now, and I find you very attractive, Steve and not just because you saved me.”
The silence that followed wasn’t heavy, but charged with unspoken understanding. We sat together, two damaged men in a quiet garden, the scent of lavender and coffee mingling as the morning sun climbed higher, warming the old stones beneath our feet.
“Your garden is amazing, you know. So large and beautiful,” Andy said. “No neighbours. It’s quiet and private. One could almost run about naked and no one would ever know.”
“My wife loved it,” I replied, my voice softening with the memory. “Many times, I would be naked in the sunshine, cutting the grass or deadheading the flowers to prolong their bloom. She’d watch from the kitchen window, laughing at my tan lines.” The ghost of Sarah’s laughter seemed to hang in the air for a moment, mingling with the scent of damp earth and lavender. “She said freedom felt different out here, away from prying eyes.”
Andy nodded slowly, his gaze drifting over the wildflower borders and overgrown hedges. “I like it here.”
“Then, in that case, make yourself at home. I have a few things to do, and then we can go for a walk if you like.”
Andy nodded, watching me stand as I turned towards the house. I entered the house, heading towards my study, and I sat behind my desk with a view of the garden as I pondered and then turned on my laptop.
Engrossed in checking my emails, I glanced out of the window, and I saw him standing by the roses, smelling them as if for the first time. What amazed me was, he stood naked in the morning sun, his pale skin glowing against the backdrop of tangled lavender and wild grasses.
Andy’s body was slender, almost delicate, with lean muscles defined by hardship rather than gyms. Sunlight traced the sharp angles of his collarbones and the vulnerable dip above his sternum. The brutal ligature mark encircling his throat stood out like a dark, twisted necklace, a stark contrast to the smooth planes of his chest and the faint trail of dark hair leading down his flat stomach. His legs were long and finely shaped, ending in surprisingly graceful feet planted firmly on the dew-damp grass.
My gaze lingered, drawn inevitably downward, past his midriff. I noted the vulnerable triangle of dark pubic curls, neatly trimmed. His cut penis lay flaccid against his thigh, impressively long and thick with a delicate pinkish hue. Below, his testicles hung loose and heavy in their wrinkled sack, shaded slightly from the morning light. There was an innocence to it, an unselfconscious exposure that felt profoundly trusting. He stood utterly still, eyes closed, face tilted towards the sun, unaware of my scrutiny.
A slow, unfamiliar warmth bloomed low in my belly. It wasn’t just appreciation; it was a sharp, undeniable pull. My pulse quickened, a thrumming beat beneath my ribs. Twelve years. Twelve years since desire had felt like this, a tangible, visceral thing, not just a memory. The realisation hit me with startling clarity: I wasn’t just seeing Andy, the traumatised young man I’d rescued. I was seeing him. The lean lines, the vulnerability mixed with a quiet strength, the sheer, unadorned beauty of him standing naked in my garden.
The attraction wasn’t paternal, wasn’t born of pity. It was raw, male, and utterly unexpected. I had suppressed my Bi feelings all my life, but perhaps with him, my desires were returning, reminding me that at one point in my life, I batted for both sides.
Forcing my gaze back to the laptop screen felt like tearing fabric. The emails blurred into meaningless shapes. My fingers trembled slightly on the trackpad. The image of him, sunlit skin, the dark bruise stark against his throat, the soft curls, the impressive length resting flaccid against his thigh, burned behind my eyelids.
I slammed the laptop shut, the sound sharp in the quiet study. Needing air, needing distance, I snatched my mug and strode towards the kitchen sink, refilling it with trembling hands. The coffee was lukewarm now, bitter on my tongue. Gulping it down did nothing to quell the heat simmering inside me. I pushed open the back door, the cool morning air hitting my face, a brief relief. My gaze swept the garden, searching for Andy.
He was deeper in the orchard now that bordered the formal garden, walking slowly between the gnarled apple trees. Sunlight dappled through the leaves, painting shifting patterns on his skin. He hadn’t heard me calling his name, and when I found him, I saw the unmistakable vision of his cock, previously flaccid, was now perfectly erect, standing proud and thick against his lower belly.
The pinkish hue was deeper now, flushed with blood, the head swollen and prominent. It bobbed slightly with each step, a stark, undeniable testament to life returning to sensation overriding trauma.
My breath caught as I watched him move with unconscious grace, utterly absorbed in the moment, unaware of my scrutiny or the potent effect his arousal had on me. The sight was breathtakingly intimate, stirring a possessive ache deep within me.
