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I was sitting in the Eagle, enjoying a well-earned pint, having just submitted my recent assignment as part of my PhD, when my professor, Professor William Nevis, walked in and saw me sitting in the snug to his left.

He smiled warmly and gestured towards the seat opposite me as if asking permission to sit down. I nodded enthusiastically as he walked over and sat down. He was wearing a tweed jacket with leather patches on the elbows and a blue shirt underneath. His grey hair was neatly combed, and he had a pair of reading glasses perched on his nose. He looked exactly like what you’d expect a Cambridge Don to look like.

He ordered a pint of bitter and then turned to me. “So, Mr Wilson,” he said, “I was hoping to bump into you to discuss how you found the assignment?” His voice was calm and measured, with just a hint of a Scottish accent that had softened over decades in England.

“Please, Professor, call me Steve when we are not in college. It all sounds too formal calling me, Mr Wilson”.

“Very well, Steve, he responded, smiling, as he immediately relaxed.

There was no pretension about him, just genuine academic curiosity as we talked about my research methodology for the recent assignment. We spoke for at least a good ten minutes before the conversation drifted to more personal matters. He asked about my background, my reasons for pursuing this PhD, and even my thoughts on the pub’s notoriously uneven wooden tables.

When he inquired about my living situation, I hesitated. “To be honest,” I confessed, tracing a finger through the condensation on my glass, “money’s been tighter than I expected. Between lab fees and college accommodation costs…” I trailed off, embarrassed. “I’ve been stacking shelves at Sainsbury’s three nights a week just to cover rent.” The admission felt like a failure. Here I was, studying at one of the world’s great universities, yet worrying whether I could afford heating this winter.

“I do understand the challenges you face, Steve. I just wish I could come up with a practical solution to your problem.” Professor Nevis declared. “By the way,” Steve, here’s a random question you might be able to answer. Can you tell what type of underwear guys are wearing from just looking at them when they come in?”

I paused mid-sip, lowering his pint glass slowly. The question seemed utterly out of character for the reserved academic. “Professor?”

“Call it an observational question, if you prefer,” he suggested.

“Yep, that’s pretty random, I have to say. I guess, yes, it is often possible to tell if someone is wearing boxers or briefs based on the outline of their trousers, but it can depend on several factors.”

“Such as?” Professor Nevis prompted.

“Well, the fit of the trousers. Tighter-fitting ones, such as skinny jeans, may reveal more detail about the type of underwear being worn compared to looser trousers or shorts. Then, you have to consider the material, its thickness and material and how much detail is visible. Thinner fabrics may show more outline than thicker materials.

“Oh, I guess so,” Professor Nevis responded. “And what else?”

“Well,” pausing to take a sip of my real ale. “The design of underwear. Briefs tend to have a more defined, compact shape, while boxers are looser and can create a different outline. This can sometimes be noticeable, especially in fitted clothing, and then of course, the person’s movement can also influence how much of the underwear outline is visible. Certain movements may accentuate the shape of the underwear, like when they bend over.

“Oh,” he declared again.

“The key consideration is, while it can be possible to make an educated guess, it is not always definitive. For example, age and physical attributes play an important part in the decision-making process for men.”

“You really have pondered this question, haven’t you?” he asked.

I shrugged, swirling the dregs of real ale in my glass. “You asked. Besides, it’s observational science. Like noticing someone’s wearing mismatched socks when they cross their legs. Or spotting a nervous tic when they order,” gesturing subtly towards a man near the bar, adjusting his waistband with a quick, self-conscious tug. “See that? Classic sign of boxer shorts riding up. Briefs don’t bunch like that.”

“What about that guy over there in the corner. What do you think?” he demanded.

I followed his gaze to a man hunched over a crossword puzzle, his corduroy trousers baggy around the thighs but pulled taut across the seat as he leaned forward. “Tricky,” I murmured. “The fabric’s thick, but look how the waistband digs in when he shifts. That’s a brief line, no extra fabric to smooth it out. Boxers would create a softer ridge,” as the man scratched his jaw, oblivious to our dissection of his sartorial secrets. “Why do you ask, anyway. It’s not like you to ask such silly questions?”

Professor Nevis chuckled softly, a dry rasp escaping his lips. “Not silly at all. Observational deduction, as you said. It’s rather… pertinent,” as he leaned forward conspiratorially, lowering his voice. “I needed to hear how you approached an unexpected question requiring visual analysis. See, I have a proposition, and it doesn’t involve shelf-stacking.” His eyes held a sudden, sharp intensity. “You are my best student, and I don’t want to see you struggling, and I might have an answer to your problem. It might shock you, but I want to be honest with you, Steve. Can I be honest with you?”

I set my glass down carefully, the pub chatter fading into background noise. “Always, Professor,” I my intrigue growing with each second I listened to him.

Professor Nevis steepled his fingers, his gaze unwavering. “What I’m about to propose falls outside conventional academia. It involves… private, paid work for me.” He paused, letting the words hang between us.

“I’m taking a leap of faith here, Steve, because I want to share with you some secrets that very few people know,” he began, his voice dropping to a near whisper, “I have certain kinks whereby I have developed… a specific appreciation for….I find myself drawn to men who wear classic white cotton underwear. The plain, functional kind. There’s an… aesthetic purity to them which excites me.”

He cleared his throat and continued as a faint flush crept up his neck. “I know you wear them, Steve. That Tuesday seminar when you bent to retrieve your dropped pen? Your shirt rode up just enough for me to spy the white ribbed cotton waistband of your briefs.”

He met my stunned silence head-on as he resumed talking. “The truth is, I’ve been rather infatuated with you since that day, and I immediately identified your briefs as being Amazon Essentials, and all I wanted was to request you hand them over so I could inspect and smell them.”

I sat there quite shocked until I managed to respond. “Gosh, I hadn’t expected that confession, Professor. That was most unexpected, but thank you for the compliment. But let me get this right, you inspect and smell men’s underwear?

“When I have the chance, yes, but for obvious reasons, my fetish remains a closely guarded secret,” Nevis responded, “Until just now that is. Now, only two people know my unusual kink, you and I.”

I remained shocked but captivated by what I had just heard. “Don’t forget your victims. They know,” I declared whilst attempting to manage the confession from my Cambridge Don. “Do you want to confess anything more whilst you’re about it? Perhaps something more personal since you appear to trust me with your revelations.”

The pub’s warmth suddenly felt stifling. Professor Nevis’s confession hung between us like smoke from a fire, thick, disorienting, impossible to brush away. My pint glass slipped slightly in my damp palm as I processed the startling intimacy of his remark. That Tuesday seminar flashed through my mind, the dropped pen, the awkward scramble, the brief exposure of the waistband. He had catalogued it. Remembered it and, from his admission, desired it.

He leaned closer, the scent of old paper and bitter ale sharpening. “You want something more personal?”

His voice was barely audible above the pub’s din. “Very well. It’s not merely the underwear, Steve. It’s the… contradiction. The crisp, almost clinical practicality of white cotton against skin. Against your skin, specifically and since that incident, I have felt conflicted, terribly conflicted, fantasising about the briefs you might be wearing and in what condition they are, when you throw them in the laundry basket.”

His gaze dropped briefly to my waistline before snapping back up. “It speaks of something hidden, yet defiantly functional. Unadorned. Honest and for me, unknown. I have even wondered if you wash your whites separately.”

“Well, that’s quite a confession, Professor,” I acknowledged. “And in answer to your question, yes, I do wash my whites separately. It’s the only way to keep them white, as I’m now sure you appreciate.”

He paused, his knuckles tightening again. “I do appreciate washing whites separately, and looking back, I find myself remembering when I used to spank young men like you when they started failing their degrees. In those days, they all used to wear classic underwear, and it used to provide my boring academic life with some excitement as I got to inspect their underwear as I handed them back to the unfortunate student who had been spanked.”

I sat bemused, looking at his face, trying to gauge if he was trying to wind me up for some unknown reason. “That was also unexpected, Professor, you spanking young men when they were failing. What do you do now? Get frustrated, I assume.”

He gave a wry smile, tapping a finger against his glass. “The university and society frown on corporal punishment these days, and unfortunately, frustration grows. Constant frustration. It’s been a long time since I saw a student’s briefs, and I miss inspecting them for care and cleanliness. Some would be clean, but some young men would….well, let’s just say, disrespectful of the underwear they wear.”

His gaze drifted to my hands resting on the table. “You have strong, capable hands, and I suspect you are used to hard work. On the other hand, you are academically brilliant, and while I need help around the house, I can see your academic future responding to my additional  involvement.”

“I sort of get that, Professor, but what’s your proposal to help me?”

Professor Nevis leaned back, the leather patches on his elbows creaking softly. “You are probably going to call me a pervert and weirdo as the younger generation does these days to anyone that might have a kink or two.”

“I’m not sure I would use those words, Professor, but I must confess, I’m intrigued because we have never had a chat like this before. What exactly are you proposing?”

Professor Nevis traced a circle in the condensation on his untouched pint. “The practical solution,” he began, his voice regaining its academic cadence despite the flush still high on his cheeks.

“My house on Grange Road has rather extensive gardens. They’ve become… unruly since Mr Higgins retired. And the interior cleaning requires more attention than I can manage.” He met my eyes squarely. “I want to employ you as my live-in gardener and cleaner. Rent-free, with all your food included. I’ll pay minimum wage for twenty hours of weekly labour on top, which will mean you still retain freedom to meet your friends and enjoy university life for two more years of research.”

My breath caught as I thought about what he had just said and offered. Grange Road? The expensive part of Cambridge. Just around the corner from college. Rent-free alone solved everything. “That sounds…” I hesitated, the professor’s earlier confession echoing in my ears. “…great, Professor. But I suspect there’s a catch.”

Professor Nevis didn’t flinch. He simply nodded, a strange mix of scholarly detachment and raw hunger flickering in his eyes. “Indeed. There is a catch. The arrangement requires… specific attire, or shall we say, a uniform for when you are in the house.”

He leaned forward again, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that prickled the hairs on my neck. “When you are in the house, regardless of activities being performed, I expect you to wear only white cotton briefs with a matching vest tucked into your briefs. I even have a collection of brands that I’m sure you will appreciate.”

“Nothing else, Professor? Just briefs and a vest.”

“I know, it sounds weird and pervy, but, yes, nothing else. I want to enjoy watching you and sharing in my… interest,” Nevis responded.

“What happens when it gets cold?” I asked him, my imagination running riot.

“You will find my house beautifully warm during winter, especially the open hearth fire in the lounge and study,” Nevis stated in the hope of reassuring me. “If you get really cold, you can wear a hoodie if that makes you feel better.

I assumed he was worried he was losing the sale, for want of a phrase, because he continued.

“This isn’t merely about voyeurism and exhibitionism, Steve. It’s about discipline and structure and making an old man happy and able to enjoy his fetish or kink, if that’s a better word to describe my desires. The crisp lines of cotton against skin mirror the precision I demand in academic work. Your struggle with finances stems from distraction; stacking shelves drains focus from your thesis. Under my roof, your mind would sharpen. Your body… disciplined.”

“Anything else, Professor? This is quite a confession and offer. I’m intrigued.”

Nevis traced the rim of his glass. “When not working around the house or garden, you will work on your brilliant thesis. I say brilliant, but it needs work and constant reviews with me because it could be the difference between being published or not.”

His gaze sharpened. “And the second condition in the proposed arrangement is, if I suspect you are lacking the focus I know you have, I will spank you if you agree to being punished.”

The word spank landed like a physical blow, permitting academic detachment to evaporate, replaced by visceral imagery of bare skin, stinging palm, the crack echoing in a book-lined room.

Heat flooded my face, spreading down my neck and pooling low in my stomach. My usual white cotton briefs suddenly felt unbearably tight, constricting against a surge of unexpected, unwelcome arousal. Professor Nevis had no idea about my own buried desires, the secret thrill I got from being controlled, from submission. These were fantasies I’d never voiced to anyone.

His proposition wasn’t just solving my rent crisis; it was unlocking a door I’d kept firmly bolted. The thought of standing or kneeling before him in just my briefs, explaining my research while he watched, the threat of discipline hanging thick in the air… it turned me on something rotten as a tremor ran through my hands beneath the table.

“What about sex, Professor? I am wondering if you plan to fuck me regularly.

Nevis got quite embarrassed at my question, coughing loudly. “My dear boy, I…. I hadn’t even thought about that, but worry not, Steve, I am asexual and always have been. I have no sexual interest in you. I just desire your sharing in my voyeurism and exhibitionism.”

I sat there pondering his offer, realising the risk he had taken in confessing his desires. But Grange Road? Rent-free? Food covered? It was daylight robbery, in my favour. Still, doubt slithered in. What if he got bored? What if I screwed up? Or worse, what if he decided I wasn’t… stimulating enough? I’d be homeless overnight. Worse than stacking shelves. I pictured my textbooks dumped on the kerb, my guitar case leaning against them. Humiliation tasted sour on my tongue.

“Professor Nevis, that’s not an offer guys like me get every day?”

The words came out hoarse, strained as I gripped the edge of the sticky pub table. My skin prickled, hot and cold at once. “What happens if the Dean or Master comes to visit. You are, after all, the Vice-Master of the college?”

Professor Nevis waved a dismissive hand. “They call ahead. You’ll have ample time to dress or scarper.” His gaze dropped pointedly to my lap.

“What happens if I get aroused, which I will almost certainly do?”

Professor Nevis thought about the question before responding.

“Extra enjoyment for me, seeing you hard beneath your briefs and the effects on the underwear, the lines and contours as a direct result of an erection can be really interesting. Any erection also leaves a deposit which I also get to inspect and note in my journal, and if you feel the need for release, all I ask is that you remain transparent and provide evidence for me to appreciate.”

“Like, cumming in my briefs, Professor?”

“Exactly, my boy.” Professor Nevis confirmed.

I took a slow breath, the pub’s chatter fading into a distant hum. My palms were slick against the cool glass. “Professor,” I began, my voice lower than I intended, roughened by nerves and something darker, hotter. “Thank you for being honest with me and explaining everything. I accept your offer, and…”

I met his gaze directly, letting him see the flicker of surrender there. “And… there’s something I need to confess.” The words tasted thick, dangerous. “I’m submissive. Deeply.”

I swallowed hard, the admission scraping my throat raw. “The discipline… the control you spoke of? It’s not just tolerable for me. It’s… a desire, even craved. I need structure enforced, rigorously, but it’s been eluding me since I started my postgraduate course with you…. until now.”

“And… the last time someone showed so much interest in my underwear was the RE Master at school, but that’s another story for the winter nights gather in front of the roaring fire.”

Professor Nevis froze. Not a muscle moved except his eyes, which widened fractionally, the detached academic facade cracking like thin ice. A slow, deep inhale filled his chest. When he exhaled, it carried the faintest tremor. Relief washed over his features, profound and startling. “Steve,” he murmured, his Scottish burr thickening, roughening. “That… simplifies matters considerably.” He leaned forward, elbows digging into the worn wood.

His gaze, sharp and assessing, swept over me, not just my face now, but my posture, my hands still clenched on the table. “Your honesty,” he stated, his voice regaining its measured calm, though laced with a new, predatory warmth, “is precisely the foundation this arrangement requires. Rigor. Structure. Absolute compliance. These will be your pillars.” He paused, letting the weight of those words settle. “And mine will be ensuring you adhere to them. Meticulously.”

He leaned back slightly, the tension in his shoulders easing. “Do we have an accord, Steve?”

“I think so, Professor, I definitely think so.”

He glanced towards the pub door, then back at me, a decisive energy replacing the earlier intensity. “No sense in delay. We can collect your things today, if you wish. I can help you move.”

He gestured dismissively towards the rain-streaked window. “That damp shoebox you call accommodation, leave it behind. Grange Road awaits when you decide the time is right.”

“I have paid rent to the end of the month,” I declared, not that I thought it an obstacle to accepting the arrangement earlier.

“A minor obstacle, Steve,” he suggested as we finished our beers in near silence, the clink of glasses and murmur of other patrons suddenly distant. My pulse hammered against my ribs.

Moving in felt abrupt, unreal. “I guess it’s a small issue, and I guess, today is as good as any other day. I accept. Let’s do this before we change our minds.”

Professor Nevis was genuinely delighted as he settled the tab with a crisp note, his movements efficient, already shifting into the role of provider. “The only person who might change their mind is you, so if you are certain, let’s make this arrangement happen.”

I smiled at him as we walked outside. The Cambridge drizzle had intensified, slicking the cobblestones as he jumped into his car with a focus I hadn’t seen in him before. With no last-minute nerves, I joined him in the car and we departed on our shared journey into the unknown.

Within two hours, my entire existence was loaded into the boot of Nevis’s sensible but old car, and after another ten minutes, I stood on his driveway, ready to embrace my new student life.

Professor Nevis’s home was a large detached Victorian villa, imposing but elegant, nestled behind a high hedge. Inside, the air smelled of beeswax and old paper, thick carpets muffling our footsteps. He led me upstairs, stopping at the end of a long corridor. “This will be yours,” he stated, opening a door to a spacious room flooded with soft grey light from a bay window overlooking a tangled, rain-slicked garden.

It was easily triple the size of my old room: a proper bed with crisp white linen, a sturdy desk beneath bookshelves, and an armchair by the cold fireplace. “The en-suite is through there,” he added, nodding towards another door. “Get settled in as much as you can. I’ll be downstairs in my study if you need me.”

Alone, I dumped my duffel bag onto the bed. The silence pressed in, thick and expectant. I unpacked mechanically, jeans folded into a drawer, shirts hung in the wardrobe, and textbooks stacked neatly on the desk. My guitar leaned against the wall, looking strangely out of place amidst the quiet elegance.

As I left my room to join the Professor downstairs, my fingers brushed the familiar ribbed cotton vest under my pullover, and I instantly remembered, the uniform requirements as he’d called it and so, I returned to my room and undressed to my briefs and vest, making sure I tucked the vest into my cotton briefs as he had asked me to do.

I stood in front of the mirror admiring my looks and my new uniform. My Amazon Essentials looked good on me, I decided. Then I remembered to check them, and I slipped them down so I could look. With an element of relief, I verified there were no skid marks or other unwanted stains. The only exception was the odd pubic hair that had become detached from the bush that I had grown untrimmed for years, and so I restored my personal comforts and decided I was ready to present myself for inspection and direction in my new life.

I walked downstairs, the house warm, as promised, and within a short time, I stood by the study door. Checking again that I looked presentable, I knocked and entered to find Professor Nevis behind his desk, reading a research paper.

He looked up, his gaze instantly sharpening as it swept over me. The detached academic vanished, replaced by an intensity that pinned me to the spot. His eyes lingered on the stark white cotton vest tucked neatly into the waistband of my briefs, the clean lines stark against my skin.

A slow, appreciative smile touched his lips. “Perfect,” he murmured, the word thick with approval. “You look perfect, but please, come closer, let me have a look at you.”

I moved closer until I was within arm’s length.

“Your uniform really suits you, Steve. Functional and honest,” as he leaned back in his leather chair, steepling his fingers. “Turn around so I can see your back, please,” he instructed, his hand sliding across my buttocks. “It clarifies things immediately, doesn’t it? Sets the necessary boundaries in our arrangement.”

He then turned me around to face him, his fingers sliding under the fabric on my thighs and then pulling the waistband up a little to stretch the material. The elastic snapped back against my skin with a soft thwack, making me flinch.

His knuckles brushed against my hip bone as he adjusted the fit, smoothing the cotton taut over my lower abdomen. “Amazon Essentials,” he murmured approvingly, tracing the waistband’s ribbing. “Solid construction. No nonsense.” His touch lingered, clinical yet possessive, mapping the precise boundaries where fabric met flesh.

His touch moved lower, tracing the taut line of my abdomen. Slow, deliberate strokes that followed the dip of muscle towards my hips. Then his fingers paused, hovering just above the straining fabric of my briefs. My erection was undeniable now, a rigid outline pressing against the white cotton.

Nevis was in heaven as he made a soft, satisfied sound in his throat. “Wonderfully responsive, Steve”, he murmured, his voice thick with approval. His fingers brushed the heated bulge, the contact electric. “At twenty-six, your body reacts with admirable… immediacy,” as his hand settled fully over me, palm cupping the hard length through the cotton.

The pressure was firm, possessive. His thumb rubbed slowly along the shaft’s outline, tracing its swollen shape. “Good,” he breathed, his own gaze locked on the visible proof of my arousal trapped beneath his hand. “Very good, and I can already smell that suitable leakage is emanating from your body.”

“Thank you, Professor,” was all I said as I took in the dynamics of our new relationship.

“So, Steve. Over there on the round table, you will see a large delivery bag, which I mentioned in the pub earlier. Go and open it and tell me what you find.”

I walked over to the table and opened the bag, pulling out pairs of cotton briefs with matching vests.

Professor Nevis watched me intently. “Seven brands,” he stated, his voice calm but authoritative. “One for each day. Monday is Jockey. Tuesday, M&S. Wednesday belongs to Hanes. Thursday is Fruit of the Loom, and Friday is supplied by The White Briefs Company. Saturday, Schiesser and Sunday, Chums.”

He paused, letting the schedule sink in. “There are also matching vests by the same brand. Fresh cotton vests maintain the integrity of your uniform, and I will also inspect your underwear at the end of every day or when I instruct you to provide earlier evidence.”

“I assume, Professor, that I should adopt the new regime immediately?”

He rose from his desk, circling me slowly. “I expect you to wear the designated brand correctly each day. Failure to comply,” his voice hardened slightly, “will necessitate focused correction.”

My gaze flicked from the neat stacks of briefs back to his face. “Professor,” I began, my voice tighter than intended, “Focus correction? The intimacy of it prickled my skin, a confusing mix of dread and anticipation tightening my stomach.

“Yes, correction in the form of a spanking using a suitable paddle,” the Professor advised.

“I will, of course, do as scheduled.”

Professor Nevis gestured towards the bag. “Which brings us to Thursday, which is Fruit of the Loom Day. The schedule began when you moved in, which means you are in a technical breach of our agreement requiring a technical-focused correction while you wear your current briefs.”

I blinked, the implications sinking in. “A focused correction? Already? I’ve only been here for half an hour or so and already, you want to spank me for a minor non-conformity.”

