I’m a mid-fifties guy with a decent marriage and a private ache I carry like a second pulse. If you saw me at the gym you’d clock the discipline before the years: shoulders kept, waist strict, that notched V at the hips that only shows up when you’ve said “no” more times than you can remember. It’s my last, quiet rebellion—the body I build to honor the part of me I keep hidden. I lift early, when the men who care about the details arrive in silence and the plates clang like bells. We don’t talk. We spot each other with two fingers under the bar and a grunt. We share chalk and not much else. But it’s there—lats splayed, shorts riding high, sweat slicking the hour—that my mind slips. I watch the bar rise and fall over a thick chest and I think about kneeling. I watch a back flex under a shirt gone dark with sweat and I think about the sound leather makes when it tightens one notch too far. I rack the weight, swallow the thought and go home taut, strengthened, and frustrated.
I don’t take risks anymore. I did in my forties—those dumb, dizzy hours in hotel rooms with men whose names I didn’t learn—until the fear outgrew the thrill. There’s a comfort that comes with control when you’re a senior executive; the calendar bows to you, the room waits for you to finish. Maybe that’s why my fantasies were 180 degrees from my reality. In the boardroom, all eyes are on me. In my fantasies I’m stripped, bound, ordered. I’m bent over and told I’m a good boy with a palm heavy on the back of my neck. I’m pinned to the floor by weight and will and told to open. It’s not just sex—it’s relief. A kind of belonging I haven’t found in any conference room, any second home, any club with a waiting list and a dress code.
I tried to find it the easy way: the sites with discreet phrases and careful euphemisms. “Therapeutic touch.” “Mutual release.” “Open-minded.” At best it ended in an awkward, obligatory hand job and a towel. The whole thing felt like an apology—his for offering it, mine for wanting it. I learned to stop hoping. I learned the choreography: keep the expectations low, keep the questions general, keep your wallet handy, leave with a smile like you’d just had a nice stretch.
And then there was Lance.
He was listed in the usual place, but his ad didn’t read like the others. It was direct, polished, and then—boldly, almost wickedly—it sent me to a personal website. That alone felt like a signal. Everyone knows what can and cannot be said on those sites, so a man with a portal of his own is either reckless or very sure of himself. I clicked like I was stepping off a familiar path into brush.
The site loaded with a charcoal background and a single photograph that hit me like a shovel. Lance exhibited the sort of casual arrogance that isn’t casual at all. Wide shoulders, an upper chest like a poured slab, the clean wedge of his traps cutting into a thick neck. Prematurely greying hair and beard that screamed “bear”, but somehow empathetic instead of scary. The eyes were the thing: pale and steady, a quiet dare. His shoulders and upper arms were filled with tatts and both nipples were pierced with the most intimidating rings I’d ever seen.
I scrolled. The gallery wasn’t coy. It was a storyboard for the fantasies I had filed under Never. Lance in a leather harness that crossed his chest in a brutal, elegant X, each strap thick enough to creak, the O-ring at his sternum catching light like a promise. Lance bare-chested in a jock and boots, sitting on a low bench with his thighs spread and a flogger draped over one knee, the falls spilling like a dark tail. Lance standing behind a man already bound at the wrists, his hands on the man’s jaw, thumbs pressing into cheeks with possessive gentleness, like he was reading tension the way a masseur reads knots. His back—God, that back—was a map of power: deltoids round as fists, a deep cut down his spine, lower back fur just enough to say man without apology. One photo had him in nothing but a pair of black leather gloves and a sneer, two fingers hooked in the waistband of a client’s trunks; another had him wearing a full-grain leather armband, thick as a belt, veins skating down his forearms as he pulled a man tighter into the kiss.
The text threaded between images was simple, almost gentle. No screaming dominance. No theater. Just: I’m skilled. I listen. I will be in control. On one page—“My Dark Side”—the tone shifted darker and but still intimate: I play rough, I play safe, I play with purpose. Consent is the floor, not the ceiling.
The paradox I’d always hoped was possible—transaction and tenderness—was right there, stated like policy and evidenced by the look on the men’s faces. They weren’t grimacing. They weren’t enduring. They were open, eyes soft, mouths slack with something answered. I wanted to be that open. I wanted to be that answered.