“Andy?” I called, and he turned around, his erection still proudly pointing towards me. He didn’t cover himself. Instead, he smiled softly, walking back towards me through the tall grass. Sunlight glistened on the faint sheen of sweat across his chest. His cock bobbed gently with each step, thick and flushed pink, the veins prominent along its impressive length. Below, his heavy balls swung freely.
“You don’t mind, do you?” he asked.
“Mind?” I echoed, my voice rough. The coffee mug trembled in my grip. “Seeing you alive? Thriving?” I shook my head slowly, unable to tear my gaze from him. “No, Andy. I don’t mind at all.”
He closed the distance and, without hesitation, his hands settled firmly on my thighs, warm and grounding as he leaned in, his lips brushing mine, tentative at first, but definitely questioning. My breath hitched. Twelve years of numbness shattered. I met his kiss, my hands instinctively sliding around the firm curve of his buttocks, pulling him flush against me. The heat of his erection pressed insistently against my hip through the nightshirt I still wore.
Our kiss deepened, hungry and exploring. His tongue traced my lower lip, seeking entrance, and I granted it willingly. One of his hands slid upwards, under my nightshirt, fingers splaying possessively over the bare skin of my lower back. Then, deliberately, he moved lower, kneading the firm swell of my buttock. A low groan escaped me, muffled against his mouth. His touch was electric, claiming.
He broke the kiss, breathing ragged, his eyes dark pools reflecting my own desire. His hand remained firmly cupping my ass cheek beneath the thin cotton. “Can I see you?” he whispered, the rasp in his voice thick with need. “All of you?” His thumb stroked the sensitive skin where my buttocks met my thighs, sending shivers up my spine. The request wasn’t just physical; it was a surrender, an invitation into a vulnerability I hadn’t dared explore in years.
My heart hammered against my ribs. Holding his gaze, as he slowly lifted the hem of my nightshirt, pulling it over my head in one fluid motion, letting it fall forgotten onto the dew-damp grass. The warm morning air washed over my bare skin, but Andy’s heated gaze felt warmer. His eyes travelled hungrily down my chest, over my stomach, lingering appreciatively on my own burgeoning erection. A slow, approving smile touched his lips. “Beautiful,” he breathed, stepping closer again, his hands immediately finding my hips, pulling me tight against his naked warmth.
“Do you want me, Steve?” he asked as our erections finally met.
“I do, Andy, but I think we should take our time and not rush, especially if you are going to stay for a while.”
He nodded, pressing closer, his cock sliding hotly against mine. “Can I settle for a cuddle then?” he asked.
“Of course you can. There’s nothing better than a good cuddle, I have discovered over the years,” as I took his hand and we walked towards a garden bench, under an apple tree.
I sat down and pulled him gently onto my lap, careful to avoid crushing my own erection. He settled sideways, his legs draped over mine, his lean body warm against my chest. His cock remained thick and flushed against his thigh, twitching slightly as my arms encircled his waist. Unable to resist, my right hand drifted lower, fingers tracing the firm muscle of his abdomen before closing softly around his shaft. I began a slow, exploratory massage, thumb brushing the sensitive ridge beneath the swollen head. He gasped softly, arching into my touch, which I knew was tender and welcome, from his physical response.
A sudden chuckle escaped me, sharp and unexpected in the quiet orchard. Andy tilted his head back against my shoulder, his eyes searching mine. “Why are you laughing?” he murmured, breath catching as my thumb circled the tip.
“Just remembering when I helped you,” I admitted, my voice rough. The scent of damp earth and crushed grass filled my nostrils, sharpening the memory. “Holding you up, giving you a chance to breathe,”
“Why, what happened?” Andy asked.
I paused, remembering the incident clearly. “You experienced an orgasm as my face was buried against your thighs, as my arms held your legs. The sheer force of it was amazing. Your hot, thick semen spraying onto my cheekbone, my temple, and the sheer volume you produced, spurting your seed onto my face only to run down onto my collar.”
Andy shifted against me, his breath catching as my thumb circled his crown. “Oh. I don’t remember that,” he whispered.
“Well, you did, and strangely, whilst not an appropriate thought for that moment, it was magnificent. Truly. What I also found amusing was, by the time I got you home, it had dried on me, and if you had seen me, you would have laughed so much. Your hero with huge deposits of dried cum on his face.”
Andy shifted on my lap, his erection pulsing warmly in my grasp. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, though a faint smile touched his lips as he saw the funny side of my story.