“Well, Steve, it is a technical breach of the agreement, and I guess you should understand that any breach or lack of attention to detail should be managed properly. On this occasion, I suggest six strokes of my paddle.”

“If it provides me with focus, Professor, yes,” I replied, feeling excited and aroused that I was going to be spanked for the first time since starting my academic career in Cambridge.

Professor Nevis moved to an antique cabinet beside his desk. Inside, nestled beside leather-bound ledgers, lay a polished wooden paddle. He lifted it with reverence, testing its weight in his hand. The air thickened, charged with anticipation as he showed it to me.

Just the sight of the paddle excited me more than it should have. My breath hitched, a flush spreading across my chest beneath the thin vest. “Where do you wish me to assume the position, Professor?” My voice sounded rough but confident in anticipation.

“I suggest you bend over my desk, Steve,” Professor Nevis commanded, his voice low and resonant, brooking no hesitation. “I will do the rest,” as he gestured towards the heavy oak surface, its polished expanse clear of papers.

The cool wood pressed against my bare thighs as I leaned down, resting my weight on my forearms. My tucked vest rode up slightly, exposing the small of my back above the waistband of my Amazon Essentials briefs.

The scent of beeswax and old paper filled my nostrils, sharpening my senses as I felt him insert his fingers into the waistband of my briefs, gently pull the waistband down to eventually allow the pair of briefs to slide down my legs to pool at my ankles.

“Step out of them, Steven,” he ordered.

Taking note that I was being called Steven changed the dynamic immediately. I was only called Steven when I was in trouble, and I guess I was in trouble as he lifted my vest towards my shoulders.

Professor Nevis’s breath hitched audibly behind me, a sharp intake that betrayed his own flustered excitement. His fingers trembled slightly as he lifted the polished wooden paddle, its weight suddenly immense in the charged silence of the study. For a man who prized control above all, the prospect of a regular, compliant bottom laid bare before him, mine, seemed to unravel something tightly coiled within him.

He didn’t hesitate long until the paddle whistled through the air, a brief, terrifying sound before it landed. CRACK! The impact exploded across my bare skin with shocking power and force, far sharper and deeper than I’d braced for.

“One,” Professor Nevis announced, his voice strained but regaining its composure. The cool wood of the desk beneath my forearms was the only anchor as the second stroke descended. CRACK! It landed lower, overlapping the first welt, igniting fresh fire. My hips jerked involuntarily, as a choking sound escaped me.

“Two,” he stated, firmer now, as the paddle landed across both buttocks.

The third stroke landed squarely in the centre. CRACK! It drove the breath from my lungs, leaving me trembling, suspended between agony and a perverse, dizzying thrill.

“Three,” Professor Nevis breathed, his voice thick with exertion and something darker, hotter. The paddle lifted again, trembling slightly in his grip. The sight of my bare skin, already flushing a deep, angry red beneath the stark lamplight, seemed to unravel him further.

The fourth stroke cracked down with brutal precision, lower still, biting into the crease where buttock met thigh. A choked cry tore from my throat. Tears pricked my eyes, blurring the grain of the oak desk beneath my clenched fists. The sting was immense, radiating waves of heat that pulsed in time with my hammering heart. Yet, beneath the pain, a treacherous current of arousal surged, undeniable and humiliating.

“Four,” he rasped, the word ragged. He paused, the silence heavy with the sound of our mingled, ragged breathing. His hand settled briefly on the scorched skin, fingers tracing the rising welts. The touch was searing, possessive. “Almost there, Steven. Maintain your position.”

The fifth stroke descended like a hammer blow. CRACK! It landed high, overlapping the already blazing landscape of welts on my bottom. A strangled gasp ripped from my throat. My entire body convulsed against the desk, muscles locking tight. The pain was blinding, white-hot, radiating deep into muscle and bone. Tears streamed freely down my face now, dripping onto the polished wood. Beneath the agony, the humiliating arousal surged higher, a traitorous pulse throbbing insistently against the cool desk edge. One more. Only one more, I reminded myself.

“Five,” Professor Nevis declared, his voice thick and steady.

The sixth stroke fell. CRACK! Lower, biting savagely into the tender crease where buttock met thigh. A raw cry tore loose, echoing in the quiet study. My legs buckled, but I forced myself to stay bent, trembling violently. The pain was immense, an all-consuming fire. Yet, beneath it, a profound, dizzying relief washed over me. It was done. The correction was administered, and I’d taken it without humiliating myself.

For a long moment, only our harsh breathing filled the room. Then, Professor Nevis gently laid the paddle aside on the desk beside my clenched fist. His hands, surprisingly gentle now, smoothed over the ravaged skin. The contrast between the brutal sting and his careful touch was jarring. “Well taken, Steven,” he murmured, his voice rough with spent intensity. “Very well taken.” His fingers lingered, tracing the contours of the fresh welts, a possessiveness in the touch that made my skin prickle anew.

“Your new Fruit of the Loom briefs are on the table. Why don’t you put them on?”

Slowly, painfully, I pushed myself upright. The movement sent fresh waves of agony radiating from my throbbing backside as I stood, but the pain was also providing focus as I walked over to the table. A focus I appreciated and understood.

Professor Nevis’s gaze didn’t linger on the angry red welts he’d painted across my skin or my erection demanding attention. Instead, his sharp eyes dropped lower, locking onto the Amazon Essentials that lay discarded on the floor as I slipped the Thursday underwear on.

He bent down, retrieving them with deliberate care. Holding the crumpled white cotton aloft, he brought it slowly towards his face. For a long, unsettling moment, he simply inhaled, nostrils flaring as he buried his nose deep into the pouch where my body had pressed against the fabric all day. His eyes closed, a flicker of concentration tightening his features. Then, a low hum of approval vibrated in his throat. “Acceptable and no skid marks,” he murmured, the word thick with implication as he held them. It appears you keep yourself clean. An admirable approach if you ask me.”

I watched him as he inspected the briefs, taking in his appreciation of the simple garment that provided him with such pleasure, and I was slightly amused by his comment about skid marks.

Professor Nevis held up my worn Amazon Essentials briefs with meticulous care. “It’s all about the smell and odour of the wearer, Steve,” he murmured, his voice thick with appreciation. “The strong odours on worn briefs come from sweat, body oils, and the bacteria that thrive in the warm, moist groin area, which creates a unique and personal scent that I find highly appealing.”

His finger traced the damp patch on the front where pre-cum had dried earlier. “I can detect your essence here, that sharp, musk.” His gaze dropped lower, looking inside the briefs. “Ah, and see? Some discarded pubic hair is clinging to the fabric. Perfectly natural.” A slow smile spread across his face. “I think we are going to have a truly exceptional relationship,” as he folded them, placing them on his desk.

Forgetting myself for a moment as I watched the Professor, I tucked the vest in meticulously to match my briefs, smoothing the cotton over my hips. Professor Nevis approached silently. His fingers, cool and precise, hooked into the waistband on either side of my hips. He tugged upwards, firmly, aligning the waistband perfectly horizontal, just below my navel. The elastic dug into the sensitive swell of the welts, a sharp reminder. Then, his thumbs pressed flat against the front panel, smoothing the fabric taut over my lower abdomen, ensuring every contour was defined, every seam visible. He adjusted the leg bands next, pulling them snugly into the crease between thigh and groin, maximising the exposure of the thigh while framing the erection beneath the white cotton.

“Much better, Steve. Perfect in fact,” as he looked over me, inspecting his efforts. “You can now start cleaning my study, and then we can go from there.”

As I started to walk out to get the duster and polish from the utility cupboard, the question bubbled up, raw and unguarded. “Professor? You suggested that if I wish to relieve myself, I should be transparent and provide you with evidence” I paused in the doorway, half-turned, the welts throbbing beneath the crisp Fruit of the Loom cotton. “Do you wish to watch me relieve myself, or would you prefer to supervise?”

Professor Nevis paused, his hand resting on my hidden erection, his eyes fixed on the damp patch spreading across the front of my Fruit of the Loom briefs. Suddenly, his expression shifted. A flicker of realisation crossed his face. “I’m so sorry, my dear boy,” he murmured, his voice softening unnervingly. “I get your point and…. depositing leakage and ejaculate inside the cotton fabric is always better, for inspection purposes. I might be asexual, but that doesn’t prevent me from supervising if the need arises,” as he slid his hand fully over the tented fabric, fingers curling possessively around the outline. “Come and sit on my desk while I supervise your needs.”

I felt immediately satisfied that there would be an element of personal touch, and I was about to find out, another level in Professor Nevis’s kink as he guided me backwards, lifting me gently until my throbbing backside pressed against the wood of his desk.

As I sat there, my erection throbbed behind the cotton wall, the fabric provided with the double padding of the groin already feeling damp, as he began to move his hand. Slow, rhythmic strokes up and down through the material. The friction was exquisite torture, the rough weave rasping against oversensitive skin. Pre-cum soaked instantly through, creating a dark, slick patch.

“Professor…” I gasped, hips jerking involuntarily into his touch.

“Shhh,” he breathed, his own breathing quickening. His thumb and finger pressed hard on either side of the crown through the damp fabric. “Let it build. This frustration… this ache… It’s natural to demand release as the pressure becomes intolerable.”

His strokes intensified, relentless, focused solely on the trapped heat beneath the cotton. “Feel it? That pressure? You are beautifully responsive,” he whispered, almost to himself. “Exactly as expected.”

Every deliberate rub sent sparks through my nerves. The Fruit of the Loom fabric scraped against my swollen head, the damp patch spreading wider as cooler air hit the wetness, only intensifying the friction. My hips bucked helplessly against his palm. The throbbing ache in my punished backside faded into a distant echo beneath the overwhelming surge building low in my belly. Professor Nevis watched my face intently, his own expression rapt, analytical, yet burning with a fierce, possessive satisfaction.

“I… I can’t…” The warning gasp tore from me, ragged and desperate.

“Let it happen, Steve,” he commanded, his voice thick, hypnotic. “cum for me.”

The command shattered the last shred of control. A raw cry ripped from my throat as my body convulsed violently against the desk edge. Thick pulses of release surged hotly into the already soaked briefs, trapped against my skin. Wave after wave crashed through me, leaving me shuddering, gasping, my vision blurring at the edges as my semen flooded my briefs.

Professor Nevis maintained his grip, his hand still moving in slow, possessive circles, milking the last tremors from me until I sagged, trembling and spent, against the desk as he squeezed semen through the cotton fabric while the last dribbles cascaded down my shaft to settle in my pubic hair.

His gaze dropped to the front of my briefs, now thoroughly soaked and clinging obscenely. “A significant emission. Excellent volume. Now…” he stated, “Don’t change and please don’t clean yourself. The integrity of your uniform in its current state is paramount for my enjoyment later,” as he gestured towards the door. “Proceed with your duties while I study the…research paper I started to read.”

My semen-soaked briefs remained snugly in place, a damp, sticky prison adhering to my thighs and groin with each movement. Fetching the duster and polish felt surreal, my focus fractured between the throbbing ache in my backside and the peculiar, clinging wetness trapped beneath the white cotton. The scent, musky and intimate, seemed to intensify as I busied myself cleaning his study as the Professor worked, and I started to enjoy my new role and the weird companionship that also provided a new focus through correction, as the Professor called it.

Professor Nevis watched my every motion from his leather armchair, his gaze tracing the damp patch spreading across the Fruit of the Loom fabric as I busied myself around his study. “You’ve done a great job, Steve,” he remarked, his voice low and approving as I finished polishing his mahogany desk to a high shine.

I had finished his study and stood waiting for his attention, unsure what to do next. “Professor?” I asked, “What next?”

Lifting his face from the research paper, he looked at me with a smile. “Enough for today, and you can now change your underwear. It’s been a couple of hours since your release, and I need to inspect them.”

Knowing he wanted to inspect the cum-soaked Fruit of the Loom briefs, I slipped them down in front of him, my erection growing with expectation. The damp fabric peeled away from my skin with a soft, sticky sound, releasing the intimate scent of exertion and release into the study’s quiet air.

I held them out, the white cotton heavy and translucent where my emission had saturated the pouch. Professor Nevis leaned forward, taking the briefs directly to his nose, his nostrils flaring as he inhaled deeply. “Magnificent saturation,” he murmured, taking them gently. His fingers traced the wet outline where my cock had strained against the fabric. “The scent profile is… complex. Musky, with undertones of salt and exertion. Exactly as it should be.”

With another smile, he folded them meticulously, placing the bundle atop my discarded Amazon Essentials briefs like treasured artefacts.

“Professor?” I asked, standing naked from the waist down, the cool study air prickling my skin. My erection refused to subside, bobbing slightly with my pulse. “What happens if I want to have sex in our new arrangement?”

In response, he steepled his fingers, observing me clinically. “I could watch you masturbate, if that will help. Documenting your responsiveness would be… instructive and personally satisfying, but I suspect that might not satisfy those sexual urges and needs. Alternatively, I can arrange for a suitable partner to visit. Someone discreet, hygienic, and aligned with our arrangement. They would service you under my supervision, ensuring your needs are met without compromising our arrangement.”

The options hung in the air, stark and surreal. Masturbating under his analytical gaze felt like another layer of exposure, raw and vulnerable. Yet the thought of a stranger summoned here, performing under Nevis’s watchful eyes… left me uncertain, although my erection pulsed traitorously at both possibilities.

“I don’t know, Professor, what I would like. What would you like?”

The Professor rose, his fingers brushing the paddle’s handle before turning to face me fully. “What I like,” he murmured, stepping closer, “is precision.” His thumb traced the welted ridge where my hip met thigh. “And honesty.” His gaze lifted to mine. “You’re aroused. Undeniable. The solution must be satisfying, efficient, and preserve the integrity of our arrangement, and I wouldn’t mind watching. That’s what I would like.”

Feeling exasperated and in some senses, desperate, I asked, “Can I choose a friend, Professor? Someone I could rely upon to provide both of us with what we both want?”

Professor Nevis considered this, his fingers tapping the paddle handle. “A trusted acquaintance? Acceptable. Provided they understand discretion and adhere strictly to my protocols. Hygiene is paramount, but they must not shower before coitus, and they must support my expectations.”

“Fair enough,” I responded, thinking of Frank at the college. “I will talk to someone I have in mind as a suitable friend for our arrangement.”

“Do so, you have my permission,” he replied as I walked out of his study naked below the waist.

Straight to my room I went, taking all the briefs that had been in the delivery bag and having selected another Thursday pair, I pulled on my jeans and a hoodie over the white cotton briefs and vest, and located my mobile phone.

Finding Frank’s number, I hesitated only a moment before typing, “Hey Frank. Fancy a pint at the Eagle? I need to talk about something personal.” The message felt like dropping a stone into still water as I pressed the SEND button.

Frank’s reply buzzed back almost instantly. “Steve? Blimey, mate. Haven’t heard from you in ages. Everything alright?” A pause, then: “Yeah, alright. Eagle in an hour if that works for you.”

“Yep, that works, Frank. See you in an hour.”

The Eagle was crowded, thick with the smell of stale beer and fried food. Frank was already there, nursing a pint at a corner booth. His easy grin faltered when he saw me. “Christ, Steve,” he muttered, eyes flicking over my stiff posture. “You look like you’ve been run over or something. Sit down.”

I slid into the booth, wincing as the wooden seat pressed against the welts beneath my jeans. Frank pushed a pint towards me. “Spill the beans. What’s up?”

“My arse is hurting at the moment. Professor Nevis gave me a spanking.”

“He what? You fucking serious?”

“Yep, I’m serious, but let me explain before you judge.”

And so I did explain. Haltingly at first, then in a rush. The job, the briefs, the paddling, Nevis’s fixation on scent and order, his asexuality. Frank listened, pint forgotten, his fingers wrapped around his glass. When I mentioned the hand job, the arrangement, Frank’s jaw tightened. “He wanked you through your briefs? And you’re… okay with that?”

“It’s complicated, and they were briefs supplied by him,” I admitted, leaning forward. “Somehow, he knew I was gay, and he trusted me enough to reveal himself and his sexuality to me and, in all the excitement, I realised something, something I should have confessed sooner.”

My voice dropped. “Frank… I’ve fancied you since the second year. When you’d laugh in tutorials, that stupid bloody scarf always slipping off…” I swallowed. “Nevis offered to find someone to satisfy my needs, but then I realised, it’s you I want, and so, I asked for you.”

Frank stared. Utterly still. The pub noise faded, glasses clinking, laughter, the jukebox, all distant static. His gaze drilled into mine, searching for a joke, a lie. Finding neither, he exhaled sharply. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

“Yeah.”

“Sex. With you. While your underwear-fetish professor watches.” He said it flatly, testing the absurdity. “And you… want, this?”

“Yes,” as my face flushed uncontrollably. “I want you. I have always wanted you, but I was never brave enough to act on my feelings. Sexually, I’m shy and not your regular gay man if you get my meaning. The rest… It’s part of the job now, but my feelings for you are mine and not related to the professor or anyone else.”

Frank drained his pint in one long pull. Slammed the glass down. Ran a hand through his messy hair. “Right.” He looked away, then back, eyes dark and unreadable. “This conversation is so random, mate. And your declaration of wanting me is a huge surprise.”

I nodded slowly as he comprehended what I had said. “Okay,” he said as he signalled the barman for two more pints. His hand, when it brushed mine, was trembling. “You’ve actually made my day with your confession. I also confess that I’ve always found you attractive, but I wasn’t sure if you liked men.”

“I thought you might have feelings for me, but I wasn’t sure either. What about now? Do you want to be friends with someone like me?

Frank thought for a moment and then responded. “I hadn’t expected this, I have to say, but I’m also sort of pleased that our feelings are out in the open, even though it’s a weird ASK, you are asking.

“I get that, Frank, but is it too much for you to handle?”

“Too much, mate? Nah. In fact, I sort of like the pervy arrangement, and you get paid, which is more than I do for wanking. Having listened to you, I’m feeling horny as fuck and need a release, and I want to share it with you, as so to speak.”

“You’re on,” I declared as I picked up my pint, demanding we clink our glasses together.

“Cheers mate,” Frank said.

“Cheers, Frank and thank you for listening to me. It means a lot, and considering our confessions, our union is long overdue.”

We finished our beers in a charged silence, the air thick with unspoken questions and the weight of what we’d agreed to. Frank’s gaze kept flicking to my face, searching, then darting away. When the glasses were empty, he stood abruptly. “Right then. Let’s see this professor of yours.” His voice was steady, but his nerves were heightened when he gripped the edge of the booth.

The walk back to Professor Nevis’s imposing Victorian house felt surreal under the streetlights. Frank kept pace beside me, his shoulder occasionally brushing mine. “So,” he muttered, eyes fixed ahead, “he just… watches? Doesn’t touch?”

I nodded, the Fruit of the Loom cotton rasping against the welts with every step. “And you’re… You’re really okay with that?” Frank’s question held genuine concern beneath the disbelief.

“It’s not about being okay,” I admitted, my voice low. “It’s… necessary. For the arrangement.”

Frank’s sharp intake of breath beside me was loud in the quiet street. “But with me… It feels right?”

I didn’t reply, but his hand brushed mine briefly, as a fleeting anchor in an insane situation of my making.

We reached the heavy oak front door. Before I could lift the brass knocker, it swung inward. Professor Nevis stood framed in the doorway, bathed in the warm hall light. His sharp gaze swept over Frank, assessing him with clinical precision, the messy dark hair, the sturdy build beneath his worn leather jacket, the faint scent of beer and chips clinging to him. “Mr Davis,” the professor stated, not a question. He stepped aside, gesturing us in with a curt nod. “Come through to the study and please remove your shoes.”

Frank hesitated only a second before toeing off his trainers. He followed me down the dimly lit hallway, his socked feet silent on the polished wood. The study door stood ajar. Inside, the mahogany desk gleamed under the desk lamp, the paddle resting prominently on its surface beside a neatly stacked pile of folded white cotton briefs. Nevis moved behind the desk, settling into his high-backed leather chair with an air of absolute authority. Frank and I stood before him, side by side, like supplicants awaiting judgment. The air felt thick with anticipation.

Professor Nevis steepled his fingers, his gaze shifting between us. “Mr Davis,” he began, his voice low and precise, cutting through the silence. “This arrangement exists outside conventional boundaries. Absolute confidentiality is paramount. What transpires within these walls remains here.” His eyes locked onto Frank’s. “No whispers in corridors. No drunken confessions. This is a covenant of silence. Breach it,” he paused, letting the threat hang heavy in the air, his gaze flicking momentarily to the paddle, “and the consequences will be severe. For both of you. Do you understand?”

“I do, Professor,” Frank responded.

“I likewise get it, Professor, but you know that already,” I stated.

“Very well, boys. We can begin by stripping down to your underwear,” Professor Nevis instructed. “Especially you, Mr Davis. I want to see what you look like and whether you are a suitable candidate to participate in the study.”

Frank and I did as told, neatly folding our clothes and placing them on the armchair. We stood before Nevis’s desk in just our underwear – me in Fruit of the Loom briefs and Frank in faded grey boxer shorts that had seen better times. Both of us, sexually aroused with anticipation and, I guess, excitement.

The Professor made meticulous notes in a leather-bound journal, his fountain pen scratching across the page. His gaze moved clinically between us, comparing, assessing the bodies before him.

“Mr Davis,” Nevis stated without looking up, his pen pausing, as he viewed Frank’s boxer shorts. “Those loose, shapeless boxer shorts are unacceptable. They lack structure, fail to contain properly, and obscure anatomical detail. I am also disappointed with their age and the overall condition and quality. Don’t you look after your underwear? They even have holes in them, and clearly, you have never ironed them either.”

Frank blushed as he stood there. “Sorry, Professor, I don’t look at underwear in the same way you do.”

Nevis finally lifted his eyes, “Clearly,” his voice sounding disapproving. “From this moment, you will wear suitable underwear when in this house. Defined pouch, reinforced waistband, snug leg bands. White cotton briefs, like Mr Wilson is wearing.”

“Yes, Professor, but I don’t actually own anything like Steve’s briefs,” Frank declared.

Professor Nevis rose, opening a drawer beneath the leather-bound journal. He withdrew a sealed pack of Fruit of the Loom white cotton briefs, identical to mine. “These are yours now, Mr Davis. Put them on immediately. I require visual confirmation of compliance.”