I told myself I was browsing. I told myself I was market-researching the way I do everything else: dispassionately, efficiently, with a budget in mind. Then I filled out the contact form with two hands that didn’t quite feel like mine.
He replied the same day. The email was short and kind. He thanked me for the vulnerability of my note, asked me what I wanted in words that didn’t make me feel cheap, invited me to be honest about my limits and my hope. I surprised myself by telling the truth. I told him I wanted to be used. I told him I wanted control taken—explicitly, entirely, and unapologetically. I wrote the words I don’t say out loud: restraint, flogging, slut, kneel, flogging. I told him I was married and that my wife didn’t know. I told him it had to be safe. I told him I knew how ridiculous it is to ask a stranger to tie me up and make me whole.
His answer came with a booking link and protocols. It also came with a sentence I read again, and again, and then once more after that, because it landed somewhere between my lungs and my groin and stayed vibrating there: “I’ll handle you,” he wrote, “and I’ll keep you.” That sentence swept every dusty corner of my secret life clean.
He wasn’t cheap. The cost raised my eyebrows and then my heart rate, because it signaled something I needed more than anything. Intensity. He set the bar so high, he was compelled to deliver. The math was ugly; I made it anyway. I moved money around with a furtiveness that made me blush, like I was already obeying. When the confirmation dinged, I leaned back in the chair and closed my eyes and let myself have a long, slow exhale.
The week before our session was a month, then an hour, then a month again. I ate well, hydrating like a teenager before two-a-days. I shaved everything I knew he’d notice and left the things I hoped he’d tug. I ate sparingly knowing my intestines would be tested.
The morning of, I woke before the alarm and made my way to the gym. I was committed to getting the pump on of a lifetime. I owed him that. He deserved some fun too. I put on my Nasty Pig jockstrap, jeans and a t-shirt that made my chest look like I’d earned it. For a long time I debated a wedding ring. In the end I left it on. I didn’t want to pretend with him. I wanted to be exactly the person I am, transgression and tenderness and all.
He lived about an hour away in a neighboring city and his home was tidy and anonymous, which is to say perfect. As I drove up, a lady from the neighborhood was out walking and I feared she was thinking to herself, “There goes another one of Lance’s johns.” But if it was OK with Lance, it was OK with me.
At his door I paused, palms damp, tongue thick behind a mouth that suddenly wanted permission. I scrolled through a last-minute instruction from him—“Door’s open. Come in.”—and felt the small, delicious vertigo of being expected.
The handle turned. The door opened. He was there.
Some men shrink when you meet them; Lance expanded. He was taller than I’d guessed—six-two, easily—and broader across the chest. The doorway framed him like he belonged in it, like the space had been waiting to be measured by his outline. He wore a pair of tight, grey shorts that were shameless in their ambition; the fabric clung obscenely to a thick hang that left nothing to faith. A tank—a thin, abused thing—hung off his chest in ribbons, exposing heavy pecs that caught light and a deep line down his sternum you could pour wine into, and did little to hide the leather harness beneath. He smelled like clean skin, body heat, and a hint of something minty—maybe the ghost of mouthwash. His beard was trimmed to suggestion, his mouth quirked like he’d just thought of something filthy and generous, and his eyes—the steady pale I’d memorized—flicked across me with a composure that read me top to bottom and then softened.
He closed the door behind me with a hand on the small of my back. He smiled and offered, “You made it” and then wrapped those meaty arms around my shoulders and pulled me into his chest, and in the first second of that hug I understood the thing I’d sensed on the site: he could be cruel, and he could be kind, and he would use both like tools. His chest was hot through the tank; the hair on it rasped my cheek in a way that made my knees go soft. He held me still until my breathing matched his. Then he tilted my chin up with two fingers, studied my face like he was verifying an identity, and kissed me. Hard.
It wasn’t a polite kiss. He kept one palm anchored at the back of my head, fingers widening, thumb dragging lazily over the ridge of my skull like he’d found a grip he liked. He pushed his face into mine so that if, god forbid I wasn’t loving this, I wouldn’t have a choice. He was kissing me with every fiber of his being as if we were long lost lovers meeting after a year apart.
His other hand slid down my spine, paused at my belt, and pressed, a slow, testing weight that said we both knew how hard I was and we were both going to enjoy it. The harness strap under his tank squeaked as he tightened me into him, the leather whispering a private language down my sternum. When he pulled back, it was only to breathe the same air, noses almost touching.