“Don’t apologise. There’s no need,” I assured him as my fingers played with his gland. “It happened, and you covered me with cum, following afterwards with my first golden shower in a long, long time. It was a natural response, and I experienced it; that’s all.”
Andy shifted position, twisting gracefully on my lap until he straddled me fully. A soft sigh escaped him as he leaned forward, pressing his bare chest flush against mine. The sudden intimacy stole my breath, skin against skin, heartbeat thudding against heartbeat. His hands slid up my shoulders, fingers tangling gently in the hair at my nape. “This,” he murmured against my collarbone, his breath warm. “This closeness… it feels like breathing again.”
My right hand found its way back to his shaft, encircling it firmly. I began a slow, deliberate stroke, my thumb rubbing rhythmic circles over his slick crown. He gasped, hips pushing instinctively into my body. His forehead rested against mine, eyes squeezed shut, lashes dark against his pale cheeks. Every stroke drew a soft, ragged sound from him, pleasure mixed with profound relief. His hands tightened on my shoulders, anchoring himself as sensation built. The orchard air hummed with the drone of bees and the scent of crushed grass beneath us, mingling with the salt-tang of his pre-come on my fingers.
His movements became more urgent as I continued, his hips moving against my grip. A low groan tore from his throat, raw and unfiltered. “Oh god…”
His body tensed, coiled tight like a spring. Then it happened: a powerful shudder ripped through him. His cock pulsed violently in my hand as thick, pearly ropes of semen shot out, hot and sudden, splattering across my chest and stomach in erratic streaks. The force was startling, painting my skin with glistening trails. He cried out, a sound ripped from deep within, collapsing forward against me, trembling violently as the last pulses spilt warm onto my skin.
We stayed like that, locked together in the aftermath, his breath hot and ragged against my neck. My arms wrapped tightly around his shuddering frame, holding him secure as the tremors subsided. Sunlight warmed the drying streaks on my skin as I enjoyed the moment until I remembered something very important. “I just remembered that you have no clothes. We need to go shopping, me thinks, if you wish to wear more than your nightshirt.”
Andy lifted his head slowly, blinking as if surfacing from deep water. His gaze drifted down my torso, taking in the glistening mess he’d made. A slow flush crept up his neck, clashing violently with the bruise. “Oh,” he breathed, his voice thick. “My clothes… Fred destroyed them.” His fingers brushed tentatively against a drying streak on my stomach. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” I murmured, smoothing damp hair from his forehead. “We’ll get you sorted. Properly.” His eyes met mine, wide and vulnerable. “Everything,” I added softly. “From socks to a toothbrush.”
He nodded slowly, leaning back into my embrace. The silence stretched, comfortable now, filled only by birdsong and the distant hum of bees. My own arousal pulsed, insistent but patient. His hand drifted lower, fingers tracing the outline of my neglected erection. “Later?” he asked softly, a promise flickering in his eyes.
“Yes,” I breathed, tightening my hold. “Later.”
Andy shifted slightly, his softening cock still warm against my thigh. He glanced down at the pearly streaks drying on my skin, then back at his own nakedness. “But what am I going to wear to go shopping?” The question was practical, grounding us back in the mundane. A faint crease appeared between his brows as he gestured vaguely towards the house. “I can’t exactly walk into town like this.” His gaze flickered to the burgundy nightshirt crumpled in the grass near the bench. “That thing swallows me whole even though I like it.”
I chuckled, the sound low and warm. “One problem at a time.” Gently easing him off my lap, I stood, stretching my stiff muscles. The warm air kissed my bare skin. “Stay here. Enjoy the sun. I will be back soon,” as I scooped up the discarded nightshirt. “I’ll find something.”
Inside, the quiet house felt charged with possibility. I headed upstairs, bypassing my own wardrobe. Sarah’s closet remained untouched, a cedar-scented time capsule. My fingers brushed past silks and linens before settling on worn denim. Her old gardening jeans, faded and soft, with a drawstring waist. Beside them hung a simple, oversized grey hoodie, threadbare at the elbows. Practical. Anonymous. Holding them, I inhaled the faint, lingering ghost of lavender and earth. “She’d approve”, I thought, carrying them back downstairs.
Andy was waiting where I left him, sunlight catching the angles of his shoulders. He accepted the bundle silently. Pulling on the jeans, he cinched the drawstring tight; they hung loose on his hips but stayed up. The hoodie dwarfed him, sleeves falling past his fingertips. He pushed them up, revealing slender wrists. “Perfect,” he murmured, a shy smile touching his lips. He looked impossibly young, swallowed by fabric, yet utterly present. “I’m ready,” he declared.