Frank didn’t hesitate. He pushed his faded grey boxer shorts down his thighs in one swift motion, his erection springing free, thick and flushed. The cool air of the study seemed to ripple across his skin as he tore open the plastic pack with trembling fingers. He stepped into the crisp new briefs, tugging them up over his hips, the stark white cotton a shocking contrast against his skin.

I watched closely, having never seen Frank naked, and I took in the view of his erect cock, enjoying the slight curve and length, knowing soon I would hold it and use it to satisfy both our needs.

Professor Nevis watched the entire process, rapt, his pen momentarily forgotten, a flicker of intense satisfaction crossing his features as the waistband snapped into place. “Pass those here,” he commanded, pointing to the discarded boxer shorts pooled at Frank’s ankles. Frank bent stiffly, picked them up, and handed them over.

A faint grimace twisted the professor’s lips. “Synthetic blend,” he declared with disdain. “Traps odours poorly. Creates an artificial, chemical scent profile beneath the sweat,” as he folded them with sharp, precise movements, only to drop them into the wastepaper basket next to his desk. “Unacceptable, so they must be discarded.”

He turned his attention fully to us, his gaze sharpening. “Now, boys, let’s get started.” His eyes were fixed on me. “Steve, Mr Wilson, you first. Pass me your underwear so I can inspect them.”

I slipped my Fruit of the Loom briefs off and handed them over to the professor, the cotton front slightly damp, knowing that some urine leakage had occurred during our beers in the Eagle.

Professor Nevis took them with meticulous care, spreading the stained fabric flat on his desk under the lamplight. His fountain pen scratched across his leather-bound journal as he leaned close, inspecting every detail, including the odour and then scoring his findings in a sliding scale.

“You obviously had to attend the toilet a few times. I can see and smell the dribbles,” he declared.

“Sorry, Professor, I couldn’t help the odd dribble as I tucked back in.”

“Perhaps, Mr Wilson, you should shake more before tucking back in. You do use the fly hole, or do you slip your briefs down from the top and pee that way?”

“I slip my briefs down from the top, Professor,” I admitted, shifting my weight. “It’s… easier.”

“I see. Perhaps you should use the fly hole as it’s designed from now on,” was all he said.

Professor Nevis turned his attention to Frank. “Mr Davis, there’s no point in inspecting yours,” he stated dismissively, gesturing towards Frank’s discarded boxer shorts lying in the rubbish bin. “Synthetic blends are inherently flawed. They lack the cotton’s breathability and absorbency, trapping odours poorly.” He tapped his fountain pen impatiently against the leather journal. “Remove them anyway. I wish to compare you both.”

Frank hesitated, glancing at me, my face flushed crimson. Slowly, Frank peeled off the new white briefs, standing naked beside me. Professor Nevis rose, circling them with the detached scrutiny of a biologist examining specimens.

His gaze lingered on our groins. “Both circumcised,” he noted clinically. “A clean aesthetic and efficient, while more hygienic. Mr Wilson, your length is marginally superior, though Mr Davis possesses a thicker girth. Interesting variations in vascularity.”

Nevis paused, leaning closer to me. “Note the pronounced dorsal vein on Mr Wilson, Mr Davis. A sign of robust functionality.”

The professor then moved behind us, his voice cool and precise. “Arms extended, gentlemen, please. Parallel to the floor.”

We complied as Nevis ran a fingertip along my biceps, then Frank’s. “Mr Davis exhibits greater muscle definition in the upper arm, likely from manual labour. Mr Wilson, your forearms show more development, consistent with gardening tasks, gripping tools.”

Nevis’ finger trailed down my flank. “Observe the subtle difference in torso musculature, Mr Davis. Mr Wilson has a leaner taper, while your build is more compact, powerful.”

Nevis crouched, his focus shifting downwards. “Thighs. Quadriceps development. Mr Davis, yours are bulkier, indicative of weight-bearing work. Mr Wilson, yours are longer, more sinewy.” He tapped my inner thigh lightly. “Fascinating how the adductor muscles tense identically under scrutiny. A shared nervous response.” He stood, returning to his desk. “You may both replace your briefs. Mr Davis. Ensure the leg bands sit flush against the skin. No bunching.”

“Yes, Professor, I will make sure,” as Frank held his cotton briefs.

We pulled the white cotton back on, as Nevis scribbled furiously. “The physical comparison is complete. Your bodies are serviceable, responsive. Now, gentlemen,” he said, looking up, his eyes sharp behind his spectacles, “we must now address the primary purpose of Mr Davis’s presence. The arrangement requires execution.”

“Gentlemen,” he said, his finger gesturing towards the thick Persian rug in front of the imposing fireplace. “Position yourselves there while I summarise the arrangement.

“Mr Wilson, Steve, requested sexual satisfaction, and because I’m asexual for a multitude of reasons, I cannot satisfy his needs. You, Mr Davis, have responded to his request to become his sexual friend and hopefully, his regular lover.”

The professor paused for a moment, “I expect to observe the natural interaction, driven by the established mutual attraction between the two of you.” He said before pausing again, as Frank and I stood on the rug, fully aroused and feeling like lab rats in a grand experiment.

“It’s not the sex I’m interested in,” the professor continued.  “It’s your body language and how you perform that interests me the most. Therefore, you can begin when ready, and I shall observe and take notes,” as he settled back into his high-backed chair, steepling his fingers, his gaze fixed and expectant.

The room felt suddenly very small, the crackle of the fire the only sound besides our quickening breaths. I looked at Frank, the professor’s clinical comparisons still echoing, the directive hanging heavy in the air.

Frank turned to me, his fingers pinching my nipples gently as he moved in to kiss me. “I’ve wanted to do this for ages, but I didn’t expect an audience,” he murmured, his breath warm against my lips. His other hand slid down my stomach, rough and urgent, bypassing my erection to grip my hip. The kiss was deep, hungry, tasting of cheap beer and pent-up longing. His thumbs dug into the sensitive peaks of my nipples, sending jolts of heat straight to my cock. I gasped into his mouth, arching against him.

“Neither did I expect an audience, but it’s sort of cool being watched,” I told my lover. “Take me, Frank. Make love to me. I want to feel you inside me,” I whispered against his lips.

Frank groaned, pulling me closer. “God, Steve… I have wanted this forever,” as his hands slid down my back, fingers tracing the welts the spanking had left, making me shiver. He kissed me again, deeper this time, his tongue exploring my mouth with a reverence that felt like worship. Then he sank to his knees before me, his eyes dark with devotion as he invited me to join him on the rug in front of the fire.

I lay on the rug looking at Frank as his lips brushed against my pubic hair. “You’re beautiful,” he murmured, his breath hot against my skin, before he leaned forward and took me into his mouth.

I cried out, tangling my fingers in his hair as he sucked me deep, his tongue swirling around the head with tender precision. He worshipped every inch, licking, kissing, nuzzling my balls with a fervour that left me trembling. “Frank…” I gasped as he released my cock.

I was putty in his hands as he helped me change position, lying himself on the rug, inviting me to straddle him. His hands roamed my body. His palms were smoothing over my chest, thumbs circling my nipples, fingers tracing the lines of my hips, as if committing me to memory.

Professor Nevis watched silently from his armchair, journal open, fountain pen poised. His gaze was clinical, detached, but intensely focused as Frank prepared me with spit-slicked fingers, stretching me slowly. “Ready?” Frank breathed, positioning himself between my thighs.

I nodded, heart pounding. “Please, Frank. Now, and don’t forget to smother that cock of yours in lube. More the merrier.”

I found it so erotic watching him lube himself. His cock was magnificent, and I couldn’t resist anymore as I moved forward from his thighs, sitting as he guided me until he was sheathed inside me in one smooth, deep thrust, burying himself to the hilt as I pushed down.

I arched off his hips with a choked cry, the stretch burning sweetly. Frank stilled, forehead pressed to mine. “Alright?” he whispered.

“Perfect,” I breathed. “Fuck me…”

He began to rock into me, each thrust deep and worshipful. His hands cradled my face, his eyes locked on mine as he moved. “So good, Stevie… so fucking perfect.”

Frank kissed me more, swallowing my moans, his hips driving into me with relentless tenderness. The slap of skin, our ragged breaths and the sound of the Professor’s pen scratching all faded into the rhythm of Frank loving me, claiming me, as if I were sacred.

“You feel incredible, Stevie,” he breathed, pulling back just enough to watch my face. “I always imagined this but never thought it would happen.”

His eyes, dark and earnest, held mine. No performance. Just Frank, utterly present, giving himself to me as completely as I was giving myself to him.

The pace built gradually. Not frantic, but purposeful. Every roll of his hips drew a gasp from me, every withdrawal a whimper. He shifted, reaching deeper. The new angle stole my breath; each stroke now brushed that spot inside me, raw and electric. “Frank”, I choked out, fingers digging into his shoulders. He answered with a groan, low and ragged, his forehead meeting mine. Sweat slicked our skin where we pressed together, the smell of us, musky, urgent, alive, filling the air. Beneath us, the rug gave us comfort as Professor Nevis remained silent, but I felt his gaze like a physical touch. Clinical and absorbing.

“Look at you,” Frank murmured, voice thick with awe. “So beautiful like this.”

His thumb brushed a tear I hadn’t realised had escaped. Worship wasn’t just in his touch; it was in the reverence in his eyes, in the way he cherished every sound, every shudder I gave him. Our rhythm intensified. Frank braced himself below me, arms trembling, driving deeper with each thrust I made.

“So close,” I choked out, fingers clawing at his chest.

The coil inside me tightened, white-hot and inevitable. Frank’s rhythm fractured, his thrusts turning erratic, desperate. A guttural groan tore from him as he buried himself to the hilt, body locking rigid. Warmth flooded me, pulsing deep within as he came, his release shuddering through us both. The sensation tipped me over the edge. My back arched off his hips, a raw cry ripped from my throat as I spilt my seed, untouched between us, streaks painting his stomach, chest and face.

I collapsed atop Frank, chest heaving, forehead pressed onto his shoulder. We lay tangled, slick with sweat and release, the air thick with the musk of sex and Nevis’s silent scrutiny. Frank’s breath warmed my skin. “Okay?” he whispered, hoarse.

“Better than okay,” I breathed.

A sharp click pierced the haze. The professor had capped his fountain pen. He stood, leather journal tucked under his arm, his expression unreadable. “More than satisfactory,” he stated, his voice cutting through the charged silence.

“I have to inspect my own underwear now, after watching that display. Well done, boys, and you are free to continue anytime you wish,” as his gaze lingered on Frank, still sheathed inside me. “Don’t disengage prematurely, young man. Enjoy the moment.”

Frank froze, a flush creeping up his neck as the Professor turned toward the door. “Good night, boys and don’t forget, if you are in the house, I expect you both to wear the agreed uniform, and Frank, Mr Davis, you are very welcome to move in if you wish. At that, see you in the morning.”

Once the professor had left his study, Frank looked at me. “Uniform? Move in?”

“Yeah, uniform, Frank,” I answered. “Pristine white vest tucked into your pristine white Fruit of the Loon briefs. And I guess the professor has enjoyed himself so much that he might fancy watching again if you move in.”

“Oh, but I don’t wear vests, Stevie. I don’t even own a vest.”

“Well, you’d better buy some and start doing so; otherwise, he might spank you.”

Frank groaned softly, shifting his weight slightly, still buried deep inside me. “He might spank me if I fuck up. So, pristine white vest tucked into pristine white briefs. Got it.” His thumb brushed my hipbone. “And… just to be clear… this,” he gestured vaguely between our still-connected bodies, “is allowed? Anytime?”

“Yep, anytime you want me, just say the word. I’m yours now, and we might have to make up for lost time.”

“Last question, Stevie, does it hurt being spanked by him?”

“You have seen me and the aftereffects, but yes, it does, but it also turns me on something rotten. Maybe you might like to spank me occasionally?”

“Maybe,” Frank replied, “although I’ve never spanked anyone before and I’ve never been spanked either.”

At that, Frank dropped out of me with a soft, wet sound that made us both flush. I remained seated on him, his cock semi-flaccid underneath me as the cool air hit my sweat-slicked skin and the welts throbbed anew.

Frank’s hands settling gently on my hips, then moved down my buttocks, feeling the latticework of red stripes, the professor’s paddle had left across my backside. His breath hitched. “Wow, Stevie,” he murmured, fingers hovering on the raised marks. “That’s sick.”

I shivered, the pain flaring bright and hot before melting into something else entirely, a deep, aching want that pooled low in my belly. “Take me to bed, Frank.”

He didn’t hesitate. One strong arm hooked under my knees, the other around my back, and he lifted me effortlessly. My arms instinctively wrapped around his neck, clinging as he carried me down the dim hallway and up the stairs towards my room. The scent of him, sweat, sex, and cheap beer, was intoxicating.

Frank woke me with a kiss pressed softly to my temple. Morning light filtered through the curtains, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. “Morning, Stevie,” he murmured, his voice thick with sleep. He was already awake, propped on an elbow beside me, tracing idle patterns on my bare shoulder. “Lectures not ’til two. Fancy breakfast?”

I stretched, wincing slightly as the movement tugged at the tender welts on my backside. “Starved,” I admitted, rolling towards him. He kissed me properly then, deep and slow, tasting of sleep and promise. “Don’t forget the uniform, Frank. Vest and briefs.”

A groan escaped him. “Right. The Professor’s pristine whites.” He swung his legs out of bed, gloriously naked. “Still haven’t got a vest, but I have the briefs from yesterday.”

Those are Thursday briefs. Today is Friday, so borrow mine,” I offered, rummaging in my drawer. I pulled out two identical packs from the White Brief’s Company. Friday’s fresh supply. “Here,” I tossed him a pack. “Vests too. Fresh ones.”

“I can’t believe I have to wear this shit, Steve,” Frank declared. “It’s weird if you ask me, but if that’s what the professor wants, I guess he gets it.

“But, Frank, you actually look great in your Fruit of the Loom from yesterday. Perhaps today’s will look equally good on you,” I tried to reassure Frank.

“Thanks, lover boy, it’s nice to know I look good,” as we both dressed quickly in the cool morning air. Frank pulled the crisp white vest over his head, tucking the hem neatly into the waistband of the stark white cotton briefs I’d given him.

Now dressed correctly, we left the bedroom heading towards the kitchen, and the smell of strong coffee hit us first. Professor Nevis sat at the head of the scrubbed pine table, impeccably dressed in his usual tweed waistcoat and crisp shirt, sleeves rolled precisely to the elbows. The Times newspaper was spread before him, held taut in his long fingers. He didn’t look up immediately as we padded in barefoot.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” he stated, his voice clipped, eyes still scanning the editorial pages. He took a deliberate sip from a delicate china cup. Only then did his gaze lift, sweeping over us with clinical precision.

His gaze lingered on Frank, taking in the borrowed vest, the fresh white briefs, the way they clung. A faint, approving nod. “Adequate presentation, Mr Davis. The fit is satisfactory.” His eyes flicked to me. “Mr Wilson, Steve. Coffee is brewed. There are eggs and bacon in the pantry.”

He returned his attention to the newspaper, the rustle of the pages the only sound beyond the ticking clock. “And ensure you both consume sufficient protein this morning. You expended considerable energy last night, from what I could hear and talking about that, you were way too noisy for such a conservative area. It kept me awake, and I’m sure the neighbours, which brings me to another point.”

“Which is, Professor?” Frank asked.

Nevis lowered his newspaper, folding it with surgical precision. “Noise,” he stated, his gaze icy. “Specifically, the… vocalisations emanating from your room last night. Decibels are unacceptable for a scholarly residence.” He paused, letting the accusation hang. “Normally, such an infringement warrants six of the best. Immediately.”

My stomach clenched as Frank shifted beside me.

“However,” Nevis continued, his voice softening almost imperceptibly, “Tempus Fugit. My morning seminar commences in precisely one hour and forty-seven minutes.”

Frank swallowed hard. “Yes, Professor…..but, how long does it take to deliver six of the best?”

Professor Nevis’s gaze snapped up, sharp and assessing. I stared at Frank, utterly flabbergasted. Did he want to be spanked? Was he volunteering? My mind raced. Why would he ask that? Before I could stop myself, I leaned close to Frank, my lips brushing his ear. My whisper was a harsh, urgent rasp. “What the fuck are you doing?”

Frank didn’t flinch. He kept his eyes locked on Nevis, his jaw set. “Just curious, Professor,” he pressed, his voice steady. “How long? Minutes? Hours?”

Nevis set his cup down with a soft clink. “Administration requires approximately ninety seconds. Preparation and recovery…” His gaze drifted pointedly to Frank’s backside. “…variable. Are you that keen to find out how long?”

Frank stood straighter, the white cotton briefs straining slightly. “Yes, Professor, especially when I have never been spanked before and…” He trailed off, leaving the implication hanging.

The professor’s eyes narrowed, a flicker of something unreadable behind the clinical detachment. He rose slowly, the chair scraping against the stone floor. “Very well, Mr Davis. Curiosity warrants demonstration and experience,” as he uttered, “I have time. Follow me,” as he walked out of the kitchen towards his study.

We followed him down the dim hallway, the air thick with the scent of coffee and impending discipline. I gripped Frank’s arm, pulling him back half a step. My whisper was raw, urgent against his ear. “It bloody hurts, Frank. Are you seriously prepared to go through with this?” My fingers dug into the crisp cotton of his borrowed vest.

“Yes,” he whispered back, “It will bring us closer if I do,” Frank declared.

Professor Nevis paused at the study door, turning with chilling calm. “Mr Davis. On this occasion, remove your vest and fold it neatly. Then assume the position over my desk.”

“What about my underwear, Professor?”

“Don’t worry about them, young man. That’s my job, and on this occasion, I will allow you to retain them as you are new to being spanked.”

Frank obeyed swiftly, pulling the vest over his head and folding it with trembling hands before placing it on the edge of the heavy oak desk. He bent forward, resting his weight on the woods with his arms stretched beyond his head.

Professor Nevis unlocked a drawer, retrieving the familiar, smooth maple paddle. Its polished surface gleamed dully in the morning light filtering through the study window.

The first stroke landed with a sharp, echoing CRACK. Frank gasped, his knuckles whitening as he gripped the desk edge. The second followed swiftly, landing lower, a brutal punctuation mark that drew a choked grunt from him. By the third, his breathing hitched raggedly, a fine tremor running through his legs.

The Professor paused, adjusting his grip, his expression impassive. The fourth stroke descended with devastating precision. A wet, sharp gasp tore from Frank’s throat, while simultaneously, a dark, spreading stain bloomed across the front of his briefs, a distinct yellow patch darkening the pristine white cotton. The sharp, acrid scent of urine cut through the dusty study air. Frank froze, mortification flooding his face crimson. “Professor, I… I’m sorry…” he stammered, voice thick with shame.

“A not uncommon physiological response to intense sensory overload, particularly in the untrained,” the Professor explained as he stepped closer, his eyes scrutinising the wet fabric clinging to Frank’s trembling thighs. “The involuntary release demonstrates the efficiency of the stimulus, and perhaps next time, you will relieve yourself beforehand.”

Frank kept his head down, shoulders hunched, humiliation radiating from him in waves as the professor delivered the final two strokes.

“Stand up, Mr Davis,” he commanded.

Frank obeyed shakily, unable to meet the professor’s eyes, his damp briefs clinging obscenely. “I hope you found the experience worthwhile? And, Mr Davis, give me those. I wish to examine the saturation pattern.”

Frank didn’t argue, as he slipped his Friday briefs down with the damp patch stark against the white cotton. Handing them over, the professor picked up his journal, pen poised. “Curiosity sometimes provides unexpected results, Mr Wilson,” as he smelled the soiled briefs. “On this occasion, I can smell dehydration in your urine, and I suggest you drink some water before breakfast. Now, I have to go before I’m late, and you can stay if you like. In the interim, put these back on.”

Professor Nevis left us in the study. Frank was once again wearing his Friday briefs, albeit soiled and damp, covering his bottom, which was extremely red and hot when I touched his bottom. “Well, Frank, have we become closer now?” I felt compelled to ask.

“Oh yes, Stevie, we have and…..”

I approached Frank, placing my hands on his hips, ready to kiss him. Instead, I did the second-best thing. I pulled my vest over my head and slipped the Friday briefs down my legs, allowing them to pool at my ankles as I pushed Frank backwards onto the professor’s desk.

I pulled Frank’s briefs down as he lay on the desk, his flaccid cock on full view as I lowered my head, my tongue now licking his urine-coated cock as his body responded.

Frank gasped, his hands flying to my shoulders as I knelt before him. “Stevie, what….?” The protest died in his throat, replaced by a choked groan as my lips closed over him. The faint, sharp tang of urine mingled with the musk of his skin was a visceral, intimate scent that only sharpened my hunger. I didn’t hesitate. I wanted him, this closeness, this raw proof of what he’d endured for us. My tongue swept along his shaft, tasting salt and heat and the lingering humiliation that had soaked into his skin. He trembled, fingers tightening in my hair as I took him deeper, swallowing him whole.

Above me, Frank arched against the desk edge, his breath coming in ragged bursts. “Christ… Stevie…” His hips jerked involuntarily, pushing deeper into my throat.

I pulled back just enough to swirl my tongue around the head, lapping at the bead of pre-cum forming there. “Fuck… don’t stop…” he pleaded, his voice raw. I didn’t. I devoured him, my own arousal a throbbing ache between my legs as I worshipped him. Every ridge, every vein, the heavy weight of his balls against my chin.

Above me, Frank’s breath hitched into sharp gasps. His fingers tightened painfully in my hair, his hips lifting off the desk in desperate little thrusts. “Stevie… gonna…” The warning was ragged, torn from him. I doubled down, hollowing my cheeks, swallowing him deeper until the head nudged the back of my throat. His cry shattered the quiet study air – a raw, broken sound that echoed off the oak-panelled walls as he spilt hot and thick down my throat. I drank him down, swallowing every pulse, my own cock straining against the cool wood beneath me.

When I finally pulled away, Frank collapsed back onto the desk, chest heaving, spent and trembling. A sheen of sweat coated his skin. I rose, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, tasting him still. His eyes, dark and dazed, met mine. Without a word, I climbed onto the desk beside him, straddling his hips. My leaking cock pressed against his stomach, leaving sticky trails.