“Good boy”, he whispered, apparently reacting to my willingness to be owned in whatever way he chose to own me.
I made a sound I didn’t recognize. It might have been a laugh, or a prayer.
Without a word he took my hand and led me to the bedroom. It was exactly what his site had promised: clean, quiet, spare. A king bed in the middle, sheets tucked tight, with a towel strategically placed across the middle to protect the linens. On a low shelf: oil, lube, neatly coiled rope the color of wet earth, leather cuffs lined with suede. There was music playing so low I felt it before I heard it—something with a steady pulse and no lyrics, a beat that sounded more like a bath house than a massage parlor.
Still standing, he pulled me again and resumed the intense make out session from the front door. It seemed like his tongue had grown an inch since then as it invaded my mouth. I opened willingly and followed his lead throughout. He stripped off my shirt; I stripped off his. He dropped my pants to reveal my jockstrap, I dropped his to reveal the longest, thickest cock I’d ever personally witnessed. His only clothing now was a leather harness and steel cock ring that was choking his engorged member. I instinctively reached down to touch it, feel it, fondle it. He sighed appreciatively and said, “Say hello to your new friend. You’re going to be seeing a lot of him.”
I squeezed his cock, hard, smiled and while kissing him, said “Hello friend.”
Suddenly more serious, he ordered, “Kneel”.
I didn’t need to be told more. I dropped to my knees before he finished the one syllable word. He was giving me the gift of my dreams. I lunged for his cock and could barely get my hand around it. I put it to my lips and slowly, and dreamily, kissed the tip. I started licking like my life depended on pleasing him, and in my mind, it did. I took my time, knowing we had the entire afternoon, and this was just the warmup act. But it was an act that I’d remember forever.
I licked, flicked, sucked, gulped, and every other machination one’s mouth can perform. He clutched my hair, hard, signaling he was pleased. This poured gasoline on my fire. I decided to try to deep throat him. I never had before, but if I were ever going to, this would be the time. I opened wide and took him as far as I could. Surprisingly, I didn’t gag, but I don’t think he made it to my throat. I tried over and over, and while each time was deeper, I’m not sure I achieved my goal. But, damn, I had fun trying. And by the end, he had both hands in my hair, pressing my into his crotch, loving every one of my suppressed gags.
He pulled me back on my feet, and holding my chin said, “You told me what you want,” the words landing slow and deliberate at my ear. “You told me what you’re scared of.” A pause. “Both things are safe here.”
I nodded. Then I remembered that nodding wasn’t enough and said, “Yes, sir.” The words came out shook and certain. It surprised me with how good it felt in my mouth—obedience shaped into language.
He smiled into my skin. “Good,” he said again, I’m going to start by getting you out of your head and into your body. You’ll let me.” Not a question.
“Yes, sir.”
“You’ll let me put you where I want you.” His hand cradled my cock and his thumb rubbed across the tip, seemingly to see if there was pre-cum yet. There was.
“Yes, sir.”
“You’ll tell me if you need to stop.” His mouth brushed the hinge of my jaw. The scrape of his beard felt like the friction on a match.
“Yes, sir,” I responded, and then, quieter, because it mattered: “Please.”
“Come,” Lance said, opening a palm and tilting his head toward the table, the flogger waiting like a dark flower at its side. “Let me handle you.”
And I went, with relief that felt like sin, into the first touch that would teach my body a new language.
Standing face to face, he lifted me from under my shoulders so that my cock is pressed into his chest and my legs were wrapped around his waist. We stayed that way, gazing into each other’s eyes. I ground my cock into his chest. He lowered me so the tip of his cock nestled into my hole letting me know what awaited me. Making it look effortless, he threw me onto the mattress like I weighed nothing, and for a split second I hovered there—air nearly knocked out of me. He was on me before the springs finished complaining. Heat. Mass. Gravity. His chest sealed to mine, his breath in my mouth, the whole length of him pinning me as if he’s the one starving for attention.
He kissed me with a cadence I couldn’t outrun, as if I’d evaporate if he stopped. Every time I tried to inhale his mouth sucked the air out of mine, but I needed him more than I needed oxygen. Our hips found a rhythm—urgent, imprecise, perfect in its mess. Fabric dragged fabric; the pressure was blunt and dizzying, the friction made me forget my name and remember every reason I came. He made a low sound when I rolled my hips harder into his; I answered with a helpless noise of my own that embarrassed me and thrilled him. He pressed me down with such force I was given only one option: submit.