The drive to ASDA felt strangely ordinary, charged beneath the surface. Andy stared out the window, fingers tracing the bruise on his throat. In the bustling aisles, he moved with quiet focus. He chose plain cotton briefs, thick socks, soft grey t-shirts, and two dark hoodies. At the footwear section, he hesitated over trainers, finally selecting sturdy black ones. “For walking,” he explained softly, placing them in the trolley. His choices were deliberate, rebuilding a foundation as he grabbed a toothbrush and other bits and pieces, essential to him to restore normality.
Back in the car, Andy tore the tags off a t-shirt and briefs right there in the front seat. He slipped his borrowed clothes off, much to my surprise, throwing them on the back seat. In that single act, I found myself with a naked man in the front seat of the car, parked in ASDA’s. “What would the neighbours think?” I asked myself.
And then he wriggled into new briefs and a t-shirt, his movements quick, efficient and sat there ready to depart as he stuffed the borrowed clothes into the ASDA bag.
“Seriously, Andy. You are going to sit like that as I drive home in just a t-shirt and cotton briefs?”
“Yeah, why not. It won’t hurt anyone, and it won’t take long either, the way you drive,” he responded. “Besides, you might enjoy it.”
He wasn’t wrong about enjoying it. The scent of new cotton was faint in the air as I started the engine, his hand settling lightly on my thigh as I looked at him, relaxed and happy for the first time since I found him, with another erection clearly visible inside his briefs.
“Thank you,” he said, his voice low and steady. His thumb traced a small circle on the denim. “For everything.” The touch was simple, grounding. The engine hummed, carrying us away from the superstore, back towards the quiet sanctuary of my or our home.
“Damn,” I muttered as we turned onto the drive shaded by ancient oaks. “We forgot PJs.” The oversight felt strangely domestic, almost comforting in its normalcy. Andy shifted beside me, a soft chuckle escaping him. “No, we didn’t,” he countered, his gaze meeting mine, warm and resolute. “I’m keeping the nightshirts. Both of them. They feel… safe and soft and liberating.” He paused, fingers brushing the soft grey fabric of his new hoodie sleeve. “And I like them.”
My knuckles whitened on the steering wheel. “I like them on you too,” I admitted, the words thick in my throat. Heat crept up my neck. “They make you look…” The confession felt clumsy, juvenile. “…sexy.”
Silence hung heavy. I instantly regretted it; the word seemed cheap, inadequate against the raw trust between us. “Christ, Andy, that sounded stupid,” as I parked the car, the gravel crunching beneath the tyres.
Andy leaned across the gearstick, his breath warm against my ear. “It didn’t,” he whispered, his voice low and urgent. “Since I’m so sexy, why don’t you take me now. I want you, and I think you want me too,” his fingers brushing my thigh, sending a jolt through me.
“And…” pausing to fumble in the ASDA bag beside him, “I bought a tube of lubricant.”
I looked at the tube of lube and then his ASDA cotton briefs, which already possessed a damp patch in the front, his cock crying out for release.
“I don’t have any condoms,” I challenged him as he opened the car door.
“We don’t need him. I haven’t had sex in a long time. Fred was into domination and BDSM and only ever milked me….a few times a day.”
He was out of the car before I could reply, moving with sudden, decisive energy. He strode towards the garden gate, already pulling the new t-shirt over his head, discarding it in a heap on the gravel. He stood facing the garden gate, bathed in afternoon sun, clad only in simple ASDA cotton briefs. His erection strained the fabric, creating a prominent, unmistakable tent. He glanced at me, eyes dark with invitation, which I knew I couldn’t resist any longer.
The sight undid me. Desire surged, hot and undeniable. I scrambled from the driver’s seat, my movements clumsy with haste. My shirt buttons resisted frantic fingers. My belt buckle clattered as I kicked my shoes off. My jeans proved problematic, shoving them down my legs, but within moments, I stood in front of him on the cool gravel, breathing hard, clad only in my own classic white briefs. My cock pressed painfully against the cotton, mirroring his urgency. The warm air prickled my bare skin, contrasting sharply with the heat pooling low in my belly.
Andy didn’t hesitate. He turned fully, closing the small distance between us. His hands slid up my bare chest, over my shoulders, fingers tangling in my hair as he pulled my face down to his. His kiss was fierce, demanding, tasting faintly of coffee and desperation. One hand slid down my spine, fingers hooking into the waistband of my briefs, pulling me hard against him. Our trapped erections ground together through the thin cotton, a friction that drew a ragged groan from us both. His other hand found the small bottle, pressing it firmly into my palm. “Now,” he breathed against my lips, his voice raw. “Take me now.”