He reached for me, his hand rough and urgent. “Need you,” he gasped, wrapping his fingers around my shaft. His strokes were clumsy, frantic, fuelled by the aftershocks of his own release and the sting in his welts. I braced my hands on the desk beside his head, thrusting into his hand, the friction almost too much. The scent of our mingled sweat, his urine, my saliva, and the lingering musk of sex filled the air.

It didn’t take me long. My hips jerked erratically, chasing the peak Frank’s hand promised. “Frank…” My climax ripped through me, a silent, convulsive wave that arched my back as I spilt hot stripes of cum across his stomach and chest, painting the flushed skin.

We lay tangled on the desk, breathing hard, sticky and spent. Frank traced a finger through the mess on his stomach and chest, bringing it to his lips. He tasted me, eyes locked on mine. “You taste lovely,” he murmured, the word thick with promise and exhaustion, but perhaps we should get ready to go to college.”

“I guess you are right, Frank, but… if you are coming back here afterwards, you should probably remember the rules.”

“What, the uniform thing?” he asked.

“Yes, the uniform thing,” I responded while reaching out to grab Frank’s Friday briefs that still lay on the desk.

They were damp from Frank’s accident earlier, the faint yellow stain visible against the white cotton. Without hesitation, I picked them up and pressed the damp fabric against Frank’s stomach, using them to wipe away the streaks of my cum. The cool, urine-soaked cotton slid over his skin, soaking up the mess efficiently. I worked methodically, moving across his chest and down to his groin, wiping his softening cock clean with brisk strokes. The scent, sharp ammonia mixed with our musk, rose between us.

“Here,” I said, tossing the now thoroughly soiled briefs onto Frank’s lap. “You have to wear these today. All day.”

Frank stared at the crumpled cotton, his nose wrinkling. “Stevie, they’re… wet. And they smell.”

“Exactly,” I replied, hopping off the desk. “Rules are rules. You accepted Nevis’s offer to stay. That means uniform compliance. And if you come back here after lectures…” I leaned in close, lowering my voice. “He will inspect them. He’ll unfold them right on that desk, note every stain, and smell them deeply. He’ll know exactly what happened in here.” I paused, letting the image sink in. “Think of it as… proof.”

Frank groaned, running a hand through his sweat-damp hair. But he didn’t argue. He stood up gingerly, wincing as the movement pulled at the fresh welts across his backside. He stepped into the damp briefs, pulling them up slowly. The fabric clung cold and heavy against his skin, the wet patch darkening the front. He tucked the borrowed white vest back in, the hem now dampening against the waistband.

“All day,” I reminded him softly, watching the discomfort flicker across his face. “Until you return. And Nevis… he’ll notice. He notices everything, and he will probably smell you before we undress from our day clothes,” laughing a little as I pulled my own fresh briefs and vest on quickly, the clean cotton a stark contrast. “Ready for college?”

Frank adjusted the clinging fabric with a grimace. “Sorted as I’ll ever be,” he muttered, the dampness already seeping through the vest. We walked out of the study, the scent of urine, sweat, and sex trailing faintly behind us. In the hallway, the grandfather clock ticked loudly, marking the minutes until Nevis would return and Frank’s soiled proof would be waiting for inspection.

“We might want to wear some trousers and a pullover instead of looking like this,” Frank said as he took in the view of us standing in the hallway. I admit we looked funny in our underwear with the vests tucked into them, and we both laughed again. The last 24 hours had been a journey of discovery, and there was no looking back from finding each other in a very weird and unusual arrangement.

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The humid Mississippi air hung heavy as I walked through the block party. Music thumped, laughter echoed, and the smell of barbecue filled the air. I, Caleb, 21, felt a knot of anxiety tighten in my stomach. I wasn’t supposed to be here. Not really. But Eli, 35, had insisted. He’d said it would be good for me, a chance to loosen up. We were both from Grenada, Mississippi, and we both knew the unspoken rules of our small town. We were closeted, and this was a minefield.

I spotted Eli near the food table, his dark hair gleaming under the string lights. He caught my eye and smiled, a genuine, warm smile that always made my heart skip a beat. I made my way over, trying to appear casual.

“Hey,” I said, trying to sound nonchalant.

“Hey yourself,” he replied, his voice a low rumble. “Having fun?”

“Yeah, sure,” I mumbled, avoiding his gaze. The truth was, I was a mess of nerves.

We talked for a while, mostly small talk, the kind you make when you’re trying to hide something. Then, as the night wore on, the party got rowdier. People were drinking, dancing, and the air crackled with a different kind of energy.

Later, I found myself alone with Eli near a quieter part of the block. The music was a distant thrum, and the shadows of the buildings stretched long and dark. He turned to me, his eyes reflecting the soft glow of the streetlights.

“You okay?” he asked, his voice softer now.

I shook my head, the anxiety returning with a vengeance. “I don’t know, Eli. This feels… wrong.”

He reached out, his hand gently touching my arm. The contact sent a jolt through me. “It’s okay to feel that way,” he said, his thumb stroking my skin. “We don’t have to do anything we don’t want to.”

His touch was a comfort, a grounding force in the chaos. But then, the alcohol, the atmosphere, the unspoken desires between us, all collided. I leaned in, drawn to him, and kissed him. It was a mistake, a beautiful, terrifying mistake.

The kiss deepened, and I forgot about the party, the people, the rules. All that mattered was Eli, his lips on mine, his arms around me. He pulled away, his breath ragged.

“Caleb,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “We shouldn’t…”

I knew he was right, but the moment was too powerful. I didn’t want to stop. I wanted to explore this forbidden territory, even if it meant risking everything.

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I swallowed hard, every part of me buzzing. My pulse thundered in my ears as the weight of what he was saying hit me, the promise of what was about to happen hanging heavy in the air.

Nate pulled back just enough to look me in the eye, his smirk sharp, dangerous, irresistible.

“Get on the bed.”

The words landed like a command, low and heavy, vibrating straight through me. Nate pushed up from his seat, towering over me, his cock still wet dangling between his legs. He peeled my grip off with a confident tug, then stepped back, rolling his shoulders as if this was routine for him. His smirk didn’t waver.

My body felt like it had gone weightless and heavy at once. I hesitated, staring up at him, my chest heaving, but the way he stood there; broad, certain, expectant…left no room for retreat. My legs moved before my brain could catch up.

I stood up and climbed onto his bed, the sheets smooth and faintly smelling of his cologne. I sat awkwardly for a second, hoodie still on, shorts loose around my hips, until his voice cut through the silence.

“Lose the clothes, Jamie.”

My breath caught. I tugged the hoodie over my head, tossing it aside. The room’s air felt cooler against my bare skin. My shorts slid down with shaking hands, followed by my boxers, pooling on the floor beside the bed. My pulse thudded in my throat as I shifted onto all fours, facing away from him, my ass exposed, vulnerable.

Behind me, I heard fabric rustle. I risked a glance over my shoulder and caught the sight of Nate pulling his hoodie over his head in one smooth motion. His chest was solid, the cut of his abs sharp under the glow of his desk lamp. He dropped the hoodie, kicked his sweats off, and for a second stood there bare, his cock hard and glistening, thick veins running along its length. My stomach flipped.

Then he turned to his desk. The sound of a drawer sliding open.

When he came back, he was holding a small bottle of lube, casual as anything, like it belonged next to his notebooks.

“You’ve thought about this a lot, haven’t you?” he asked, voice calm, almost conversational. He flicked the cap open with his thumb, squeezing a clear bead onto his fingers.

I buried my face into the pillow, muffling my voice. “Yeah.”

His laugh was low, satisfied. The mattress dipped as he climbed up behind me. One of his hands pressed against my lower back, firm, steady, pinning me in place. With the other, he spread the lube between his fingers, coating them generously.

“Good,” he murmured. “Because once you feel this… there’s no going back to a toy….”

I shivered, the anticipation almost unbearable. Then his fingers touched me; cold, wet, teasing circles over the tight ring of muscle. I gasped, jerking slightly, but his palm on my back kept me steady.

“Relax,” he coaxed. “Let it happen.”

The first finger slipped in, slow and careful. My breath hitched, my whole body tensing at the intrusion. It burned, sharp and strange, but then he started moving, shallow strokes, and my muscles adjusted around the pressure.

“Fuck…” I whispered into the sheets.

“Not even close,” Nate muttered, twisting his finger, pushing deeper until his knuckle brushed against me. “You’re tighter than I thought.”

Heat rushed to my face. I bit down on the pillow, every nerve alive. He added more lube, then slid in a second finger. The stretch doubled, my hips jerking forward.

“Fuck, Nate—”

He leaned closer, his breath hot against my ear. “Remember what you told me? You were gonna use that toy.” His fingers scissored, opening me up. “Forget that. I am getting you ready for the real deal.”

I moaned, muffled against the pillow. His fingers drove deeper, curling just enough to make sparks shoot up my spine. He worked me slowly, deliberately, until the burn shifted into a sharp ache of need. My cock throbbed against my stomach, untouched.

By the time he added a third finger, I was panting, sweat beading at my forehead, my thighs trembling under the pressure. It was too much, not enough, every sensation clashing and colliding. He pulled them out with a wet sound, leaving me clenching around nothing.

The mattress shifted as he positioned himself behind me. The blunt head of his cock pressed against me, hot and heavy, wet with lube.

“Ready?” he asked, his voice low but edged with hunger.

I nodded quickly, desperate, though my throat was too tight to form words.

“Say it,” he ordered.

My lips trembled. “I’m ready.”

“Good boy.”

He pushed forward. The stretch was instant, brutal, burning as the head of his cock forced its way in. I moaned, gripping the sheets, the pressure slowly building up. He paused, groaning deep in his chest, his hands gripping my hips.

“Fuck, you’re so tight,” he muttered. “Squeezing my dick.”

My breathing was ragged, body straining against the intrusion. For a moment I thought I couldn’t take it, that I’d have to stop but then the pain shifted, softened into something raw and electric. My body adjusted, inch by inch, as he sank deeper.

“Keep going,” I gasped.

Nate growled low, driving forward until his hips pressed flush against my ass. I felt full, stretched to the edge, every nerve lit up. He stayed there for a moment, letting me feel the weight of his cock inside me.. buried deep..

“Now you know,” he said darkly. “This is what you wanted.”

He pulled back slowly, the drag of his cock almost unbearable, then thrust in again, harder this time. My body jolted forward, a moan ripping from my throat. The rhythm started slow, deliberate, each thrust opening me further, deeper, until I was gasping into the pillow, drool slipping from the corner of my mouth.

“Fuck… Nate…”

“Yeah, take it,” he grunted, hips slamming against me. “Take my dick. Forget that toy…this is real.”

The sting melted into pleasure, sharp and overwhelming. His cock brushed something deep inside me that made my vision spark, my toes curling against the sheets. I moaned shamelessly, my own cock leaking pre-cum against the bed.

He picked up the pace, the slap of skin filling the room, his groans mixing with my cries. One hand gripped my hip tight, the other sliding up my back to fist in my hair, pulling my head back so I couldn’t bury my face.

“Let me hear you,” he demanded. “Don’t hide it.”

“I—fuck, I can’t—”

“You can,” he snarled, thrusting harder, deeper, each movement making my voice break into helpless moans. “You wanted this, Jamie. Say it.”

“I wanted it!” I cried, the words ripped out of me. “I wanted your dick!”

His laugh was low and cruelly satisfied. “And now you’ve got it.”

He pounded into me, the bed creaking under the force. My arms shook, my body dripping with sweat, every thrust pushing me closer to the edge. My cock rubbed against the sheets with each movement, leaking, aching for release.

Nate leaned over me, chest pressed to my back, his breath hot against my ear. “Remember what you said earlier? About playing with your ass?” His thrusts slowed, grinding deep, making me whimper. “This is so much better than that toy, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” I gasped, shuddering. “Yes, Nate..fuck…yes.”

He groaned, biting gently at my shoulder before slamming back into rhythm, harder, rougher, relentless. My vision blurred, my body a mess of sweat, spit, and sound.

I was spiraling, the pleasure blinding. My cock throbbed painfully, grinding against the sheets until I was seconds from losing it.

“Nate – I’m-fuck, I’m gonna…”

“Do it,” he growled. “Come for me. Make a mess while I fuck you.”

That was all it took. I ejaculated hot ropes of cum spilling across his sheets, my cries breaking into raw moans. The orgasm tore through me, violent and unstoppable. My ass clenched tight around him, milking his cock.

Nate’s thrusts grew rougher, his hips snapping forward with a rhythm that left me gasping into the sheets. Every stroke dragged his cock deep, hitting the spot that made my vision blur. My fingers clawed at the mattress, desperate for something to hold onto, but every time I tried to ground myself he drove in harder, pulling me back by the hips like I was his to use.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” he groaned, voice strained. His chest pressed against my back for a moment, his breath hot in my ear, before he pulled upright again, angling my ass higher. The new angle made me moan shameless and needy, the sound bouncing in the quiet room.

I could feel the lube mixed with his precum dripping down my thighs, every thrust spreading me wider, wetter. He grunted low, punishing me with pace, then slowed suddenly, grinding deep, keeping me stuffed full until I whimpered and begged under my breath for him to move again. My moans were high, broken, but I didn’t care anymore. I wanted every brutal inch he was giving me.

“Look at you,” he muttered, smirking as his palm cracked lightly across my ass. “Taking it. You were really gonna waste your time with a toy when you could be getting fucked like this?”

The slap stung, but the heat of it made me clench around him, my body betraying me. He hissed and shoved back in, harder than before, my whole body jolting forward on the bed. The headboard creaked with the force, his rhythm relentless now, every thrust a messy slap of skin.

My legs shook, my arms threatening to give out, but he didn’t let up. His grip on my hips turned bruising, dragging me back onto him again and again. The sound of him using me, the way my body opened and clenched for him, it was overwhelming.

Nate’s rhythm turned feral, each thrust harder than the last, until he suddenly drove deep and stayed there, buried to the hilt. His whole body went rigid, a guttural curse ripping from his throat. “Shit—Ja… fuck, Jamie.” His grip on my hips tightened brutally, nails biting into my skin as his cock throbbed inside me.

I felt it then; hot pulses spilling deep, filling me, flooding me with every twitch of his release. The warmth spread through me in waves, each one making me clench tighter around him, milking out every drop he had. His groans were raw in my ear, breath hot and broken, his body grinding against mine as though he couldn’t get close enough.

He stayed there, locked in me, holding me to the mattress while he rode it out, his thrusts turning into slow, sloppy pushes that smeared his cum deeper. By the time he finally stilled, both of us were trembling…breathing hard.

For a long while, the only sound in the room was our ragged breathing. My face was buried in the pillow, my body buzzing and sore in ways I’d never felt before. Nate collapsed against me, his weight heavy, cock still inside, like he refused to let go. His hand stroked sweat-damp hair from my forehead, almost tender despite the way he’d just ruined me.

Then he chuckled, low and smug. “So,” he murmured, voice hoarse, “still think that toy could compare to the real thing?”

I shivered, my answer caught somewhere between exhaustion and lingering heat. He kissed the back of my shoulder, slow and claiming, and I knew there was no undoing what just happened, no pretending this hadn’t changed everything.

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I was humping a pillow on his bed, making sure that my legs were wide apart and my arse lifted high enough with each thrust to afford a good view of my balls and hole; after all, he was paying good money to watch the performance. 

He was naked as well and had positioned himself in a chair at the end of the bed, semi-hard cock in one hand, my piss stained y-fronts (made to order) held to his nose in the other. Probably in his mid to late seventies, he reminded me of my grandfather in his casual, sexy physicality.

I’m 47 years old and as horny as I was in my teens, an attribute I decided to put to good use after a lifetime of well paid but dead-end jobs in the computer industry. As a colleague once said, while we were surreptitiously wanking each other under our desks, “You can’t fuck a computer, but they can sure fuck you!”

I decided there had to be better ways to get fucked, and trusting my proclivities and a perceived gap in the market, I set out to see if there was an older clientele looking for sexual shenanigans, and willing to pay a moderately good looking chap like me to provide them. I’m no oil painting, but I’ve turned a few heads in my time and I guess my air of general horniness is its own attraction.

I’d always been attracted to older men (and was fast becoming one myself) and I figured there might be enough gents out there willing to pay for some no-questions-asked sex with an experienced and discreet guy who enjoyed their company as much as they (hopefully) enjoyed mine.

My computer background, not to mention many hours spent surfing porn sites, came in handy as I put out feelers on various websites and even took out some paid ads, complete with carefully worded service offer and increasingly revealing photos for those willing to pay a modest sum for my immodesty.

Within a few weeks I had a small cohort of interested gents all signed up and keen to see what I had to offer, and Dan (that’s the name he gave me anyway) was the first to click into place and make a definite booking. He’d asked if I needed a photo of him before deciding, but my rental policy was simple and blunt, you pay the money and I turn up. 

“You’re very beautiful” he said, almost in a whisper, unsure whether such an observation was entirely suitable for the situation. I stopped humping the pillow, keeping my hairy bum in the air and my legs spread wide, enjoying the feel of his eyes. 

“Thank you” I replied, “you’re a sexy man yourself.” I meant it, he held his years well,  his face was handsome with its gentle creases and slightly careworn look, and his body was clearly that of a man who had looked after himself, or had worked physically hard for most of his life.

“You can touch me, if you like” I suggested, moving myself back to the edge of the bed so that he could reach out if he wanted. 

“Thank you” he replied softly. A moments hesitation and then I felt his fingers brush lightly across my left buttock, and then my right, caressing the soft fur that covers them both. His touch became firmer after a few seconds and I was pleasantly surprised when his fingers played in the thick patch of hair at the base of my spine before slowly travelling down my crack, ever so gently moving through the hair with his fingertips before brushing against the smooth dark muscle of my anus, which pouted and puckered appreciatively.

“Hmmmm, that’s nice” I purred encouragingly, pleased to see him loosening up. He stood and moved in closer, his right hand cupping my heavy balls from behind, pulling them firmly but with great care.

“You don’t know how long I’ve wanted to do this” he sighed, and I noticed that his breathing had become more rapid, the sexual moment fast overtaking him. I felt his stiff cock press against my buttocks and then liquid warmth as he came, totally unexpectedly and with great force, all over my bum and legs. 

He cried out, and it was hard to know if it was in pleasure or pain so deep was the sound within him. His grip on my balls tightened, just the right side of painful, and then slowly loosened as his breathing flattened out and the force of his orgasm began to dissipate.

He leant against me with his hands pressing on my back and I slowly lowered myself onto the mattress, taking him with him. He lay heavily on top, his heavy breathing pushing through me, his lips pressed against my neck. He was crying I realised, and I lay there for a few minutes listening to his gentle sobs, his tears moistening my shoulder, making me love him in that moment.

He eventually rolled off and we faced each other, my cock still hard, his limp and leaking jizz. I kissed him on the lips (not usually part of the service), and told him that everything was alright, which it was at that moment. 

“Sorry” he sighed, a trail of tears rolling down his cheeks, “I didn’t think I’d ever be with a man again.” We were silent for a while, just enjoying the warmth and intimacy. I wiped his tears away and gently rubbed his nipples, which looked like they’d enjoy such attention. They did. 

He explained that his wife of over 40 years had died recently and he’d assumed that his sexual life was over, not having been with anyone else after they’d married all those years ago. But memories of times he’d spent with a friend of his youth, Mark, had been intruding into his thoughts ever since, to the point where he knew that he had to be with another man again, even after so many years of heterosexuality.

“Sometimes when I was fucking my wife, I’d be thinking of Mark” he whispered, as if afraid she would overhear the confession. “I’ve never told anyone that, not even myself.” He laughed at the notion, but I knew how much it meant to say it out loud at last.

“You’re allowed to have secrets” I said, “and I bet your wife still enjoyed the fucks.”

We both laughed then, pulling back from the brink. My stiff prick jerked and bobbed and he took hold of it, pulling on it forcefully before cupping my balls in his hand and squeezing them tightly, making me gasp.

“Mark loved having his balls squeezed,” he explained, “he even let me slap them sometimes.” His cock twitched at the memory, fast recovering from its earlier release, and I closed my eyes as he stretched my ball sack until my testicles were tight inside.

“Go ahead, slap mine” I responded, never averse to a bit of rough handling.

“Really?” he asked, his cock twitching some more. In answer I hauled myself to my knees, legs apart, balls still in his grasp. He let them go and they swung loose and heavy below my tumescent prick, there for the taking. He got onto his knees in front of me, cock at half-mast, and gently tapped them with his right hand and then his left, making me moan approvingly.

“Harder” I commanded, “I’ll let you know when to stop.”

He obeyed, making my heavy sack swing back and forth between my thighs. I gasped as each slap fell, my body spasming slightly with the jolts of pleasure and pain. My cock stiffened even more, the foreskin drawn back to reveal the swollen purple knob, slick with precum. 

“Keep going” I gasped, lost in the intense sensations coursing through my balls, my cock, my belly, my legs. 

“Just like Mark!” he exclaimed, a big smile on his face.

“Fuuuuuck!” I gasped as I realised that I was about to cum. He realised it too and grabbing my balls he pulled them tight and bent low to take my throbbing cock into his mouth.

He was just in time! I exploded as soon as I felt his lips close around my swollen knob, his tongue massaging the tightly drawn skin of my frenulum, pulling the trigger on my pent up orgasm. 

Now, I’m a pretty heavy cummer at the best of times, but with the addition of such intense ball stimulation I unloaded in his mouth with a force that literally took my breath away, and almost drowned him! 

I gripped his shoulders as I thrust my cock into the back of his throat, filling his mouth with hot spunk, forcing him to swallow fast in order to cope. He did a good job but couldn’t take it all and had to remove my dick from his mouth before he gagged, grabbing my taut shaft and jerking it hard as I sprayed all over his face, spattering him with my thick cream.

“Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck!!!!!” I cried out again as my spasms crescendoed and then slowly diminished, even while he continued to jerk my cock hard and fast, pumping yet more cream onto his smiling face, forcing out those last painful dribbles.

I slumped against him, the pleasure/pain line having been crossed, and grabbed his hand, forcing him to release my cock before I cried out in agony. As it was, I began laughing uncontrollably as I gulped in air and tried to recover from such a powerful orgasm.