“Good boy,” he whispered, our lips touching. I whimper back, “Thank you, daddy.”
I wanted to say please. I wanted to say thank you. What came out instead wass, “Can I—” My voice stumbles on the wanting. “Can I taste you again?”
He stills, then lifts just enough for cool air to slip between us. I feel the attention in him, the way he listens with his whole body. He glances down at me—those eyes that can be soft like a bedroom lamp or sharp like a switchblade—and then he nods, slow, approving. There’s money in this room somewhere; there’s a rate we agreed on and a form filled out in my browser history. But in this moment he’s not a transaction; he’s a storm and I’m the open window. He moves back, guiding me with the press of his hand at the base of my neck, and I go willingly, sliding down his torso, mouth leaving a dotted line of heat.
Between his thighs the world narrows to scent and salt and the pulse that lives under his skin. I take him into my mouth again, desperately happy to be back here, nestled between his two meaty thighs. Steady at first, then deeper, then deeper still, learning the weight and pace of him. He doesn’t push; he waits, reads, then rewards. His palm settles at the back of my head—first gently as a warning, then forcefully, telling me “You asked for this”. And I did.
I’m committed to taking him as deep in my throat as the characters in erotic porn do. My gag reflex has never been tested. That will change today. I inhale a deep breath and take him deeper into my throat than anything before it. He groans, “Oh fuck, what a good boy”, which drives me to go deeper. I pull back, take another breath, and go for it again. He pushes my head into his groin as if to say “I’m in charge, don’t you forget it”, which pleases me immensely. And then he adds, “Use your hands, you won’t have them for long.” We both know what that means and I groan, “Fuck…yes…”
I want all of him. Hunger makes me bolder. I let my mouth slide lower, nuzzling that tender stretch of skin beneath his balls—his taint—and the sound he makes this time is a soft curse. I press my face there, greedy, shameless, the word please looping in my skull even as my mouth is busy. He opens his legs a little wider in answer. “There,” he murmurs, praise threaded through the syllable. The crown of my head is cradled in his hand, a benediction and a handle both.
I move lower still, breath hot, tongue ravenous, and then I’m exactly where I’ve been burning to be...feasting on his hole. I place a pillow under his hips, I’m going to be down there for awhile and I want him to be comfortable. I stare at his beautiful hole. Pink, soft, alluring, perfect. I lean in and lick him intimately, worshiping with slow circles that turn urgent, then feral. He exhales like a man finding weather, one hand braced on the headboard, the other urging me to keep going. Time loosens its belt. Devouring him seems like the most natural thing in the world. I deliberately look for new and different ways to caress him with my tongue. Vertical. Circular. Flat tongue. Pointed tongue. I penetrate him and challenge myself to go deeper. Every groan of his is my reward. Minutes become a warm blur of him—his clean, human heat; the way he softens and then shudders; the small involuntary tremors that feel like honesty. Every so often he says my name like it’s a promise he’s remembering to keep.
When he finally draws me up, it’s gentle and absolute. “Up,” he says, not harsh, just certain, and I obey before I’ve decided to. He kisses me hard as he pulls me onto my back, as if he wants to taste what I tasted, and I ache with how seen that makes me feel. He places his hands on each side of my head, says, “Open up”, and spits into my open mouth to cement my status as his pig. The paradox tilts me: I paid for this, and yet he’s making me feel like a miracle he stumbled upon. Expertise and mercy, both in his touch.
Leather whispers. He’s at the corner of the bed, fingers at a strap, and then a cuff blooms around my wrist—supple, padded, firm. A click; a line draws tight. My pulse takes off. He does the other with the same patience you’d use to fold a shirt you love. “Breathe,” he says, eyes on me. I do. The restraint is a door closing and a door opening; I fall through both.
He startles me with his speed, suddenly at my throat with a kiss that feels like I’ve done something right. Then he’s kneeling by my ribs, feeding me himself again, slower this time, teaching me depth in increments that somehow know exactly how much I can take. I try to show him I can take more; I angle, relax, surrender. When I gag, the sound is ugly and human. He strokes my jaw, croons something low, waits for my body to understand his request. “You’re doing so well,” he says, and I blush at the praise like a schoolboy.