His eyes held mine, wide and trusting, stripping away any last hesitation. The orchard gate stood open behind him, sunlight dappling the grass path beyond as he slipped his briefs down his legs, his erection hard as he stepped out of them.
My fingers fumbled with my own waistband, pushing the white cotton briefs down past my hips. They similarly pooled around my ankles to his as I stepped out of them. The warm air hit my bare skin, but the heat radiating from Andy eclipsed it. My cock sprang free, thick and urgent, pointing towards him like a compass needle finding true north. Thirty years. Thirty years since I’d last touched a man like this, since the scent of male skin and sweat had stirred this deep, primal ache. The memory felt distant, gauzy, compared to the sharp, visceral reality of Andy standing naked before me, waiting.
I stepped forward, the gravel crunching softly underfoot. My hands found his hips, pulling him against me. Skin met skin, hot and electric. His erection pressed hard against my belly, slick with pre-cum. I tilted his chin up, meeting his gaze, that mix of vulnerability and fierce need. Then I kissed him, deep and claiming, pouring thirty years of suppressed longing into it. My fingers traced the dark bruise circling his throat, a stark reminder of fragility, before sliding down the smooth plane of his back, lower still, to cup the firm swell of his buttocks. He gasped into my mouth, arching into the touch.
I picked him up and carried him to the garden table in the middle of the lawn, gently laying him down on the wood. He pulled his legs up and apart, allowing me access to explore his body with one intention and one desire. He wanted to feel me inside him, to make love instead of just having simple sex.
Squeezing the cool lubricant onto my fingers, I traced the cleft between his cheeks. He shuddered, pressing back against my hand. “Easy,” I murmured against his lips, my voice thick. One slick finger circled his tight entrance, feeling the resistance yield. Slowly, carefully, I pressed inside. The heat, the tightness stole my breath. Andy moaned, low and guttural, his fingers digging into my shoulders. “More,” he breathed, pushing back. “Now.”
I withdrew my finger, slicked my straining cock thoroughly, and positioned myself. The broad head pressed against him. He locked his legs around my waist, pulling me closer. “Do it,” he urged, eyes wide and trusting. With a slow, deliberate push, I breached him. The exquisite heat, the tight clench, drew a ragged groan from us both. I sank deeper, inch by inch, until fully sheathed, our bodies fused. He gasped, arching beneath me, taking every bit.
Holding still, buried deep, I watched his face. Wonder replaced tension. “Move,” he whispered. I withdrew slowly, almost to the tip, then thrust back in hard. He cried out, nails scraping my back. Finding a rhythm, deep and deliberate, I watched his cock bounce against his belly, flushed and leaking. Each thrust drew gasps, each withdrawal a whimper. Sweat slicked our skin where we pressed together.
His eyes snapped open, locking onto mine. “Steve… I’m…” His warning cut off as his body seized. Thick pulses of semen erupted between us, hot stripes painting his chest and stomach, the result of my cock brushing against his prostate.
The clenching heat inside him triggered my own release. With a roar, I drove deep one last time, spilling into him in shuddering bursts, collapsing onto him as the world dissolved into heat and trembling aftershocks.
He wrapped his arms around me as we lay tangled on the sun-warmed wood, sticky and spent, breathing ragged against each other’s skin. His fingers traced lazy patterns on my sweat-slicked back, my face buried in the crook of his neck, inhaling the scent of sex, new cotton, and crushed grass. The garden hummed around us, bees droning, leaves whispering. Time stretched, suspended, filled only with the slowing drumbeat of our hearts pressed together.
Eventually, I shifted, pulling out gently. He winced slightly but held my gaze, a soft, sated smile touching his lips. I reached for the cum lying on his chest and stomach, my fingers playing with it, scooping some of it up for me to taste. I also gave him some of his semen, his mouth licking the finger laden with his cum. I then used my hands and gently rubbed the remaining liquid into his skin, in a similar fashion to that of rubbing suntan cream into the skin, as he watched silently, his hand resting lightly on my thigh.
“Fancy more?” I asked softly, wiping a stray smear of semen from his jawline. He nodded, his eyes drifting towards the cottage, its windows glowing gold in the late afternoon sun. The word felt solid, real, anchoring us both. I helped him sit up, the scent of earth and exertion clinging to him as we walked towards the house, naked and barefoot on the cool grass, shoulders brushing, the unspoken promise of “later” humming softly between us. “Later” would have to wait, I decided. I now fancied an afternoon of pure and unadulterated lovemaking with Andy, and I was going to show him what a boyfriend should be like.