He laughed too and tried to grab my cock back, not quite finished with it yet, but I held his hand firmly and managed to keep him at bay. With my free hand I grabbed his balls and tugged on them menacingly, the threat implicit.

“Enough, enough” I gasped, “you’ll pull it off!” We both laughed and fell back onto the bed facing each other, both of us sucking in breath from our exertions, happily exhausted.

We lay there for I don’t know how long, agreeing to hold each others cocks more gently now. His face was still covered in my jizz and I leant in and kissed him, tasting my seed on his mouth and tongue. I reached up and rubbed the pools all over his cheeks and forehead and nose before sliding my slippery fingers between his lips, enjoying the feel of his tongue as he licked them clean.

“Will you stay the night?” he asked hesitantly, worried that he’d crossed a line. He probably had, but I felt good and it was getting late and I liked him a lot, so I flipped over and pulled his arms around me, encouraging him to hold me tight.

“Sure” I replied, “no extra charge.” I laughed and he held me closer, nuzzling the back of my neck as we both drifted off to sleep.

He fucked me early the next morning, whispering Mark’s name into my ear with each thrust, deep in the thrall of his past. He cried out when he came inside me, and I pushed back hard against his cock, the way I imagined Mark would have done; I felt I knew him quite well by this stage.

We drifted off again and when I awoke he was still fast asleep. I woke him up with a kiss and told him that I had to go, another day another dollar. He wanted me to stay a bit longer but I lied and told him that I had to get myself ready for another client, which brought him back down to earth. 

He rolled out of bed and headed for the kitchen promising to make me a coffee, which I was happy to accept. I dressed and followed him to the back of the house where I found him still naked and poised over the coffee-maker. As I drank he searched out his wallet and handed me the agreed fee for the evening’s entertainment, assuring me that it was money well spent, which I already knew.

I kissed him again as I pocketed the cash and reminded him that he knew where to find me, should the need arise. His cock was semi erect and bobbed noticeably, making me pretty sure that I’d be hearing from him again. 

As I headed for the door I heard him softly whisper “goodbye Mark”, not meant for my ears. I smiled, knowing that the next time we met it would be just him and me, without a ghost from the past.

---

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

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I first met Ivan in Toronto, at a campus coming-out celebration that was louder than it was sincere. Rainbow flags draped across the quad, someone in a unicorn onesie danced on a bench, and the speakers blared over every conversation. In the far corner, almost hidden by a food truck, a young man, short, broad-chested and sturdy, with straw-colored hair and a rural look sat cross-legged on the grass, reading aloud to a small group of attentive listeners. His voice was steady, low, completely unbothered by the chaos around him. I asked what he was reading. He looked up, a little startled, then smiled and said, “It’s Janka Kupala. Belarusian poet. No one reads him anymore.” His name was Ivan, though he quickly added, “But call me Janka — like him.” He said it softly, as if the choice itself were private.

That was two years ago. Since then, we’d exchanged long emails — mine full of deadlines and travel plans, his full of lines from old poems, half-translated, half-explained. When he invited me to visit Belarus for Kupalle Night, I replied “Yes!!!” as soon as I got that message.

In June next year Minsk surprised me. It was wider, calmer, cleaner than I’d imagined, every avenue lined with trees and soft pastel buildings that looked like they’d been recently scrubbed. I was staying near Victory Square, and we met for breakfast at a café just off the main boulevard. The walls of the café were tiled white and green; the waitress moved slowly, like time wasn’t a problem. I ordered syrniki with thick sour cream and coffee strong enough to taste of iron. Janka had draniki — thin, crisp potato pancakes served with mushroom and dill sauce. He laughed when I tried to pronounce the word and said Belarusian sounds like “Russian after two glasses of vodka and a lullaby.”

We talked about Kupalle Night — a midsummer celebration of water, fire, and luck he promised to take me to in the middle of the night. He said it was both pagan and patriotic, something people still celebrated quietly, even when the government frowned on “old superstitions.” He spoke about it the way some people talk about family: half with love, half with weariness.

After breakfast, we took a walk along Independence Avenue. The street was broad and sunlit, trams rattling past, shop signs in Cyrillic letters that felt strangely familiar yet with some crazy spider like «Ж»’s and reversed «Я»’s. At a kiosk he bought a small book of Kupala’s poems, the kind printed on thin paper that smells faintly of dust.  He asked the kiosk lady for a pen and signed it for me “To Augie for hearing me truly, Janka, Minsk, June 2025.” 

I thought a tender kiss on the cheek was due, even in downtown Minsk, and he… accepted.

By noon we boarded a local train heading west. It was an old Soviet model, the kind that still smelled of metal and window grease. The seats were wooden, there was no air conditioning, and it was blistering hot when we hit sunny spots along the route. Outside, the city gave way to endless fields — pale green rye, forests of birch, villages with blue-painted fences and crooked wells. Janka leaned close so I could hear him over the clatter of wheels and said, “Get ready for something you’ve never seen!  The misty lake at night, my God, you’ll remember it forever!”

We arrived at a small village that didn’t appear on my map. A dirt road led past a line of pear trees to a wooden house painted mint blue, roof sagging but sturdy. His grandmother met us at the gate, short and brisk, with a scarf tied under her chin. She spoke only Belarusian, but warmth needed no translation. Lunch was simple and perfect: a pot of potato stew with dill, hard-boiled eggs, cucumbers floating in vinegar, thick slices of rye bread, and kvass poured from a chipped jug. She called me “the foreign poet.” I nodded, because it was easier than explaining journalism.

After lunch, the heat softened. We followed a group of villagers down to the river. Women and children sat in circles weaving flower wreaths — wild chamomile, ferns, cornflowers, yarrow. Janka showed me how to twist the stems and knot them tight with grass. Mine kept falling apart. He laughed, took it from me, and redid the weave carefully, his fingers brushing mine. The smell of crushed flowers and river mud filled the air. Somewhere behind us, someone started singing an old song — a thin, high melody that seemed to belong to no one in particular.

At sunset, the bonfire was lit. The whole village gathered — young couples, old women in headscarves, kids chasing each other through the smoke. Flames rose in orange sheets, sparks floating upward like new stars. People sang and clapped, jumping the fire in pairs, shouting names, laughter echoing through the field. Janka turned to me and said, “We should try.” I hesitated, pretending to weigh the idea, but he didn’t wait. He grabbed my wrist and ran. The heat hit first, then the roar, then the cool air on the other side. My heart slammed against my ribs. He was grinning at me, this broad-framed gray-eyed guy who looked like the Belarusian version of a cowboy, his eyes brighter than the fire.

After midnight, the music and the crowd drifted toward the lake. The path was narrow, lit by the glow of candles floating in wreaths. The water was still, black glass reflecting the sky. Janka told me that if a wreath floats toward someone, it means your heart has found its twin. He said it lightly, but I heard something under it — the same quiet ache he carried when he spoke about poetry, or home. Our wreaths floated quietly into the mist along with others and soon disappeared.

***

We stepped out of our crumpled clothes onto the silent pier and slipped into water glass-calm, so still the moon lay on it like a polished coin. Cool silk licked up my shins, my thighs, until the hush closed over my waist; mist curled off the surface and wrapped us in pale gauze, hiding everything beyond an arm’s reach. Janka’s fingers found mine underwater, tugged me closer, and our chests met with a soft, wet clap that sent the tiniest ripples skating outward—only to die at once, swallowed by the lake.

Out past the reeds we could hear muffled laughter, splashes, the low drumbeat of other couples chasing Kupala magic, but here by the leaning boat pier we were our own small country. Janka’s breath grazed my ear, warmer than the night air; he brushed my hip and I felt him half-hard already, the glide of skin on skin sparking under the mist. Every slow movement felt magnified, as if the lake itself held its breath while we measured heartbeats against each other, waiting for the next quiet shift that would tell us both to move deeper.

Janka’s arms circled my waist from behind, chest sealing to my spine as he murmured against my neck, voice low and breathy:

 “On the Kupalle night the mist of the lake will hide us, the fire will cleanse us, the water will float us, our love will ennoble us.”

Each word carried a tremor of Belarusian vowels, the raw translation tasting like smoke and honey on my skin. He turned me gently, mouth finding mine, and the kiss felt half poem, half prayer—soft at first, then hungrier, his tongue sliding in time with the slow rock of hips that brought us groin to groin, heat meeting heat while the mist curled thicker around our shoulders.

His cock—short but thick—nudged mine, both of us slick below the surface; under the water they slid side to side, heads kissing, shafts crossing like bowstrings. Janka kept whispering, raw Belarusian syllables tumbling against my lips, each breath a line of that unrhymed love poem while his heart hammered into my ribs and the lake cradled us, buoyant and secret, mist swallowing every small, wet sound we made.

His palm closed around us, one firm sheath squeezing cock to cock, skin sliding on skin with the lake’s own slickness. Heat surged up my spine, sudden and bright, as if the water itself had turned electric. Through the hush I caught faint wet clicks and muffled moans somewhere off in the mist—other lovers finding each other—and the echo made my pulse skip; it felt like the whole lake was breathing with us. Janka’s fist pumped slow, thumb rubbing the twin heads on each upstroke, while his other arm cinched my waist, lifting me just enough to feel the dense power in his shoulders, a quiet strength he’d never shown outside these moonlit minutes. His kiss swallowed my gasp, tongue pushing in time with each tug, and I realized how completely he could hold me, move me, own me—strength disguised by gentle words now stripped bare in the dark.

My feet left the silt as Janka’s forearm hooked under my ass, lifting me onto him, then easing me back down—slow strokes that rocked us both. Hot kisses burned against my cold lips; lake water lapped my shoulders while his fist kept working us, knuckles tight. Each upward tug peeled my foreskin back over the swollen crown, a bright sting that shot straight to my gut, mixing with the chill and the heat until I couldn’t tell pain from pleasure, only that I wanted the next lift, the next slick drag, the next breath he stole from me.

I’d always thought I was packing plenty, but Janka’s cock—shorter, yes—felt like iron wrapped in velvet, thicker, harder, unyielding inside his stroking fist, the way the man himself was compact and immovable. He found a spot just below my ear where his lips and the edge of teeth met skin; the moment he sucked there I moaned loud enough to scatter the mist. While he lifted me again, slid me down that rigid shaft, he kept whispering against my neck: “What do people know, have they ever felt the love of two souls that soar? What do people know, have they ever shot arrows of love into the morning air?” Each soft line clashed with the next rough thrust, fingers digging into my hip, water slapping our chests—gentle poetry and brute rhythm twisting me tighter until I couldn’t tell verse from the spike of pleasure shooting up my spine.

Janka spun me toward the leaning pier; rough wood grazed my palms as I gripped it, legs floating wide. His fingers trailed down my spine, parted me with a gentle spread that felt almost courteous—then the blunt head found its mark and slid home, no burn, just a slick pop and a flood of heat. Surprise fluttered through me: I was already open, relaxed from all that charged stroking. His short, thick cock nudged straight onto my prostate, each thrust a firm, perfect press that made my thighs spasm. Gone were the whispered verses—now only sharp little grunts left his throat, punctuating every pump. Water sloshed around us; I shoved back to meet him, matching his cadence, the pier creaking in time while sparks lit behind my eyes.

I felt Janka’s breath hot on my shoulder-blades, his hard nipples grazing my back each time he drove in; the scratch of his hairy chest rasped against my skin, sending small sparks down my spine. Underwater his strong legs brushed mine with every roll of his hips, a slick collision that kept me spread and steady. The rhythmic slap of water against the pier posts sounded like a drumbeat for our fuck, and even though the lake chilled my skin I stayed rock-hard—heat pulsing up my hole, sweet cold ache pooling beneath my balls, the contrast twisting me tighter with every short, solid thrust.

I caught the hush breaking apart around us—women’s moans threading through the mist, a clumsy splash, another couple’s laughter drifting closer until shadows moved like ghosts only three metres off. The discovery thrilled me, I loved to know that in time with us everyone else was surrendering to the same Kupalle spell.

Meanwhile Janka’s hips settled into a piston rhythm, almost mechanical, each stroke identical in depth and force; his exhales cooled against my back, coming ragged now, edged with small rasping curses—“blyad…s-sss-uka…”—that proved the engine was overheating yet refusing to stall. In that relentless drive I felt the full bulk of the man who fed cows and hauled hay all summer—Janka the guide, steady and instructive, had vanished, replaced by this tireless, silent power plant hammering for its finish. The contrast sent a fresh ripple up my spine: behind me it was the gentle poet, the patient teacher, now stripped to raw, bullish necessity.

Janka’s forearm snapped around my throat, pulling me flush against his chest; for a heartbeat he simply stood there, cock buried to the hilt while his lungs worked like bellows. Then the choke tightened—gentle but unmistakable—and he started again, thighs quivering, each thrust now a shudder instead of a stroke. I felt the tremor travel through his shaft straight into my core; the warm itch coiled behind my balls, then crept up my urethra like slow mercury. Shivers raced my spine in time with his ragged growls, legs barely holding us. One final, juddering slam ground my prostate, the coil snapped, and I came hard—silent, shaking, held upright only by the arm at my neck and the cock still pushing and pushing me.

Janka felt the first clench around his shaft and stilled, letting the ripples go through him as I shuddered from the powerful orgasm, muttering something incomprehensible in the dirtiest English I could think of.  In response, he pressed open-mouthed kisses to my damp neck.

The thick heat then slid out of me—one slow drag, then that blunt pop—and suddenly I was empty, open water where he’d been. A shocked gasp tore out of my throat, echoing off the pier posts, legs wobbling as cool lake rushed in to fill the space he’d left. I had to grip the splintered wood harder just to stay upright, thighs trembling while the echo of him throbbed inside me like a missing beat.

Janka spun me by the shoulders until we stood chest-to-chest, water lapping at our collarbones as he pounded his cock underwater, catching up with me.  His eyes locked on mine, but they weren’t seeing me—something deeper burned behind them. First flashed a wince, like the cold lake bit too hard; then came pure exhaustion, shoulders sagging as if the night had poured lead into his bones. A flicker of anger followed, jaw clenched so tight the muscle jumped, directed at no one and at everything—at the ache in his thighs, at the need still coiled in his gut. He sucked a breath through bared teeth, shook the fog from his hair, and started again: fist pumping underwater, forearm sending small waves that splashed against my face, his elbow knocking my ribs with each hard stroke.

Renewed purpose hardened his face—lips peeled back, nostrils flared—and I watched the transformation like a private sunrise. His Adam’s apple jerked with every swallowed grunt, cords standing out in his neck while the water around us churned in small, frantic whirlpools. Eyes squeezed shut, he lost rhythm for a second, then found it again. A low growl climbed his throat, growing louder, rawer, until his whole frame locked—knees knocking mine, chest heaving—and the final roar tore free, echoing across the mist as his release pulsed into the lake, invisible but unmistakable against my thigh.

I’ve always loved the throb of a man emptying inside me, but feeling those hot pulses slap my thigh beneath the lake sent its own wild shiver through my gut—secret, visible only to us. Janka’s arms snapped around me, water sluicing between our chests as he hauled me close; our mouths crashed together, tongues sliding salty and slow while the last of him drifted off like a ghost in the current. I melted against him, weightless, the hard beat of his heart thudding into my ribs until the only sound left was the soft lap of water on the pier and the quiet pull of our mingled breath.

I’d lie to you if I said he was a good kisser; he wasn’t.  But the brief fuck with his thick short cock in the warm lake has remained one of the most unforgettable experiences for me.  Love him I did not; he was too rough and too manly for my taste, too much like a straight guy doing a reluctant service to a friend (even with the poetry lines), but the heat of him against the cool of the water and the moans of women enjoying about the same thing somewhere close—it still makes me hard, like right now as I write this.  I think this is where I (and you, my reader) may need a break before I finish.

***

… When we finally walked back, the air smelled of smoke and wet grass. His grandmother was asleep. We sat under the pear tree in our crumpled shorts, sharing a bottle of homemade nalivka. The night had gone silent except for frogs and a far-off accordion still playing by the lake. Janka leaned against the trunk, looking up at the stars through the leaves. He didn’t say much; he rarely did. I wanted to ask if he ever felt safe here, but I knew the answer.

… At the airport, the spell of Kupalle felt already far away. Minsk looked sharp-edged again — no music, no smoke, just pale light on glass and concrete. Janka carried my bag as if it weighed nothing. He’d changed back into the version of himself that fit this world: clean-shaven, shoulders squared, voice lower, measured. A man’s man again. Standing beside him, I realized how carefully he built that armor every morning.

We stood by the gate where the announcements drowned every thought. No embraces, of course. Just a long handshake — steady, formal, too long for strangers, too short for what we had gone through just a day ago. He smiled that half-smile he used when he meant everything and nothing at once. “We’ll meet again soon,” he said. I nodded, because lies like that sometimes feel like mercy. When I looked back one last time, he was already walking away, tall against the window light, fading into the crowd that never looked twice.

…Two years later Ivan got married. Now he has two cute twin boys, as sturdy and strong as their daddy.  His wife is the sweetest girl I have ever met, when we had a short reunion in Minsk between my flights. I sometimes wonder if he reads her poems or if on the Kupalle night he visits the remote pier with another guy.

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

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When Viktor enrolled in the Conservatory, he never imagined how pivotal Professor Elias Thorne would become in his life. Elias was a formidable presence, known for his exacting standards and unrelenting discipline. Students whispered about his strictness, about the time he made a boy play Tchaikovsky’s Violin Concerto for six hours straight until his fingers couldn’t hold the bow anymore, and his knees buckled. And yet, those who emerged from his tutelage played as if the violin itself had chosen them.

From the moment Professor Thorne heard Viktor play at his audition, he had seen potential in him. “You have talent, but you play like a boy, which is wrong for this piece,” he had said, his voice cool and dispassionate, his sharp blue eyes locking onto Viktor’s with an intensity that made the room feel smaller. “And you must also learn to listen. Not just to the music, but to the sound inside the violin. It is alive, Viktor. And if you do not honor it, it will never honor you.”

Their lessons were grueling. Daily, Viktor would stand in Elias’s studio, the walls lined with portraits of great violinists, their gazes serving as an unspoken reminder of the heights he had yet to reach. His fingers would ache from endless etudes and scales, his shoulders grew more and more tense from maintaining the perfect posture under Elias’s watchful stare. The professor was merciless in his critiques. A misplaced note, a lack of emotional depth, even the way Viktor tightened his bow would provoke a lecture, Elias’s voice a low rumble that echoed off the wooden floors.

“Again!” he would command, his eyes narrowing as Viktor stumbled through Paganini’s Caprice No. 24. “You think this is music? This is noise, Viktor. Start over.” Elias would pace the room then, his tall frame casting long shadows, his hands—strong from years of wielding a bow—gesturing sharply to emphasize each flaw.

Sometimes, Viktor would leave the studio with tears stinging his eyes, his confidence shattered, the weight of Elias’s disappointment like a physical ache. Yet, somehow, he always returned. Elias had a way of igniting something inside him, a spark that refused to die—a mix of fear and fascination that kept Viktor showing up, bow in hand, heart pounding.In their quieter moments, Elias would tell him stories about the pieces they worked on, his voice dropping to a gravelly timbre that made Viktor’s skin prickle.

One day, as Viktor struggled through Tchaikovsky’s Violin Concerto, Elias stopped him midway and said, “This piece, Viktor, was born of deep sorrow. Tchaikovsky was trapped in his own world of despair, and yet he poured all of it into this concerto. It’s not just a concerto—it’s a cry, a plea to be understood.”

His voice softened, and for the first time, Viktor saw vulnerability in him—the faint lines around Elias’s eyes crinkling with memory, his broad shoulders slumping just a fraction. “When you play this, let the agony fill you, but don’t let it break you. You have to live with it, breathe it. Only then can the music live.” Elias stepped closer then, his hand hovering near Viktor’s arm as if to steady him, the warmth of his presence cutting through the chill of the room.

Viktor nodded, feeling the weight of his words settle like a hand on his chest. He realized then that Elias was not just teaching him technique but how to understand the life of the music—and perhaps, in glimpses, the man behind the maestro.

Another time, as they tackled Shostakovich’s Violin Concerto No. 1, Elias explained, “Shostakovich composed this concerto as an act of defiance, a refusal to bow to the political pressures of his time. It’s a battle. You must channel his anger, his resistance, Viktor. When you play the Passacaglia, think of the times he was silenced, the countless voices that were crushed beneath tyranny. Let that rage fuel your bow.” As he spoke, Elias’s jaw tightened, his own history flickering in his gaze—a subtle scar on his knuckle catching the light, a reminder of battles fought beyond the strings.By his final year, Viktor had transformed. His playing had gained a depth and maturity that left even the most skeptical professors in awe. Elias still critiqued him fiercely, his voice a whipcrack of precision, but his eyes would occasionally betray a flicker of pride—a softening at the corners, a lingering look that made Viktor’s pulse stutter.

On the day of his graduation recital, Viktor chose to perform Bach’s Chaconne. It was a piece that had once terrified him with its complexity and emotional weight, but now, it felt like a part of him. As he played, he poured every ounce of his being into the violin, his fingers dancing over the strings as if possessed, the notes rising like a confession.When he finished, Elias rose from his chair in the front row. For a moment, he said nothing, and Viktor feared he had disappointed him—the silence stretching taut as a bowstring. Then, without warning, Elias enveloped him in a hug. It was not the precise, calculated gesture Viktor might have expected from him, but a firm embrace, warm and unrestrained, Elias’s solid chest pressing against Viktor’s, his arms wrapping around with a strength that spoke of restraint finally broken. The scent of rosin and aged cologne filled Viktor’s senses.

“Viktor,” Elias said softly, his voice thick with emotion against Viktor’s ear, “you’ve made me very proud.”

***

After graduation, a new rhythm emerged. About every two weeks Elias would climb the narrow staircase at four sharp, scarf doubled against the cold, and knock the brass plate twice—measured, like a metronome. Viktor would open the door, ready for what they both knew was coming.

When Viktor welcomed Elias at his apartment, he always opened the door as soon as the professor’s finger touched the ring.  Elias would step inside, the door clicking shut like a secret sealed, and pull Viktor into a hug—firm, lingering—making sure he felt the young man’s cock press against his abdomen or thigh through the thin fabric of his dress pants, or his shorts, or his sport sweatpants, depending on the weather, depending on the mood.