He withdraws with a soft hiss and reaches to the nightstand. The leather hood appears in his hands like a magician’s scarf—dark, heavy, quiet. He holds it up for me to see, and something inside me sits up like a dog hearing the key in the lock. “I want your mouth,” he says in that even tone that never needs to raise itself to be obeyed. “Just your mouth.” The promise in that sentence scrapes my nerves raw.
He lowers the hood over me with care, aligning the opening with my lips, tugging to smooth the fit, buckles whispering. Darkness folds in, immediate and absolute. My world becomes breath and sound and the gentle drag of leather at my jaw. I test the cuffs. They answer with crisp little noises. My heart knocks on the inside of my ribs like it’s late for something important.
There’s a pause, and in it he touches my ankle—anchoring, affectionate. Then cool circles tighten there: more cuffs. The spread of me—the vulnerability—is erotic beyond words. I can’t see his face, but I can feel his attention like warmth on my skin.
He gently plays with my engorged cock, and I warn him, I cum fast. He doesn’t want this either so he backs off and gently tickles my feet, legs, torso and inner thighs. I’d never experienced erotic tickling—and never much wanted to—but I can see why it’s a thing. In this state of intense arousal, every graze of his fingertips on my skin was like an explosion.
He then moved back to my cock and I felt something that lived somewhere between pleasure and pain. It felt like he was binding my cock with some unknown restraint. I had to ask and shared that he had put me in a cock ring and ball stretcher. How he got those on my erect cock is beyond me…but he did.. He’s arranging me with that same paradoxical blend—clinical precision, devotional care.
“Too much?” he asks.
“No.” The word is breath and vow. “Please.”
I feel him smile against the inside of my knee. He takes his time. He plays with my cock the way a musician warms an instrument—testing, coaxing, finding the resonant places. I strain to see him in my mind: the set of his mouth as he focuses; the way his wrist turns; the concentration that reads like tenderness. I am a blind altar, and he is a kind priest who knows exactly where to lay his hands.
I feel a flogger—soft leather tails cascading over my belly, then enveloping my cock and balls with deliberate care. The sensation is absurdly gentle, a nest of softness gathering me up. He lifts and lets it fall, lifts and lets it fall, the weight whispering in a language I already understand. Each pass sketches a circle of nerve and want, until I’m nearly panting from how little he’s hurting me. I realize I’m smiling under the mask—helpless, giddy, a little unstrung. He chuckles, low and pleased. “You like that,” he says, not a question.
“Yes…thank you sir.” I don’t sound like myself. I sound better.
He drifts the tails down, lower, pressing them against me, wrapping, cradling, then letting them slip away. My spine arches off the mattress. I can’t help it. He hushes me with his hand at my sternum, thumb circling a spot that gentles my breath. Every time the flogger lifts, I imagine its path; every time it lands, my body shivers like it’s being told a secret. The darkness behind the hood blooms with phantom color.
At some point he moves again—weight settling across my chest, thighs caging my ribs. He orders me to open my mouth and then spits into me again. “Good boy,” he responds. He feeds me himself more insistently now, and I open, eager, grateful. Blindness makes me truthful; I chase him with my mouth because there’s nothing else to chase. He is simultaneously careful and ruthless with me. When he pulls away, he doesn’t go far. The bed shifts; his breath turns in a new direction; I know before he settles what he wants. I lift my head wordlessly and answer, mouth wet and reverent. He tastes like heat and skin and the promise of something I never let myself believe I could have.
Time thins again. He alternates me between devotion and reward—his rhythm, my obedience—and I can feel the shape of his satisfaction even without seeing his face. Each “yes” he coaxes out of me feels like he’s handing it back, polished. I understand suddenly that he is not improvising. He is following a map I gave him with every tremble, every grab at breath, every sound I tried not to make. It terrifies me, the way he reads me. It saves me, the way he uses what he learns to give me back to myself.
The bed quiets. Leather gathers off my skin with a whisper. A drawer opens—small, practical sounds that are identifiably familiar. The pop of a cap and the wet hymn of something slick warming on fingers. My own breath is louder now that I can’t hear him moving. The hood edits the world down to a narrow stage: my mouth, my chest, my pulse, the place in me that’s been opening syllable by syllable since I walked through his door.