Inside, the quiet house embraced us. Sunlight streamed through the kitchen window, dust motes dancing in the golden beams. Without hesitation, I pressed him against the cool plaster wall beside the fridge, my mouth finding his neck, tasting salt and sunlight.
He gasped, tilting his head back, baring the bruised column of his throat as my hands slid down his flanks. “Bedroom?” he breathed, but I shook my head, dropping to my knees right there on the stone floor of the kitchen.
His fingers tangled in my hair as I took him into my mouth, his cock already thickening again against my tongue. I worked him slowly, deliberately, savouring the weight, the heat, the soft groans escaping him, until he shuddered, spilling thickly down my throat with a choked cry. “Lovely,” I murmured, rising, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, meeting his dazed, grateful eyes.
The kitchen became a distant memory as I took Andy upstairs to the bedroom, and in short order, we became tangled in the cool sheets of my bed.
The afternoon stretched languidly. I explored him anew, my hands relearning the map of his slender body, the dip of his waist, the curve of his shoulder, the softness of his inner thigh. When I entered him again, it was slower, deeper, a claiming tempered by tenderness. He arched beneath me, meeting each thrust, his gaze locked on mine, whispering my name like a prayer.
The second time I brought him to climax was with my hand wrapped firmly around him, stroking in time with my thrusts, watching his face contort in ecstasy as he came untouched onto his stomach.
As dusk painted the room in soft blues and greys, I knelt between his legs once more. He lay sprawled, utterly surrendered, watching me with heavy-lidded eyes. This time, I took my time, a slow, torturous worship with lips and tongue, drawing out every gasp, every tremor, building him with agonising slowness until he bucked, crying out, fingers clawing at the sheets. “Beautiful,” I whispered against his softening flesh, tasting his release mixed with my own sweat.
He pulled me up, his arms wrapping around me with surprising strength, burying his face in my chest. In the quiet intimacy, skin against skin, breath mingling, the realisation bloomed, undeniable and terrifyingly bright: this wasn’t just lust, or pity, or protection. It was love, fierce and unexpected, taking root deep within my chest for this young man who had crashed into my solitude and shattered it wide open.
I saved the best moment till last. Rising from the tangled sheets, I padded to the bathroom and filled the tub with steaming water, adding a generous splash of Sarah’s lavender bath oil, the scent of comfort, of home. Returning, I found Andy curled on his side, already drifting, exhaustion etched into every line of his slender frame. Gently, I scooped him up, cradling him against my chest, his head nestled under my chin. He murmured something incoherent, his breath warm on my skin as I carried him into the steam-filled room. His complete trust, the way his body melted against mine, felt like holding something infinitely precious and fragile.
Lowering him into the fragrant water, I knelt beside the tub. He sighed, sinking deeper, eyes fluttering closed. With a soft flannel, I began to wash him, starting with the hollow of his throat where the bruise bloomed darkest. My touch was deliberate, reverent, tracing the planes of his chest, the dip of his belly, the lean muscle of his arms. I washed away the sweat, the stickiness of our lovemaking, the lingering traces of Fred’s cruelty. Each stroke was a silent promise, a cleansing not just of skin, but of the past. He watched me through half-closed eyes, a profound stillness settling over him, broken only by the soft splash of water as I lifted his arm to wash his armpit.
My fingers moved lower, carefully washing between his legs, over his spent cock and heavy balls, the flannel warm and soothing. He made a small, contented sound in his throat. Finally, I cupped water in my hands and poured it gently over his hair, massaging his scalp. He leaned his head back against the porcelain rim, utterly pliant, utterly trusting. In that quiet ritual, bathing him like the child who needed care and the lover who held my heart, the boundaries dissolved. As I rinsed the soap from his skin, watching the water run clear, I knew there was no going back. This broken, beautiful young man was mine to cherish, and I was irrevocably his.
He stood up in the bathwater, rivulets streaming down his pale, clean skin. I wrapped him immediately in a thick, soft towel, enfolding him completely. Gently, methodically, I dried every inch. The curve of his shoulders, the dip of his spine, the lean lines of his thighs, the damp curls at his groin. As I patted the towel over his belly, his cock stirred noticeably beneath the towel, thickening and lifting against the soft fabric. I didn’t linger; I just finished drying his calves and feet and then, taking the burgundy nightshirt from its hook, I slipped it over his head. The soft cotton fell past his hips, but the unmistakable tent of his renewed erection pushed insistently against the fabric right in the middle.