From this embrace, Viktor’s cock usually stirred to life, from a semi-flaccid four inches to an insistent six, the bare cock head nudging against the fabric as blood rushed in. A subtle twitch would betray his arousal: it would buzz like a bow humming before the first touch on the strings.

They’d settle on the worn couch and share stories—stories of recitals past, critiques turned to quiet praises, meetings they had, new places they’d been to, surprising new discoveries about each other’s life–every time.  It was never a hurried conversation; it was the part they enjoyed, too, looking into each other’s eyes, smiling knowingly.   Elias’s hand would wander casually to Viktor’s thigh, like when emphasizing a point about phrasing in some music piece, his delicate long fingers ghosting the area where the fabric stretched to accommodate the proud parts of Viktor’s young body.

After a while, Elias would murmur quietly: “Would you play for me?” Viktor would nod, throat tight with anticipation, and rise to fetch his violin from its case in another room. He’d return stripped bare, his rock-hard erection jutting straight forward like a conductor’s baton—almost seven inches of flushed, throbbing flesh, the foreskin now fully peeled back to expose the swollen, plum-colored glans glistening with a pearl of precum at the slit, one vein slithering down the shaft to the base of his cock.  His small balls would be drawn tight in their wrinkled sac, swaying slightly with each step.

Elias’s gaze would darken, hungry yet reverent, as Viktor lifted the instrument to his shoulder, bow poised—his own cock now betraying him, too.  Elias would sit in the armchair with his fly unzipped halfway, the thick bare head peeking out, the hidden shaft curving upward.  Then there was usually a low, involuntary groan rumbling from Elias’s chest like distant thunder, as Viktor took his position in front of him.

The first notes would float out—rich, aching tones from Bach’s Chaconne—and Viktor’s body would respond in kind, his cock a living extension of the melody. Precum would ooze from his tip in a steady drip, hanging like a silken thread all the way to the floor, the shaft contracting rhythmically—twitching upward in sharp, staccato jerks on the high notes, then relaxing with a languid sway on the sustained bows, the skin slicking further to a glossy sheen, color shifting from rosy to a heated scarlet along the frenulum as arousal built. Wet, schlicking sounds would accompany each pulse, the drip elongating and snapping free with a soft plink against the wood, his balls tightening further like drawn strings, quivering with the vibration from his bowing arm.

Elias would sit motionless across from him, legs spread wide in the armchair, his fist now loosely encircling his dick, perhaps more reluctant to rise up proud but still hard under soft skin. He would run his hand up and down that hidden shaft in slow, syncing strokes, his arm flexing in time with the music’s lilt, a deeper flush creeping up from the base as the hand slapped wetly against his balls on downbeats. His breathing would come in ragged harmony, a bass counterpoint to Viktor’s soaring lines.

As the piece built to its climax, the music swelling in polyphonic fury, Viktor’s cock would mirror the crescendo—straining impossibly harder, the glans ballooning to a shiny, angry red, veins throbbing like strings about to snap, precum flowing in thicker rivulets now, coating the shaft in glistening trails.

He would shift, planting one foot forward so the rhythmic drive from his bowing arm would ripple down, a teasing vibration that grazed and tickled his drawn-up balls, sending electric sparks up his length. The cumshot would then hit like the final, exultant chord—his body arching as a bow at full draw, hips bucking involuntarily, and his cock would erupt in violent spasms, the slit dilating wide as spurts of cum jetted forth with forceful pulses: the first blast arcing high and far, a hot, pearly stream splattering at Elias’s feet with a wet splat, followed by three more erratic spurts—each contraction milking out creamy white jets that sailed in diminishing arcs, the shaft recoiling with each ejection, balls contracting visibly in their sac, a guttural moan tearing from Viktor’s throat to blend with the fading notes.  Soon his glans twitched in aftershocks, dribbling the last pearly remnants down the cooling, spent cock as it softened fractionally, still semi-rigid and flushed.

Then, in almost full silence, Elias would moan—it was a deep, guttural  sound Viktor had only heard coming from him in his dreams—the older man’s hand would now be buried fully now in his open fly, fisting his erection with urgent, twisting pulls, the full length now slick and trembling.  He then would snarl and growl, with each stomp of his foot against the floor—thud, groan, thud—wet smacks echoing as precum frothed over his knuckles. His moans built, first quiet and restrained, then raw and demanding, hips would thrust into his hand as the shaft flexed wildly, balls—larger and heavier than Viktor’s, hanging low in a loose, dusted sac—slapping audibly against his thigh with each fervent pump, the entire length quivering in sync with the music’s ghost.

Elias’s gaze would flick to the puddle of Viktor’s cum glistening before him, and a shudder would rip through his frame, his strokes faltering into a final, twisting pull that had him spilling over his knuckles with a choked curse—”Fuck, Vitya”—hot spurts arcing onto his floor next to Viktor’s in four heavy pulses, the cockhead flaring with each jet, cum thick and copious, splattering with sticky thwacks as the shaft would slowly deflate in his loosening grip, retreating to a thick, satisfied five inches slicked in its own pearly aftermath.

After a long, charged silence, Elias would straighten, tucking himself away with trembling hands, his face flushed beneath the silver at his temples. He would rise unsteadily, crossing to Viktor in two strides, cupping the younger man’s jaw with a tenderness that belied the fire in his eyes. “God, Viktor… I’m so, so sorry,” he murmured, voice rough with aftershocks, pressing a fierce kiss to Viktor’s forehead. “So sorry, Vitya—I have to go.” And he’d leave hurriedly, coat snatched from the hook, the door echoing shut behind him…

Sometimes Viktor would call after him, but in vain. “Sorry, sorry about that, Vitya, I am weak… thank you, thank you, oh, God, sorry again.”

Viktor would smile every time, knowing that he would return two weeks later, scotch in hand again, the cycle of hunger reigniting at the first stroke of a bow.

---

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

---

Aaron

He felt weightless in the water. Smooth and fast, coursing through the pool’s clear blue like a jet stream. It surrounded him like a warm, liquid blanket, muffling all the noise of the world but the hum of the filter and the echo of the splashes. In the water, his mind could finally synchronize with the rest of his body, going blank except for that practiced rhythm… inhale, stroke, exhale, stroke. In all of Aaron’s nineteen years, the water had been the only place he’d ever truly felt at peace. His worries, his fears, his anxieties, all of it seemed to slip away underwater. 

He touched the wall and surfaced with a gasp, pulling his goggles up to his forehead. His chest rose and fell, and he blinked as his eyes adjusted to the daylight shifting around him. He looked up at Coach Jackson, who stepped up to the edge, clipboard in hand. He squinted at his stopwatch. “Fifty-five seconds,” he said, scribbling the time on his log. “That’s not bad, Matthews. Not bad at all. Keep it up, alright? We can shave off another half-second by next month. Sound good?”

Aaron gave a breathless smile as he vaulted himself out of the water and into the cool, damp air. “Yeah, great. For sure,” he said with a nod, still catching his breath. Coach Jackson clapped him on the butt with a grin before turning to bark at another swimmer. Aaron’s bare legs trembled slightly as he walked to grab his towel, not from exhaustion, but from the rush, the sweet ache he only found here. He slung his towel around his shoulders and stepped into the misty heat of the showers. 

He had to press the button a few times before the shower turned on. When it did, he closed his eyes, letting the warm fresh water rinse away the slight stickiness of the chlorine pool. His hands ran up and down the long, lean muscles of his form like he was a sculptor admiring his work. He’d definitely toned up since he started at Berkeley almost a year ago. He was already in great shape when he left home, but the intense practices and training had carved him into something stronger, more defined. He massaged his toned chest and his hand traveled down his abs, only stopping when he cupped his bulge. 

He glanced around, suddenly embarrassed, but there was no one else in the showers. He closed his eyes again, succumbing to the running water that trickled down the lines of his body. He rubbed his growing bulge through his tight blue speedo. The biological desires of a nineteen-year-old boy raced through his mind. Bouncing tits, round asses, pink pussies. He thought about Megan, her perfect body, and how much better it would look in his bed, naked. Her full lips, her long, silky blonde hair, her perfume, her laugh. He moaned in his mind, feeling his hard dick pop out of the waistband of his speedo. 

His cock was already slicked with sudsy water and it slipped so easily into the palm of his hand. With slow, soapy circles he jerked off thinking of her. He could almost feel the tight walls of her pussy hugging his dick as he thrusted in and out of her. His hips naturally bucked forward and a spasm of pleasure melted through him. A few more pumps and he could feel his balls tensing, his toes curling. He thought again of her screaming his name as his dick exploded and filled her up… and he felt ropes of thick, hot cum spurt all over his hand and up the wall. 

As he caught his ragged breath in the steam, a gaggle of voices pulled him back to the present moment and he turned away just as some other students strolled into the showers, swinging towels and cocks. “A-Ron,” one of them nodded. He felt a pinch and looked down with a start, awkwardly stuffing his boner back into his speedo. 

“Yeah, hey,” he said, smiling sheepishly, his face reddening. He swiped his hand under the stream and hoped they wouldn’t catch the scent of his cum in the moist air that was already so thick with musk. 

After his shower, he put on his work clothes — slim black trousers, black button-up dress shirt, and his black Vans. He threw on his grey UC Berkeley hoodie and hurried out of the locker room with his backpack slung over one shoulder. The time on his phone read 4:42. He’d be late again he realized with a half sigh, half groan. 

About an hour later, he pulled into the parking garage near his work. He finally allowed himself to breathe. He had a whole fifteen minutes before the start of his shift. He did almost get into accident speeding on the freeway, but… he wasn’t going to be late. The golden sun had just begun to set over the glittering bay and the skyline of downtown San Francisco. 

PING.

He picked up his phone. 

---

5:48 PM

Mom: Hey Bean! I hope work and school is going well.

Mom: Are you working at the restaurant or the gas station tonight?

5:49 PM

Hey mom. Ya it’s going good. 

Restaurant lol

5:49 PM

Mom: You know I hate asking but rent is due next week. Emily’s meds went up again, otherwise I wouldn’t ask. Work has been slow for me. I was hoping you’d help me out again this month like before. 

5:51 PM

Mom: I will pay you back as soon as I am able. This hurts me as much as it hurts you baby. I can promise you that. 

5:51 PM

K. I’ll send half. Still 500 right?

5:51 PM

Mom: Thank you baby!! I love you so much. We miss you. 

---

“Okay, who ordered the lasagna? Oh, right here. Perfect. And the calamari… yep.” He set down the steaming plates. “Okay, guys, let me know if you need anything else at all. How are we doing with the drinks? Some more waters? Absolutely. I’ll be right back, okay? Enjoy.” His smile dropped as soon as he turned away from the table, and it took all his willpower to not roll his eyes. 

He’d been working at Peninsula’s for about nine months. The Italian restaurant was nestled in the heart of San Francisco’s financial district. It liked to pretend it was the kind of place where you needed reservations for weeks in advance, but the host stand was always dead by nine o’clock. The fake chandeliers were always buzzing or flickering overhead until a disgruntled teenage employee (like Aaron) got bored enough to change the bulbs. Every table seemed to have its own bottle of overpriced Chianti or a California red marked up by 400%, poured into glassware stained by hard water. 

The guests too were just as fake. Between loud financiers in loose suits and messy girls with designer knock offs, Peninsula’s seemed to attract those desperate to perform a lifestyle they couldn’t afford to live themselves. But each one of them still paid $38 for a plate of pasta that had come from the back of a freezer. Aaron quickly learned to laugh harder and smile wider whenever someone mentioned their Tesla or flashed a fake Rolex. They didn’t just pay for overpriced food, they paid for flattery, for ego-stroking, and Aaron had gotten very good at stroking egos. 

He checked up on some other tables and then ducked behind the service counter. He grabbed two clean glasses, some fresh napkins, and the stainless steel pitcher than was sweating in his palm. The ice machine rattled, a line cook yelled, “Pick up for five!” Other servers rushed by him, a very blonde woman laughed but it sounded more like a choking bird, and the speakers blared jazz covers of pop songs. He took a moment to inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale….

“Aaron. Aaron.” He felt her hand graze his shoulder and he turned. Megan’s blue eyes smiled before the rest of her face. She looked mischievous. “I’ve got an eight-top for you. Table twelve. Stockbrokers. They wanted Marissa, but she’s full. So… I sat them in your section. It’s all yours.” Aaron laughed softly. 

“You’re welcome?” she suggested after a moment, tilting her head to read his face. 

Aaron feigned excitement. “Aw, eight douchey finance bros. All for me?”

She playfully hit his arm and then helped him fill the glasses with water. “Yes, sir,” she said, her voice thick with sarcasm. “Guys like that love you. You’re like our number one girl.” 

“Damn,” Aaron laughed, setting down the pitcher. “I mean, I know how to make money, if that’s what you’re trying to say.”

“You just better think about me when you tip out tonight, okay? They’re already looking at the wine lists and you know it’s a dick-measuring competition over there,” she said as she made a jerk off motion behind the counter. Aaron snorted a laugh and nudged her. His eyes lingered on Megan’s and he felt his cheeks blush. 

“Oh, great. More people,” she said. She stepped away toward the host stand and then turned, whispering, “Just unbutton your shirt a little. Always works for me.” She winked, and with another giggle she set off to greet the new wave of diners. With her laughter playing over in his mind, he set the waters on a tray and grabbed a bread basket for another table. He slipped back into the chaos of the dining room with his smile just slightly more genuine. 

When he approached table twelve, he could already feel the eyes on him. It was like a frat reunion in suits, and he knew that look all too well. Aaron didn’t have tits and he had singlehandedly ruined their night. 

“Welcome to Peninsula’s, gentlemen. My name is Aaron. I’ll be taking care of you guys tonight. Can I get you started with some drinks?”

One of them finally cleared his throat, swallowing his disappointment. “Yeah, I’ll just get an old fashioned. Thanks.” He didn’t even look up from the drink menu. 

“I’ll get the same,” said another. 

“A Corona for me. Two limes.”

“Yeah, let’s do a round of tequila shots for the table. Hey, boys?” A chorus of equal parts groans and cheers was the response. 

“Perfect,” Aaron didn’t even have to write anything down. It was almost always the same thing every time. “And for you, sir?” Aaron smiled expectantly at the man who sat closest to him. He looked like he was in his late 40s. Tall, thin, and pale with beady black eyes and a salt-and-pepper goatee dusting chin. He studied Aaron’s face for a beat too long and then smiled back. 

“A glass of your best red for me, buddy. Any recommendations?”

“Yeah, of course,” Aaron said with a smile. He was quick to put on his sommelier hat. “Are we feeling like something full-bodied or maybe something a little lighter tonight?”

“Full-bodied,” he said immediately, still not talking his eyes off of Aaron. He licked his lips. “Always full-bodied. If I’m gonna drop $200 on a bottle then I want something that actually tastes like something.” That got some guffaws from the other men. Aaron offered up his most convincing chuckle. 

“Well, then I’d go with the Chianti Classico. It’s balanced, not too dry. It’s been very popular tonight and—”

“Yeah? Has it?” Something about the man’s tone made Aaron uncomfortable, which wasn’t easy to do after so long working with the public. It was different than the usual patronizing condescension. He said everything so carefully like he was setting up some elaborate joke that only he was in on. His eyes seemed to move across Aaron’s face, his hands, his chest, his crotch, his legs. It was almost as if the man was inspecting him like cattle… or worse. “How long did it take you to memorize that little speech?” The whole table laughed, quick and mean, except the man with the goatee. He waited for Aaron’s response, like a predator stalking its prey. 

Still, Aaron’s practiced smile didn’t slip. “Oh, not too long. I’m a quick learner. I actually don’t even have to say the whole thing anymore, because most people don’t let me finish and just order whatever sounds the most expensive.”

The ripple of laughter turned. It was still at Aaron’s expense but now good-natured. 

“Most people don’t let you finish?” he asked with mock concern. “Now, that’s just not right.” Another wave of barking laughter. Aaron started to feel a knot of anger tighten in his throat. “What’s your best red?” He repeated the question. His tone was more pointed now, more direct. The others had gone quiet now, eager to see how he would volley. 

Aaron swallowed before he answered. “Well, I guess it depends on the man who’s drinking it. Some guys like a smooth ride, other guys like something that makes them work a little harder.” A couple of the men laughed. Again, the man with the goatee didn’t laugh, but he smiled a crooked smile and weighed the retort. “So,” Aaron said, his tone sharp yet professional, “what kind of man are you?”

The man’s smile flickered, almost approvingly. “We’ll take two bottles of the Chianti.”

Aaron nodded. “That’s what I thought. I’ll be right back with your drinks, gentlemen.” The man finally laughed along with the rest of the table and Aaron locked eyes with him before he turned to leave. As he walked away, he could feel the man’s gaze on him, like he was groping him telepathically. The thought of it made Aaron walk slightly quicker. He was used to being belittled and mocked by men with egos bigger than their bank accounts, but this somehow felt worse. He felt dirty, like he had taken part in some sort of mental game against his will. 

He came back with their drinks, and more drinks, and more drinks, and then appetizers, entrees, and even some desserts. By the end of the night, they had racked up a monstrous check. It was more than Aaron’s weekly pay. The laughter that flowed so easily before had softened to a low argument over the total. A few of them were red-faced and glassy-eyed, talking over one another as they struggled to divide the bill. Aaron stood a few steps back, his customer service smile locked in place as he waited patiently for the pack to decide. 

It was nearing eleven now, and the dining room had thinned out. This was the last table standing between Aaron and his bed. Silverware clinked behind the service counter, the faint reek of spilled wine and truffle oil hung low in the air. Finally, the man with the goatee snatched the check from the table. “It’s on me,” he said, more to Aaron than to his peers, who all protested politely. He signed quickly, scrawled a number that made the others wince, and slid the folder to Aaron. Their fingers brushed as Aaron picked it up, but he forced himself to avoid eye contact. “Thank you,” the man said, his voice softer and hushed, as if he wanted Aaron to catch every syllable, “for keeping up with me.” Aaron could smell the wine on his breath. He nodded, smiled tightly, and began clearing the table as the men slipped out and shuffled around him. 

He didn’t even open the folder until after they had left and the doors were locked behind them.  Inside was a crisp $100 bill, folded once, and a sleek-looking black business card. There was no name, no numbers, just a QR code and a strange design of a snake twisted in a knot, embossed in silver. Beneath the total and the generous $500 gratuity, there was a message scrawled in cursive:

For a smooth ride.

For a moment, he just stared at it, thumb tracing the edge. He felt Megan step up to him and he slipped it in his back pocket, along with the cash. 

“So, did you satisfy them,” she said while trying to balance an armload of slippery menus. 

Aaron showed her the check and couldn’t help himself from smiling when he saw her face light up. “It think that’s pretty good, hey? I wouldn’t know though, because I’m not a dickrider.”

“Five-hundred dollars? As in five-hundred dollars?”

“I don’t know what to say,” Aaron said with a cheesy smile. “They loved me.”

Her eyes fell to his chest and she snickered. Aaron instinctively looked down and noticed that the top two buttons of his shirt had become undone somehow over the course of the night. He suddenly felt hot with embarrassment as he hurried to do them up. 

“Look at you,” she said, practically beaming. “I’m so proud of you.” 

“Hey, it was really hot in here tonight, alright?” He secured the last buttoned. “Right?”

“I never said that it wasn’t hot.” There was beat between them that hung in the air like a spark. “Now, hurry up and bus, boy. Bus!” She laughed to herself as she slinked away. “I wanna go home.” As Aaron finished clearing up, he felt that heat in his chest bloom into something else, something warmer, and he grinned like an idiot. Still, his mind went back to the sleek black card in his pocket and the way the man looked at him, like something hungry… like Aaron was on the menu. 

When Aaron finally got home it was past midnight and he could barely make it to the front door. His legs felt like they weighed one ton each and he was positive that his shoes were filled with dried blood. Every muscle in his body hummed with the ache that came after too many hours on his feet. A different ache than the kind he chased in the pool. The house was quiet, the lights were off. A fan droned from a bedroom upstairs. His roommates were asleep. He shook his head when he saw the dirty dishes piled up in the sink, the pizza boxes on the counter stacked beside discarded red solo cups. Old leftovers in uncovered pots and far, far too many condiments for one household was all he found in the fridge. He decided he was too tired to eat. 

He stripped down to just his boxers and tossed his work clothes to the floor in a heap. He moaned out loud when he threw himself onto his bed. 

PING.

---

12:14 AM

Mom: How was your night Bean?

---

“Shit,” he said with a heavy sigh. He swiped open his banking app. His thumb hesitated for just a second before he sent $500 from his savings to his mom’s contact. Half a grand gone in three little taps. He hated that slow, sinking, crushing feeling that only meant another massive leap backwards. It was for rent this time, like the month before. It had been the car the month before that, and the furnace before that, and always Emily’s meds. Every time he gave her what she needed, borrowing from his student loans, and every time she promised to pay him back. She never did. He still remembered the Christmas Eve their landlord changed the locks to their old house, his mother crying in the driveway into a handful of losing scratchers.

---

12:17 AM

It was ok. How’s Em?

12:22 AM

??

---

He shut his phone off and turned over on his side in bed. He scoffed to himself. He thought about all the wines he upsold, all the smiles he faked, all the egos he stroked to make that money. He felt his stomach twist. For a moment he stared up at the ceiling, the room span from exhaustion. Then he remembered the man’s words. “For a smooth ride,” he whispered aloud. His eyes drifted to his pants, crumpled on the floor, the faint outline of the little black card still visible in the pocket. He hopped out of bed and fished around for the card. He flipped it around in his fingers. 

It was just curiosity. That’s what he convinced himself as he reached for his phone again. The silver QR code came into focus, neat and square on the glassy black surface. He hesitated… then tapped. 

The Solitary Surrender

The soft click of the penthouse door, a sound like a judge’s gavel, reverberated through the cavernous silence. The trial was over. The verdict delivered. Wen was gone. Charles remained, alone, left to marinate in the ruins of his own identity, a king deposed, a fortress breached, a man utterly, irrevocably changed. The air, once thick with the primal scent of battle and triumph, now hung heavy with the lingering aftermath of his defeat, a silence that screamed of absence.

He lay motionless, sprawled across the fine Egyptian cotton sheets, his body a testament to the brutal efficiency of Wen’s conquest. He was suspended in a thick, syrupy present defined by three inescapable sensations: the rhythmic, fiery throb of his arse, a pain so profound it felt like a new, insistent heartbeat, a constant, burning reminder of his humiliation; the cooling, sticky web of Wen’s semen on his skin, a conqueror’s seal, a brand upon his flesh; and the profound, soul-crushing humiliation of his own orgasm, one that echoed with the screams he had suppressed, the pleas he had not uttered. The opulent bedroom air, usually pristine and controlled, hung heavy with the lingering scent of their encounter—the animalistic tang of sweat, the sharp, evocative notes of leather from the paddle, and the victorious perfume of Wen’s climax, a ghost that would not be exorcised, a scent that clung to his skin, his hair, his very being.

Slowly, painfully, he pushed himself upright from the bed. Every muscle screamed in protest, a deep, cellular exhaustion that transcended the physical. It was the weariness of a soul that had waged war against itself for fifty-five years and had finally, decisively, lost. He felt ancient, a ruined monument to a forgotten king, his body heavy with the weight of his own surrender. He stumbled into the en-suite bathroom, a vast expanse of gleaming Italian marble and polished chrome that had always felt like an extension of his pristine, ordered control. Tonight, it felt like a tomb, a mausoleum for the man he used to be, a cold, sterile space reflecting the emptiness within him.

He halted before the full-length mirror, his reflection a stranger he recoiled from, a ghost of the titan he had once been. He forced himself to gaze upon it, to witness the evidence, to confront the stark reality of his own destruction. The man staring back was a pale, drawn specter, his powerful shoulders slumped in utter defeat, his eyes wide with a haunted, hollow despair, a raw vulnerability he had never allowed himself to see. His beard, once a symbol of his masculine authority, was now disheveled, a silent witness to his undoing.

With a dread that bordered on paralysis, a sickening anticipation, he turned his back to the mirror, craning his neck to look over his shoulder. He had to see the full extent of the damage, the complete measure of his humiliation, the physical manifestation of his shattered pride. He had to bear witness to his own defeat.

What greeted him was a masterpiece of degradation, a canvas painted with his own shame. His arse, a part of his body he had only ever considered in the most functional of terms, a mere appendage, was now a canvas of angry, inflamed red welts. The clear, sharp outlines of the paddle, a testament to the methodical nature of his punishment, stood out in stark relief, each mark a searing reminder of Wen’s absolute control. It was a shocking, brutal sight, a testament to the violence of his surrender. But it was the other detail that stole his breath, that held him transfixed in a horrifying fascination.

Wen’s cum, thick and pearlescent, was no mere random splash. It was a victor’s flag, defiantly planted on the highest peak of his conquered territory, a stark white banner against the reddened flesh. And as he watched, horrified and mesmerized, a single, thick rivulet of it, drawn by the slow, inexorable pull of gravity, began its deliberate, insistent descent, tracing a path directly towards the dark, hidden cleft of his arse, towards the virgin hole that was the very symbol of his old identity, the last bastion of his untouched self. It was an invasion in agonizing slow motion, a silent, relentless march towards his core. A promise. A threat. A prophecy unfolding before his eyes, a future he had once sworn to resist, now creeping inexorably closer.

And as he felt that single, white tendril of his conqueror’s seed making its determined journey towards his core, towards the very heart of his being, something horrifying and undeniable occurred. His cock, the very emblem of his former power, the weapon he had wielded with such ruthless efficiency, began to harden. It was no gentle, pleasurable arousal. It was an angry erection, a furious, resentful stiffening of flesh against his will, a grotesque parody of his former dominance. It was his body, that ultimate traitor, responding not with pleasure, but with a confused, rage-filled salute to its own defeat. His mind screamed in protest, in disgust, in abject horror, a cacophony of denial, but his body, his treacherous, honest body, was aroused by the sight of its own humiliation, by the undeniable proof of its own conquest. The irony was a bitter, burning taste in his throat.

He stood there, transfixed, his breath coming in ragged gasps, his chest heaving with the effort of simply existing. The image in the mirror was a stark tableau of his utter defeat: his reddened arse, a testament to his punishment; the slow, insistent crawl of Wen’s cum towards his hole, a symbol of his impending violation; and his own angry, defiant erection, a grotesque monument to his lost power. The scene replayed in his mind, not as a mere memory, but as a living, breathing fantasy, fueled by the raw, visceral reality of his body, a fantasy that was both repulsive and undeniably, terrifyingly alluring.

He saw Wen’s hand, no longer wielding the paddle, but reaching out, slick with lube, towards his arse. He felt the phantom touch, the gentle, probing pressure, a ghost of a caress that sent shivers down his spine. The memory of the paddle’s sting faded, replaced by the terrifying, exhilarating anticipation of penetration, a new kind of pain, a new kind of pleasure. The fantasy was so vivid, so real, that his own hand, moving with a will of its own, a servant to the new master in his mind, reached back. It was not his hand. It was Wen’s. It was the hand of his conqueror, exploring his newly claimed territory, mapping the contours of his surrender.

His fingers, now slick with the remnants of Wen’s cum, traced the deep cleft of his arse. He felt the warmth, the moisture, the incredible sensitivity, a raw, exposed nerve. And then, with a shuddering breath that was half-sob, half-surrender, his finger pushed inside. It was not his finger. It was Wen’s. It was the finger of this young boy, pushing into him, claiming him, breaching the last defenses. The entrance was hot and tight, a virgin passage yielding to an insistent invader. Wen’s finger, in his mind, needed more lubrication, and Charles’s own hand, acting on this imagined command, helpfully pushed more and more of Wen’s cum into his own hole, until his thick, hairy finger could move smoothly within his depths, a grotesque, intimate self-violation.

The sensation was a cataclysm. A sharp, invasive pressure, a feeling of being trespassed, of being breached, of his most private sanctuary being invaded. It was a pain, but a pain that was instantly swallowed by a wave of the most profound, electrifying pleasure, a pleasure that shocked him to his core. It was the feeling of a lock finding its key, of a missing piece slotting into place. It was the feeling of coming home to a place he never knew existed, a dark, secret chamber of his own desire. He was a total top no more, not in the truest sense. He had been claimed, not by another’s flesh, but by his own hand, acting as an agent of his new desires, a puppet dancing to a tune he was only just beginning to hear.

He began to move his finger, a slow, tentative exploration of this new, uncharted territory, this newly discovered continent of sensation. His mind supplied the rest. It was Wen’s finger. It was Wen’s cock. It was Wen, pushing into him, stretching him, filling him, possessing him. He moaned, a low, guttural sound of a man in the throes of an exorcism, expelling the last vestiges of his old self. His other hand found his own rigid cock and began to stroke, the familiar motion now feeling completely alien, a secondary act to the main event unfolding at his arse, a mere distraction from the true source of his burgeoning pleasure.

He pushed a second finger inside, stretching himself further, deeper, pushing past the initial discomfort into a new realm of sensation. The fantasy intensified, blurring the lines of reality, dissolving the boundaries between what was real and what was imagined. He saw Wen in the mirror, standing behind him, his eyes dark and knowing, a slow, cruel smile playing on his lips, a silent witness to Charles’s self-degradation. Wen’s hands were on his hips, pushing him forward, driving him onto his own fingers. He was fucking him. The imaginary Wen was grinning, mocking him, his eyes burning with triumph, with a possessive hunger. And Charles, in reality, was fucking himself, his body convulsing with a pleasure that was inextricably linked to the humiliation of the image in the mirror, a pleasure born of his own defeat.

As his fingers moved, his arse, with an instinct it had never known, began to clench around them, a rhythmic, milking motion, a silent, desperate plea for more. In his mind, he could see Wen’s grinning as he fucked him harder and harder with his youthful rigour. The thought was his undoing. He was no longer a total top. Wen had fucked him. He had fucked himself, and in doing so, he had allowed Wen to fuck him, to claim him, to possess him utterly.

The orgasm, when it came, was not the explosive, dominant release he was used to, the powerful, outward surge of his own control. It was an implosion. A force that seemed to pull his entire being inwards, collapsing it into a single point of absolute surrender, a black hole of sensation. His body convulsed violently, his back arching off the bed, his arse clenching around his invading fingers. For the first time in his life, his cock only played a supporting role in his orgasm. The focus was on his arse – the new sensations, the rhythmic movements, the pain, the pleasure. All he could think was that he arse was milking and massaging Wen’s invading cock, and how much Wen was enjoying it. He came with a force that left him shaking, breathless, and utterly, irrevocably changed. But it was oddly unsatisfying, leaving him wanting more, a hollow ache that echoed the emptiness of his former life. He wasn’t just spent; he was emptied. He was a vessel that had been drained of its old contents to make way for something new, something terrifyingly unknown.

He lay in the aftermath, trembling, his body still humming with the aftershocks of his self-inflicted violation, his mind eerily quiet, the cacophony of his internal struggle momentarily silenced. The war was over. The shame was still there, a low hum in the background, a persistent echo, but it was no longer the dominant note. It had been harmonized with a new, terrifying chord: desire. He was not just afraid of what had happened. He wanted more. The thought was a shocking revelation, a truth that resonated deep within his bones.

He wanted Wen to use the paddle on him again. He wanted Wen to fuck his mouth. And, in the deepest, most secret part of his new soul, a part that had just been awakened, he wanted Wen to push his cock into his arse and claim him completely, to fill the aching void that had just been created. The thought was both terrifying and exhilarating, a promise of a new kind of intimacy, a new kind of belonging.

The old Charles was dead. He had died somewhere between the sting of the paddle and the shock of his own finger sliding inside him, between the humiliation and the unexpected pleasure. A new Charles was lying here, in the ruins of the old one’s life, and he was terrified. But for the first time in a long time, he was not bored. He was on the threshold of a new world, a world of submission, of surrender, a world where he was no longer in control, and the thought was strangely liberating. And he knew, with a certainty that was as absolute as his belief in the stock market, that he was going to walk through that door. He just had to find the courage to ask for the key, to utter the words that would unlock his new destiny. The journey had just begun.

The first thing I notice is that they seem to have an almost identical set of pristine, perfectly arranged alabaster teeth. Their twin smiles, broad and welcoming, glint in the low lighting of the campus bar as they tilt their heads at me in that sheepish, cover-boy kind of way. 

“We’re both just curious,” says the taller of the two. “And we were wondering if you might be interested in helping us… uh…  test the waters.” 

“Only if you want to!” the other one jumps in. 

I stir my drink with my straw. 

They’re cute. 

Well, no, that’s an understatement. 

There’s practically a heat haze coming from each of them. It’s almost comical how much they cleaned up in the genetic lottery. Differently, but both spectacularly. One is tall and lean, all sharp angles and pronounced bones, his jaw giving the impression that it could quite easily crush my skull. The other is shorter, only just taller than me. He’s stocky and thick, muscly arms straining beneath the short sleeves of a tight tee, the kind of arms that definitely spend the majority of their time lifting or throwing things.  

“I’m Johnathan,” says the tall one. “And this is Michael.” 

I smile at them. 

“I’m going to call you Johnny and Mickey.” 

Johnny grins and Mickey’s cheeks take on a slightly rosy hue. 

“So, explain something to me, boys,” I begin. “If you’re both wanting to know what it’s like to have sex with a guy… why don’t you just, you know… fuck each other?” 

The shade of Mickey’s blush deepens.

“We’ve fooled around a few times,” says Johnny. “But we both want to, you know… and neither of us wants to… you know… you know?” 

I laugh at how uncomfortable they both seem talking about anal sex. 

“So neither of you is keen on having a dick up your ass?” 

At this Mickey’s whole face turns the colour of a mature cabernet and he glances around as if checking that the bar tender didn’t hear. He doesn’t seem ashamed to be talking about gay sex, more just self-conscious to be propositioning someone for a threesome. Johnny clears his throat and nods. 

“Okay,” I agree. 

They’re hot. And I’m not that interested in the play I have tickets to see. 

We pile into the backseat of an uber, me sandwiched between the two hulking boys. They seem around my age and I wonder if they might go to the same university as me. I don’t ask. 

“There’s a five star rating in it for you if you keep your eyes on the road and your ears on the radio,” I advise the driver, as I slide my hands between Johnny and Mickey’s legs, and rub the bulging mounds of denim, “we won’t make any mess, I promise.” 

The driver grins and turns the radio up, as the boys gasp in unison. Mickey’s face flushes like a lava lamp, clouds of rouge migrating across it. I suspect this will be an ongoing thing. It’s pretty cute. 

Johnny on the other hand seems ready, as though my grasp initially took him by surprise, but he is adamant not to be caught off guard again. He stares hungrily into my eyes. I lean over and kiss him, feeling my chin bump against his granite jaw. His  thin layer of blonde stubble scratches against me as our tongues grind into one another. 

I can feel both mounds growing beneath my palms. I pull away and lean over to Mickey who has his eyes closed. I press my lips to his, making him jolt, before he reaches up and grabs my face with both his hands, crushing me into him. He slips his tongue between my lips and it is thick and powerful, pushing mine around like a bully. It’s strong. I’m already imagining the things I’m going to have it to do my asshole when we get to my place. 

They taste the same, both boys. Like beer tinged with a hint of a brown spirit, as though they switched to something harder in order to pluck up the courage to approach me.   

The car pulls up in front of my building and as we step into the elevator, I can see the boys adjusting their jeans to accommodate their burgeoning erections. 

We file into my apartment, and I drag them straight into my room. My roommate is visiting family, so we have the place to ourselves. 

“Stand right there and take off your shirts,” I instruct. 

I perch on the edge of my bed as they peel off their tops, revealing exquisitely shaped torsos. The kind that makes you think of athletes. Or models posing as athletes in a calendar. Mickey is top heavy, wrestler shaped, all shoulders and biceps and pecs, whereas Johnny has the carved abdomen and long, lean limbs of a swimmer. 

“Now make out for me.” 

I deduced early on that they were looking for someone to take the wheel on this mission. 

They press their chests together and wrap their arms around one another. Their kisses are clumsy and rough, the alcohol coursing through them making them flush with heat and blurring their movements. 

It’s pretty fucking hot to watch. 

“Take each other’s pants off.” 

They oblige, fumbling excitedly at buckles of belts and grabbing at buttons and zips. Soon they’re both in their underwear. Johnny’s got a fantastic ass, his solid cheeks pulling a pair of powder blue briefs taut, like they’re spread across a marble statue. But I can’t glean much information on the state of Mickey’s, as it is obscured by a pair of billowing, ill-fitted boxer shorts. They continue making out, pressing their crotches into each other, mashing their cocks together. 

I slip off the bed and onto my knees, crawling over to Mickey from behind. I slide down the boxers, revealing a huge, round butt. It is plump and full, mostly muscle with just a little pudge. Very nice. I reach around to avail Johnny of his briefs. 

Now that they’re naked and a bit loosened up, it’s time to get a little wet. 

“Get on the bed,” I tell them. 

They climb on and lie next to one another, staring up at me like I’m their teacher and they’re waiting for their next instruction. I slowly remove all my clothes, enjoying the feel of their eyes on me as I reveal portions of my toned, slender body. 

“Fuck,” whispers Johnny. Mickey’s blush deepens. 

I climb onto the bed with them and settle in between them. 

“I’m assuming you’ve sucked a dick before?” I ask. They each nod. 

I lean back and put my hands behind my head, and they get the message, both eagerly sliding down the bed and propping themselves up over my crotch. They dive in, and it’s clear to me that this is something they’ve both done their share of. 

Taking turns to swallow me, they slide their tongues around the tip, tickling my frenulum and nipping at my foreskin. Johnny’s strong jaw feels so good caging my cock while Mickey ducks his head down and slips both my balls into his mouth. Their mouths are warm and wet and they’re both panting, steam and saliva smearing all over my groin and their faces. They come up and start to make out with each other on my cock, the head of my dick taking residence between their desperate lips. 

“Okay, now come here.” 

They get to their knees. I grab each of their cocks and gently pull them towards my face. Johnny’s has some heft – it is long and dense, whereas Mickey’s is a bit shorter, but thicker and nicely curved. I bring them to my mouth and swallow both dicks simultaneously while they each work out the logistics of where to put their hips and knees. They grip onto each other for balance and I can see Johnny has let his head fall back, eyes closed and mouth open, while Mickey is staring down at my mouth watching his cock go in and out of it, pressed against Johnny’s like I’m swallowing a double hot dog.

Johnny is moaning and has started to thrust into my mouth. 

I think he’s ready. 

“Okay, Johnny. I want you on your back in the middle of the bed.” 

He obliges, as Mickey and I make room for him. When he’s in position, I flip my leg over and straddle him, hovering my ass in the air above his eagerly awaiting cock. I lean forward, bending over on top of Johnny and press my mouth to his, enjoying the way his jaw grinds against my chin. I pull back and look over my shoulder at Mickey who is looking a little unsure of what he’s meant to do. 

“Mickey, you’re going to get my hole ready for Johnny’s cock.”

His eyes widen as he glances down at my exposed ass. Just as I’m about to give him further instruction, he purses his lips and nods, like a boy scout ready to rescue an injured animal. He’s so fucking cute.

He sidles up behind us both and grabs my ass cheeks in his enormous hands, gripping them firmly like he’s palming a basketball. He pulls them apart, revealing my tiny, pink sphincter. He takes a deep, steadying breath and plunges himself into my cunt.

And holy fuck, it is even better than I imagined. 

His tongue is like a power tool. He drives it into me, pressing and licking and sliding, inside and out. 

Johnny grabs my face and does the same to my mouth, thrusting his tongue into me. 

I relish the feeling of being spitroasted by their tongues, giddy with the knowledge that I’ll soon be spitroasted by other matching appendages. 

“Finger,” I call out to Mickey who nods enthusiastically, lubing up his finger with spit and sliding it into me. It glides in easily as I call out again. 

“Two.”

Another finger slips in alongside it, stretching me a little, my muscles adjusting, remembering this dance. 

“Three.” 

A third finger enters me, and I feel my walls expand, my cunt taking its own slow, loosening breaths around his digits. 

I’m ready. 

I pull myself up and hover my plumped up, saliva soaked pussy over Johnny’s cock. 

“Okay,” I lock eyes with him. “Are you ready?”

He is breathing heavy, and there is a hard, determined look in his eyes as he nods. 

I lower myself onto him, savouring the feel of his cock spreading my cunt lips, Mickey’s spit nicely lubricating the process. Johnny’s mouth falls open. He takes tiny gasps as his dick slides inside me and his face slowly morphs, simultaneously overcome with shock, amazement and euphoria.

I grin at him as I lower myself further and further, his shaft disappearing slowly into my hole. His eyes are wide with disbelief as my ass makes contact with his thighs. He lets out a small laugh of astonishment. 

“It’s so tight,” he says, gazing at me in wonder. 

I just smile at him as I slowly begin to ride him. 

“Oh fuck,” he says, breathing hard and closing his eyes in bliss. 

I slide him in and out of me, grinding his cock with my pussy. He starts trembling and I am concerned he’s going to cum already, so I lift myself up and off his cock. 

“Your turn, Mickey,” I say, leaning over on all fours on top of Johnny.

Mickey wastes no time. He’s clearly been waiting patiently. He spits a glob of saliva onto his hand and rubs it over his cock before positioning himself behind me. He pushes his mushroom head up to my opening and asks, “do I just shove it in?” 

I laugh before I answer. 

“Yes, Mickey. Gently first.” 

He pushes forwards with his thick, muscular thighs. His broad cock nudges inside and my muscles briefly complain at the added girth. He slowly buries himself all the way in and I grunt as my pussy makes contact with his pelvis.

Fuck, he’s big. 

He tentatively starts to grind his hips, pushing his cock in and out. Gaining in confidence, he begins to move a bit quicker, shoving himself into me, knocking me forward into Johnny, who has reached up and is running his hand through my hair. 

“Shit,” Mickey says, “this is really nice.” 

I laugh a little. He sounds a bit like he’s describing a particularly tasty cake.

I let Mickey fuck me for a bit, enjoying the small moans and exclamations that issue from behind me. 

“Get on your knees and fuck my face,” I say to Johnny. He grins excitedly and practically jumps to his knees. He pushes the hair out of my eyes as he drives his cock into my mouth, thrusting it deep, tickling the back of my throat. 

My stomach flips lustfully at the smell and taste of my own ass. He shoves himself in and out, fucking my mouth just like I asked. He grabs hold of either side of my head and starts to pound hard, gripping my face tight for leverage. 

Meanwhile, Mickey has picked up in speed and intensity. He is ruthlessly jamming his cock into me, occasionally pulling all the way out just so he can feel the tight pop of his cock head breaking my cunt back open as he pushes it back in.

This is what I’ve been waiting for. Ever since Johnny sidled up next to me at the bar and Mickey leaned on the counter on my other side. Feeling their big, warm bodies pressed up against me, I immediately imagined this scenario. 

I close my eyes and bask in the pleasure, focusing on the sensation of two cocks sliding into my wet holes. They’ve synced their rhythm now, matching each other stroke for stroke as they fill me from both ends. 

Suddenly, Mickey stops. 

After a few moments, Johnny stops too. Mickey’s got a strange look on his face. 

“What’s up? You okay?” Johnny asks. 

Mickey looks Johnny in the eye. 

“I want to try it,” he says. 

“What?” Johnny asks. 

Mickey just looks down at his cock, still half-buried in my ass. 

Aaaah. I know what he wants. 

“Lie back down, Johnny,” I say. 

Johnny lies down as I make my way over to Mickey. He looks equal parts terrified and exhilarated as I press my face to his and kiss him. He’s going to need to relax if he’s going to enjoy this. 

He sinks into the kisses, sliding his hands around me, cupping my ass. I lick my middle finger before reaching around and sliding it between his crack. I find his little hole and softly press my wet fingertip to it. I fiddle with it and gently massage it, letting it get used to the sensation. Mickey’s breathing quickens and he kisses me harder. 

I instruct him to straddle Johnny and bend over, just like he saw me do. I lean in and rim him out, and he moans loudly, enjoying the little twitches his butt makes at the foreign sensation. I slide my fingers in one by one, stretching him, giving him long breaks between for his muscles to adjust. 

“I think I’m ready,” he says. 