“What do you fancy doing now?” I asked softly, my hands resting lightly on his shoulders, feeling the warmth radiating through the nightshirt. His gaze drifted towards the dimly lit bedroom visible through the open door, then back to me, heavy-lidded and soft. He leaned forward, resting his forehead against my chest with a sigh that spoke volumes. “Sleep,” he murmured, the word muffled against my shirt. “Just… sleep. With you,” as his hand found mine, fingers intertwining loosely, anchoring himself.
I guided him to the bed, pulling down the cool sheets. He climbed in, the nightshirt riding up slightly as he settled onto his side, facing me. His erection was still a clear outline beneath the thin cotton.
I slid in beside him, pulling the covers over us both. He immediately burrowed closer, his head finding its place on my shoulder, one leg hooking over mine. Within moments, his breathing deepened and evened out, the tension finally leaving his body completely. I lay awake in the lavender-scented darkness, listening to his soft breaths, feeling the solid warmth of him pressed against me, his trust a profound weight and a deeper comfort than I’d ever known. My hand rested lightly on his hip, over the soft cotton, feeling the quiet pulse of life beneath.
Hunger eventually nudged me awake. Carefully, I disentangled myself, leaving Andy fast asleep, curled into the space I’d vacated. The nightshirt he was wearing had ridden up above his buttocks. Whilst I enjoyed the view, I pulled it gently back down over his bottom, followed by the sheet and blanket. The room was dim, bathed in the soft grey light of early evening as I stepped out onto the landing.
Downstairs, the quiet house felt hushed, holding its breath. I stood under a hot shower, the water sluicing away the lingering traces of the day’s sweat and sex, the steam clearing my head. The scent of Sarah’s lavender soap mingled with the memory of Andy’s skin.
I remained naked entering the kitchen, where I chopped onions, carrots, and celery, the rhythmic thud of the knife grounding. I browned leftover chicken, added stock, herbs, and let it simmer.
Once ready, I carried the steaming bowl outside to sit at the garden table where we’d lain hours before. The soup was simple, nourishing. I ate slowly, watching the light fade from gold to deep blue, the scent of roses and damp earth rising. Bees had retreated; silence settled, profound and peaceful.
Finishing the soup, I leaned back in the wooden chair. The image of Andy asleep upstairs, safe and trusting, filled my mind, as I imagined the curve of his jaw, his dark lashes against pale skin, the vulnerable line of his bruised throat, the insistent promise beneath the nightshirt.
My hand slid down my body as I closed my eyes. I held my cock as I pictured him waking, drowsy and needy, his hand seeking mine. My touch was slow, deliberate as I masturbated, building the tension just as I imagined building his pleasure later. I played with the slit that was leaking precum. I enjoyed rolling and squeezing my balls, showing equal attention to my perineum as I continued to massage my shaft.
It didn’t take long until my release washed over me, warm and quiet, a low groan escaping into the twilight air as my cum spurted from the head of my cock, landing on my stomach and pubic hair. There wasn’t much, but enough, after all my efforts during the day and as I came down from my high, I knew it was time to retire for the night and join my young man in dreams and comfort.
I was vaguely aware it was morning when Andy greeted me. “Good morning, Steve, and what’s this I’ve found?” Andy asked, giggling to himself as he burrowed his head under my nightshirt.
I rolled over a bit. I replied, “I think you know what you have found,” I told him.
“I sure do,” Andy declared as his mouth enveloped my morning wood.
The sudden heat drew a sharp gasp from me. His lips slid down my shaft with practised ease, tongue swirling expertly around the sensitive head before sinking deeper. Morning light filtered through the curtains, catching the curve of his spine as he knelt between my legs, utterly focused. The rhythmic suction, the wet pressure, the faint scrape of teeth, each sensation pulled me fully awake, chasing away the last remnants of sleep. My fingers tangled gently in the cotton material that covered his head, his own soft moans vibrating against my skin.
He pulled back momentarily, his head remaining hidden. “Good morning, my hero,” he murmured, a playful challenge in his eyes before diving down again. This time, he took me deeper, throat relaxing to accommodate my length, his nose pressing against my belly. The sight of his bobbing head under my nightshirt was erotic to say the least, the obscene wet sounds sent heat surging straight to my groin. My hips lifted involuntarily, seeking more of that exquisite friction.