I climb on top of Johnny’s chest, facing Mickey so that I can coach him if needed, as he slowly lowers himself onto Johnny’s hard cock. His mouth falls open just like Johnny’s had, gasping with surprise and elation. He lowers down and down and I can only assume Johnny’s cock is burying itself inside him. 

“Oh fuck,” says Johnny, “he’s even tighter!”

As if Johnny needs something to distract himself from the overwhelming pleasure of his dick descending into Mickey’s ass, he grabs my hips and yanks me down until I’m sitting on his face. He then starts to completely devour my asshole. 

I grin as Johnny works his tongue around my hole while in front of me, Mickey’s slack jawed, open mouth stupor is slowly transforming into a disbelieving grin. 

“Holy hell,” he says, “this feels SO GOOD.” 

I smile and lean over to kiss him. 

“Now ride him.” 

Mickey starts to glide up and down on Johnny’s cock and the smile on his face gets wider and wider. It’s like he’s just discovered Christmas. 

He starts to bounce on Johnny, grinding him, pumping his ass forcefully down. The well developed muscles in Mickey’s thighs tell me that he is a fierce power bottom in the making.

After several minutes of rigorous riding, Mickey pauses and looks at me. 

“I want him to fuck me, while I fuck you,” he says. He’s not blushing anymore. 

In a flash, I whip myself off Johnny’s face and bend over on all fours. Mickey presses up against me and slides his cock into me, all his earlier tentativeness abandoned. 

“Bend over on top of me,” I instruct, “and give Johnny space to get inside you.” 

I feel Mickey’s large body curl on top of mine and hear him grunt appreciatively as Johnny enters him.

“Alright you two,” I say, “this is what you wanted. Go wild.” 

And they do. 

Johnny takes off, hard out the gate. I can feel his thrusts as he ploughs Mickey into me. Mickey’s fat cock stretches my insides as he is drilled from behind, the three of us knocking forward and back in a glorious fuck train. 

“Shit!” shouts Mickey as he plunges his cock into me. 

“Fuck!” shouts Johnny as he plunges his cock into Mickey.

And I simply smile. I’m usually a bit more vocal than this, but listening to these two discover the joys of anal sex is so much more arousing for me in this moment. 

They each hammer their cocks, pounding the cunt in front of them like a jackrabbit. Sweat flies wildly from their bodies as they both moan and shout, heralding their sexual awakenings to the world. 

Mickey starts to make a whining noise like he’s almost crying and I can tell that this means he is getting close. 

“Fuck him harder,” I call out to Johnny who amps up his thrusts, beating his cock into Mickey. Mickey’s cries get louder and higher in pitch. I feel his fingernails dig into my hips as he rams his cock inside me again and again and again. 

“I can’t hold it,” Mickey cries, panting and screaming. 

He is crying out on each thrust now, burying his cock as deep as he can, as though he’s trying to carve out my insides. 

“I CAN’T HOLD IT!” Mickey bellows before letting out an almighty groan and shooting his load inside me. He starts to pull his cock out of me while Johnny continues to fuck him, pushing him intermittently back inside, causing him to jizz half inside me and half against my opening. He is panting, almost crying, as he spasms and twitches, pumping load after load of thick, white cum into and onto my cunt. 

“Johnny!” I call out, causing him to stop his frenzied pounding of Mickey’s hole and look over at me. “Fuck his cum into me.” 

Johnny’s jaw drops a little before twisting into a dark grin. Mickey moves aside, collapsing onto the bed.

Johnny takes his place behind me. He grabs his dick and scoops up the dribbling trails of Mickey’s cum. He uses his cock as a paintbrush, smearing the cum all over my hole before shoving himself brutally inside me. Mickey’s hot jizz lubricates the motion, causing Johnny to cry out in delight. 

“Holy fuck!” he shouts as he starts to pound me. “Holy fuck! This is so fucking hot!” 

There’s something about using another man’s cum as lube that has unlocked a new level of lust in Johnny.

He is a merciless top. He grabs hold of my ass and drives his dick into me, hard and rough. I can feel the head of his cock punching my prostate and I close my eyes in pleasure. 

“Fuck,” he cries. 

He continues to pound me, my tight ass gripping his cock as he thrusts it apart each time. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” 

He keeps saying it, over and over and I realise he’s not going to last much longer. 

True to my prediction, Johnny’s moans get louder and his pounding rougher. He rams his dick into me, stabbing me with it repeatedly, Mickey’s cum frothing at the friction. 

“Ugh!” he grunts, “fuck! I’m gonna cum!” 

He closes his eyes, grunting and thrusting, as though he’s trying his hardest to stave off the orgasm, wanting to savour this sensation as long as possible. 

“I’M GONNA CUM!” he roars right before his cock explodes inside my ass. 

He buries himself right to the hilt as jets of hot cum shoot way up inside me. I can feel his cock pressed up against my prostate as he covers it with his sticky jizz. 

“Fuck” he sighs again and again as he shoots the remainder of his load. 

Eventually he pulls himself out of me and slumps down alongside Mickey. 

I look over at them both lying spent, trying to catch their breath and get their heads around what in the fuck they just experienced. 

I grin as I kiss each of them on the cheek and slip off the bed. 

Mickey is clearly a hungry bottom boy, while Johnny absolutely has the makings of a formidable top. I leave the two of them on my bed and while I’m on my way out to hit the shower, I spot Johnny putting his arm around Mickey.

They’re going to be just fine. 

---

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---

I was swiping through Tinder at the physical therapist’s office when my name finally got called. I didn’t hear him at first, but when he cleared his throat and said it louder I looked up.

Listen, I’ll never claim to have perfect gaydar, or to be able to pick out a closeted fag from a mile away. Honestly, I try not to judge and to just mind my business. The prospect of getting it wrong simply isn’t worth it for me. But sometimes, sometimes you just know. And looking at my physical therapist for the day I just knew.

Not just that he was gay. But that he was a faggot. What’s the difference you scoff? But we all know the difference. See, your average gay guy has at least a modicum of self-respect. They want what any guy wants, they want respect, they want their dick sucked, they want love, maybe a family and all that heteronormative good jazz; they just also like sucking and getting fucked. But you know, respectfully. Sometimes.

A fag though? They want to be used above all else. They crave humiliation. Sure, way down on their list of priorities MAYBE there’s a desire for love or appreciation, but being used- roughly and thoroughly- is at the very top. And respect? Don’t make me fucking laugh.

“Yup, I’m Robbie” I say standing up. We make eye contact. He’s got cute green eyes. They’d be even cuter if they were filled with tears from choking on my dick. I give him a nice firm handshake and he lets out a little gasp. The handshake goes on for an awkward length of time. “And you’re… Mickey” I say reading his name tag.

“Aw- sorry, yes, yup sir, that’s me, well Michael really but Mickey’s fine, you can call me whatever you want.” I can see him cringe a little bit, embarrassed at his rambling, but personally I’m ecstatic. Considering what I’m here for I’m guessing this fag is gonna be so easy. “If you wanna follow me through here we can get started. Yup straight through here, and then you can have a seat on the table there.” There are a few other patients and therapists milling about the gym. Mickey seems to have collected himself. We’ll see how long that lasts. “So what brings you in here today Robbie?” I take a breath.

“Well, I’m a pretty active guy, been working out and playing sports since I was 12. I’ve been getting this really bad, like, tightness in my foot sometimes lately, and it’s killer, so my doctor said PT was probably a good first step.” Mickey is typing away at his computer completely focused, not looking at me. Question is, is he just reading what he’s typing on the computer, or is he purposely not looking at me?

“Foot pain?” He says. Eyes are still glued to the computer.

“Yup.”  “And is this pain worse in the morning or at night?” He’s not typing anymore but he’s still staring hard at the computer screen. “In the morning.” “And which foot is it?” “Actually both my feet hurt Mickey.” Now dear reader, you might have noticed earlier I said my foot, singular, hurt. And that’s true. What I’m doing now is called “lying.” And the lie has the intended effect. Mickey continues to stare at his screen, as if it will somehow give him the strength to be professional when all he wants to do is drop down and kiss my feet until they feel better. Again it’s up to me to break the long silence.

“Well Mickey, you got quiet on me, what’s up? Am I dying?” He lets out a nervous chuckle. “No no, nothing like that, sorry got lost there for a minute. Sounds like a case of plantar fasciitis, no big deal, and your doctor is right, usually we can treat it with some physical therapy and it’ll resolve itself.”

“Sweet, then let’s get started, what’s first?” I swear I hear Mickey gulp. He takes a breath. “Well, typically the first step is for me to… assess the tissue.” “Okay. How do you do that?” I ask feigning ignorance; I want to draw this out. He looks back at the computer. “Well, typically I’d have you take off your shoes and socks and off, and then use my hands to kind of assess the tissue.” “Oh, so like a foot massage,” I say innocently. He swallows and looks at me. “Yeah, kind of like that.” I nod kicking off my shoes smoothly and then take off my socks. I look back up at Mickey.

And any doubts that he was fag evaporate. He STARES at my bare feet with his mouth open, eyes tracing, or I guess “assessing” every inch of them. I sit back so that my legs are straight and my feet are dangling off the plinth. I let him perv out for a few seconds before clearing my throat.

“Is there anything else you need from me before we get started?” My voice startles him out whatever trance my feet put him under.

“No, no, sorry just, distracted today.” He pulls up a chair. Now I’ve had PT before and when they work on my foot they normally keep the table kind of low. so that they’re looking pretty much straight downward while working on my feet. Mickey? He presses a button and the table lifts UP so my feet are much closer to his face than they need to be. His eyes lock in on the left one, and he touches it, not with the care of healthcare professional, but with the reverence of a down-bad hungry foot fag. I have to hold back a snicker; instead I clear my throat. Again he snaps back to reality.

“So, ahem, how’s this feel for you Robbie?” “Feels fine so far Mickey, pretty light, you can go a bit harder if you like.” His eyes light up. He applies some nice, firm pressure to my feet, and I let out an “involuntary” moan. Mickey practically beams. “How’s that feel for you Robbie?” “It feels fucking great Mickey.” He smiles as his hands work out the kinks in my foot. That’s the other thing about fags. They LOVE providing pleasure like no one else. I mean yeah I enjoy going down on a girl and hearing her moan, or hearing a guy moan like a slut from the pleasure my cock in his ass gives him, or if you’re gay you might like when guy let’s out a “just like that” when you’re blowing him, but we don’t LIVE for it the way a fag does. A fag is a people pleaser taken to the extreme, it NEEDS to please. I’m pretty sure if a fag died it would want to be reincarnated as a hot guy’s fleshlight, so it could do nothing but please cock for all eternity.

Mickey hits a good spot, and I let out a soft “fuck,” and then give him a sheepish look. “‘Excuse my language.” “No worries, glad it’s feeling good,” he says, all smiles. “I did have a question though. I see the other therapist over there is working on a foot too, but she’s wearing gloves. Any reason you’re not?” Mickey’s face freezes as his cheeks turn red. I can practically hear the gears start turning. I know the reason he’s not using gloves. He’s perving out on my feet and wants to feel them, skin on skin. I watch him squirm for a minute. “Well, I-uh, that’s Melissa over there, and well typically therapists have their own way of doing things and, well, typically I actually prefer no gloves so that I can get a better feel for the tissue.” “Oh so like the gloves get in the way a bit? That makes sense.” Mickey nods, clearly relieved I’ve bought his reasoning. For the next few minutes of the massage he makes a conscious effort to be more professional, making a bit of small talk. But his eyes find themselves locking onto my foot again. He moves almost imperceptibly closer. I feel just a slight bit of air against my foot.

Is he fucking sniffing it? In public? He glances at me, I pretend not to have noticed, and then he  glances around the gym. Everyone else is busy, involved in their own routine. Apparently this is all the go ahead he needs. He leans back in and sniffs again a little bit harder and lets out a quiet almost inaudible sigh.

Faggots man. There’s nothing like them. I let him enjoy his private perv out for a minute or so before I make my move. I take a quick peak around the gym and make sure no one’s looking and then when he leans in for another sniff I place my big toe firmly against his lips parting them just a bit. He looks at me startled.

“Lick” is all I say. And he fucking does it. He doesn’t look around to make sure his colleagues can’t see what a perv he is. He doesn’t glance to make sure another patient doesn’t catch him in this unprofessional, humiliating position of having another guy’s foot in his mouth. He just presses his tongue against the bottom of my toe and licks, like a good boy.

The sight of it, him staring up at me wide eyed with my toe lodged between his lips is too much. I laugh out loud. He snaps out of his foot trance, pulling away just in time as some of the heads in the gym turn toward my laughter. Not the smoothest thing to do in this situation I know, but the idea of someone being so pathetic they’d risk their job and the respect of their coworkers to spend a second licking a guy’s big toe was too much. My cock hardens in my shorts as Mickey starts to stammer:

“I-uh, I dunno what, uhm, I’m sorry Robbie, I-” “Hey Mickey,” I say, cutting him off. “I feel a bit exposed out here. Do you mind if we go into one of those private rooms over there?” I say gesturing toward them. “I, uhm, well typically we use those rooms, if like a female patient wants some privacy or if an exam or evaluation is being done-” “Isn’t this supposed to be an initial exam? You’re supposed to be assessing my feet right?” His face turns an even brighter red. “Well, yes but-” “Great! Grab my shoes and stuff for me, will you bud?” I hop off the table and walk into one of the exam rooms, trusting that Mickey will follow, and he does of course, closing the door behind us. “I’m sorry Robbie, I dunno what happened, really I-” “Oh really? Because it looked to me like you were perving out on my foot, sniffing it and everything, and then I shoved my toe in your mouth, told you to lick, and you did it like a good boy? Sound about right?” I didn’t think the fag’s face could get any redder, but I was wrong. And were those tears welling up in its eyes? “Robbie, please, you can’t tell anyone, I apologize-” “Relax, bitch. Here’s what’s gonna happen. I’m going to let you perv out on my feet, kiss and lick them and suck my toes, and if you do a really good job maybe you’ll earn something even better,” I say gesturing down to the now obvious big bulge in my gym shorts. Mickey gulps again.

“Robbie I can’t, this is my job, it’s unprofessional I-” he starts, but I grab one of my gym shoes, grab him by the hair and drive his face into so his nose is as close to the insole as I can get it. “Just fucking breathe it in fag,” and he takes a downright gigantic inhale and moans like the slut he is. “Go ahead boy. Straight from the gym. A nice sweaty stench for you to fill up those faggot lungs of yours with. Way better than fresh air ain’t it fag?” He moans louder this time taking another breath. I jerk him away from the shoe by his hair and he looks a me with a daze looked. Then I spit on him and he moans again.

“So like I said, you’ve got two options here Mickey. Either I can sit down on the table and you can massage my feet with your hands, “professionally,” give me some exercises to do, and I can be on my way. Or you can give worship them with your tongue the way they deserve, and maybe earn a shot at the greater prize,” I say placing his hand on my tented shorts. He gasps and his hand begins to fondle the length of my bulge.

“What will it be Mickey?” “I’ll worship you,” he says softly. “What was that?” “I’ll worship you,” he says louder. I raise my eyebrows. “Kinda sound like you’re doing me a favor. Kinda sounds like you don’t really wanna.” For once Mickey is quick on the uptake. “Please sir, let me worship your feet, and this big cock. I need to worship them. Please sir.” “That’s more like it bitch.” I take a seat on the table. Mickey pulls up the desk chair, but I stop him. “No Mickey. Desk chairs are for respectable professionals to use when treating patients. You’re a fucking faggot risking everything to lick a guy’s sweaty dirty feet while your colleages are just a door away. Get out the fucking chair, and get on your knees where you belong.” “Yes sir. You’re right sir,” he says hurriedly sinking to his knees. He brings his face closer to my feet and takes a deep breath and sighs. “May I get started sir.” “Sure fag.” He gets to work. He starts on my toes, and fuck does his wet tongue feel good against them. He runs his tongue between them and I let out an actual involuntary moan this time, and he wraps his lips around them and begins to suck.

“Fuck,” I respond wriggling my toes in his mouth, and rubbing my cock through my shorts. He pulls off and goes at them with his tongue again, firm yet desperate strokes, eager to lick the salty sweat off of them. “Put all of my toes in your mouth and look at me fag,” he obeys eagerly, opening his mouth as wide as possible, lodging my toes in it as far they’ll go, sucking and slobbering in them and then looking at me with those big eyes. Fuck it’s too hot. I pull my shorts and underwear down far enough so that my cock is free. Mickey lets out a gasp, taking in the sight of my over 8 inch cock standing at attention. Randomly my mind goes to a national geographic style narration: “Here we see the faggot, previously enamored with the Alpha’s feet, now entranced by the sight of the of the Alpha’s thick, veiny cock.”

And entranced is exactly the word. Mickey leans in toward my cock, but I push him away. “Not yet boy,” I say, holding my cock in my hands. “Back on my feet.” He gives a small whimper but dutifully returns, now licking my feet in earnest. He licks them both from heel to toe, then places each big toe in his mouth and starts sucking and licking like a fag possessed. I sigh and wrap both my hands around my cock, one top of the other, and then begin to jerk. I hear Mickey let out a “fuck me” as a I start to pump, slowly at first, and then faster, in time with his wanton worship of my toes. I feel my orgasm building.

“Beg me to let you worship my cock you worship my feet you fucking queer.” Mickey of course obliges immediately. “Please sir. Please can I worship that big cock,” he licks in between my toes again and I moan. “Please sir, let me worship that huge alpha cock. I can make you feel so good sir, please?” I pump my cock harder, locking eyes with him. And then maintaining eye contact with me, he places my toes in his mouth, and, now muffled, begs “please sir, I live to serve feet and cock. Please let me serve your cock.”

I immediately let go of my cock, because those words could have sent me over the age. My body feels alive and electric, my ego inflated to sizes no cock will ever reach. I had planned to try to take this slow, let him worship my cock, a bit before railing his throat, but I need to cum NOW. I stand up and take a step toward him, him kneeling on the hard wood floor with no care for his own comfort like a good selfless fuck toy. I grab him by the hair, spit on him and say “open up bitch,” but there’s no need, because the faggot is diving on my cock, the way a fat bitch dives into a pint of Ben and Jerry’s. He goes too far, hitting his gag reflex and begins to pull away, but what the fuck do I care about his comfort? I hold him in place by his hair, pinning his head against the exam room door. The door shakes just a bit as I begin fucking his throat, turned on beyond belief.

“Fucking take this cock faggot. Gag on it. Get it nice and sloppy with that throat slime. Fuck yeah. I could pound this throat for hours. Who cares if you need to breathe? What’s more important? Breathing or my pleasure fag?” I pause my assault on his throat, looking down at him. I was right. His eyes are much cuter when they’re filled with tears. He answers with my cock in his mouth like a good slut: “Your pleasure sir.” “Good boy,” I say, sliding my cock back down his throat, taking nice long slow strokes now, allowing him to catch his breath a bit.

“You know I wasn’t exaggerating. I could let you worship me for hours. Treat that mouth of yours like it’s my personal fleshlight, and edge myself for as long as I wanted. And you’d let me wouldn’t you fag?” He moans on my cock and nods. I continue: “But I’m a nice guy, I know you’ve got other patients, so I’ll make you a deal. You beg for me to cum and I’ll feed you a nice big load, and you can get back to working and pretending you’re a man and not a human fleshlight. Deal?” He nods again, tears streaming down his face. I pull out of his mouth.

“Oh look at the little fucking queer cry. He’s so happy. Let me wipe those tears with some of that throat slime from that wet mouth of yours. There we go, that feels good, saliva and tears across your face that’s hot, you like that don’t you fag?”

“God, yes sir. Your dick against my face feels so good. I want your cum so bad. Thank you for using my throat like a fleshlight sir. It feels so good being put in my place. Please feed me your cum, or cum on my face, or wherever you want sir, please just cum. I need it. PLEASE. I live for your cum!” He dives back on my cock, this time voluntarily taking it all the way down his throat. He pulls back up leaving just the tip and his mouth, looks me in the eye and whispers “please feed me sir.”

Fuck. He’s got me figured out. I’m so close to nutting, but thankfully I have fantastic self control. I start fucking his face, not going all the way any more, just shoving about half of the shaft in his mouth and then pulling back to the tip, over and over, looking up at the ceiling feeling the high of orgasm approaching. I look back down and his eyes are still on me, taking in the sight of this young muscle jock, using his throat, and as our gazes lock I can hear his muffled pleading around my cock.

“Please cum sir. Please feed me. Please cum sir. Fill me. Please feed me. I need your cum. Please feed me DADDY.” And that does it. Hearing someone older than me call me “daddy” and beg for my cum, makes my ego balloon, and there’s no holding back my orgasm now.

I grip his hair even harder, my thrusts definitely causing the door to rattle now as the glorious climax hits me like a tidal wave. The situation, his words, and the wetness of his tongue pressed against the middle of my shaft causes rope after rope, after rope, and shot after shot after shot, of cum to rocket out of my cock, filling the fag’s mouth with more cum than its probably ever had to handle (thank hyperspermia lol). He gags and chokes as a powerful shot hits the back of his throat, or maybe goes down the wrong tube causing him to cough, but what do I care, I’m in pure ecstasy feeling his throat and mouth spasm around my hard still firing shaft. Distantly some part of me realizes that it’d be problematic if the fag passes out, so I look down and pull out, firing the last couple shots on his pathetic face.

“Fuck, look at you. A hard working professional. A grown ass man with a doctorate. On your knees. Covered in a fucking gross mixture of your own tears, throat slime and a 23 year old’s spit and cum.” Mickey just sits there breathing heavily, his face and eyes red with exertion, face drenched in sweat and the aforementioned cocktail of bodily fluids. I sigh, giving my cock another tug, and then pull up my shorts and underwear, and put on my shoes and socks.

“You risked your job, your career, the respect of your peers all to worship a stranger’s feet and dick. And it was worth it for you wasn’t it fag? Because now you get to spend the rest of your day with my cum in your belly, and the knowledge that you’re a good boy.” Mickey nods slowly, still dazed.

“I thought so. Now what do you say fag?” He swallows and bows his head. “Thank you sir.” I give his hair a ruffle. “Good boy.”

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The end. I hope you enjoyed my fantasy. Feel free to shoot me a message with feedback or suggestions for future scenarios (though I have plenty in mind).

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

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