The pressure built swiftly, a coil tightening low in my abdomen. “Andy, I’m close,” I managed, voice rough. He hummed in acknowledgement, the vibration shooting sparks up my spine. His pace intensified, one hand cupping my balls while the other braced against my thigh. When the release hit, it tore through me, a deep, shuddering pulse that had me arching off the mattress. He swallowed diligently, throat working around each spurt, before finally pulling off with a soft, wet pop.
He pushed the nightshirt up my body and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, a satisfied smile playing on his lips. “Breakfast?” he asked, eyes bright and teasing. Before I could answer, he leaned in, kissing me deeply. I tasted myself on his tongue, salty, musky and mixed with the warmth of sleep and the promise of the day ahead.
“I think you’ve just had breakfast,” I chuckled as he lay on top of me now, my hands pulling his nightshirt above his bottom, allowing me access to play with his buttocks, which I squeezed and rubbed with delight.
“That was just a starter,” he responded, giggling loudly as he sat on his haunches, pulling his nightshirt off, his body still as beautiful as the previous day, his cock ready to play like a rampant teenager. “Can we spend today like yesterday afternoon?”
“Geeze, I’m not sure I will survive a whole day of lovemaking,” I replied, “But, I’ll tell you what, let’s have breakfast on the patio and see what happens.”
Andy jumped off the bed, yanking the sheets with him in one swift motion. “Come on, lazy bones!” he called, already darting towards the stairs, his bare feet slapping against the wooden steps. “I want you in the garden in two minutes flat!” His laughter echoed up the stairwell, bright and demanding. I scrambled after him, the cool morning air hitting my skin as I hit the landing, catching a glimpse of his pale form disappearing through the kitchen door into the sunlight.
He stood waiting by the garden table, utterly naked and gloriously unselfconscious, the dew-kissed grass cool beneath his feet. Sunlight caught the curve of his shoulder, the lean line of his thigh, the dark bruise stark against his throat. He held out a single, perfect red apple. “Breakfast?” he offered, a mischievous glint in his eye as he took a loud, crisp bite, juice gleaming on his lips. The sight of him, vital and demanding in the morning light, banished any lingering fatigue.
I crossed the lawn, drawn to him like a magnet. My hands settled on his hips, pulling him close. The scent of crushed grass and his own clean skin filled my senses. “Two minutes was generous,” I murmured against his temple, feeling the warmth radiating from him. His skin was cool from the morning air, but beneath it pulsed a vibrant heat. He leaned back into me, offering another bite of the apple, his body a silent, potent invitation against mine.
The garden held its breath, waiting for my next move, which didn’t take long to manifest.
I pushed him onto the grass, the dew-cooled blades yielding beneath his back. His surprised gasp dissolved into a soft moan as my mouth found his waiting cock, already thick and eager against his belly. The taste of him flooded my senses – clean skin, salt, and the faint musk of sleep. I took him deep, throat opening, tongue pressing firmly along the sensitive underside as my lips sealed tight. His hips lifted instinctively, seeking more of the wet heat, fingers tangling in my hair, not guiding, just holding on. I worked him slowly at first, savouring the weight, the pulse beneath my tongue, the ragged hitch in his breath above me. Then, building deliberately, sucking hard on each upward pull, swirling the head before plunging again, drawing out the pleasure until his thighs trembled and his moans grew desperate.
He arched off the grass, a strangled cry tearing from his bruised throat as release surged through him. Hot pulses flooded my mouth, thick and urgent. I swallowed, feeling the rhythmic clench of his body beneath my hands gripping his hips, tasting the sharp, primal essence of him until he went utterly limp, gasping, spent against the damp earth. Sunlight warmed my back as I finally lifted my head, meeting his dazed, blissful gaze. A single bead of semen escaped the corner of my mouth; I caught it with my thumb, held his stare, and slowly licked it clean.
Silence settled, thick with the scent of crushed grass and sex. Bees resumed their drone. Andy lay sprawled, utterly surrendered, a faint smile playing on his swollen lips. His eyes drifted closed, lashes dark against flushed cheeks. The bruise on his throat seemed less stark now, softened by the golden light and the profound peace etched on his face. He looked young, unburdened, finally safe. My hand found his, fingers intertwining loosely on the cool grass. The connection was simple and grounding.
The orchard gate stood open, the path beyond inviting. Later, we would walk it. Later. For now, this sun-drenched stillness was everything, and I lay beside him, my fingers playing with his nipple, thinking, breakfast can indeed wait.
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