A touch at the back of my knee, a glide down the inside of my thigh—patient, unmistakable. He doesn’t rush. He lets me feel the approach, the care in it, the certainty. I try to raise my hips to offer him what I know he seeks, but I’m restrained by the cuffs; the leather answers with a gentle scold. He holds me there with one hand and sets the other where I’ve been aching for him, slick and sure, claim and comfort braided in the same gesture.
His mouth is near my ear; I can feel the consonants shape the air.
“It’s time,” he says.
Everything in me leans forward. I breathe once—deep, grateful, undone—and offer him the truest thing I have: my open, waiting yes.
“It’s time,” he says.
The words land somewhere between command and promise.
I nod, though the hood swallows my gesture. The air changes; it smells of him—salt, sweat, skin warmed by effort. The mattress answers every small motion with its own slow heartbeat.
Then the touch: slick, deliberate, searching. His finger draws a circle that feels like an invitation, then presses inward with a patience that borders on reverence. My body arches to meet it. The leather at my wrists holds; the breath in my chest doesn’t.
He moves as if he’s lost something inside me and intends to find it. When he does, the shock runs through me like a chord struck clean. The sound that escapes my mouth is half cry, half prayer. He listens to it, reads it, plays it again. One finger becomes two, then three, each movement more certain, each breath shorter than the one before. He builds the rhythm like a craftsman testing the strength of wood. Pleasure and pain become one; I can’t tell them apart.
At some point the cuffs at my ankles release. I feel his hands guiding my legs higher, folding me open to the air. The bed tilts; I am a question waiting for its answer. The next sensation is impossibly soft—a soft kiss on my hole that startles a gasp out of me—and then another, lower, wetter, until the world narrows to the slow circles of his mouth. What he does next feels like devotion disguised as hunger. My pulse has its own vocabulary now; every beat says yes, yes, yes.
He pauses only to breathe, and even that feels like touch. When he shifts again, the air cools where his mouth was. I sense the change of weight, the angle of his body aligning with mine, the brief press of something broader and harder against the place he’s opened. His voice finds me through the dark.
“You ready?”
“Is that—?”
“Yes.”
HIs single syllable carries both warning and mercy. Then the pressure, slow as dawn, pushing its way inside me. Pain blooms first—sharp, clean—and I bite it back, refusing to give into any sensation other than pleasure. He keeps still long enough for the hurt to dissolve into heat. When he moves again, it’s a tide. The friction feels like history being rewritten inside me, line by line. I realize I’ve been holding my breath; when I exhale, the sound is gratitude.
He finds a rhythm that makes speech impossible. Every centimeter of friction between his cock and my inner walls is like a revelation. I never knew this feeling could exist. The fullness. The rapture. The pure lust that’s quickly becoming out of my control. I thrust my hips to take more of him. I can’t get enough, which is ironic because I’ve rarely been penetrated, and certainly not anything near his length and girth. The room becomes percussion—bed, breath, heartbeat. Each thrust lands a little deeper, a little truer. I can tell by the way he breathes that he’s reading my body like a map he’s memorized. When he shifts the angle and strikes that inner nerve, the world fractures into light; I shout his name before I know I’ve formed it.
He laughs softly, not cruelly, and murmurs, “You’re pushing into me more than I’m pushing into you.”
He’s right. My body is chasing his, begging for more even as it trembles from what it already has. It becomes a duet—sound against sound, motion against motion—until the edges of us blur. We move through variations: facing, turning, tangling, finding new ways to stay connected. Sometimes he holds me open; sometimes he holds me close. Every position is a new translation of the same sentence: you are mine, I see you, keep breathing.
It's time for a change up. He releases the cuffs from the bed, noting that the cuffs will remain on my wrists to remind me who owns me. Fuck, yeah I think.
He becomes more aggressive, picks me up, turns me over and throws me down on my stomach. “You know what I want”, he scolds me which is my command to arch my back and raise my ass. More lube, more fingers, more foreplay, more groaning. I’m not sure how much pleasure I can endure. There’s more pleasure packed into each minute than my entire prior sexual history.
When he folds himself around me from behind, everything slows. His weight along my back feels like safety. He slides inside again, less a thrust than a merging. I reach behind, find his thigh, anchor myself there. We breathe together, a matched tempo, until the need becomes too sharp to contain. We pause on that edge—not stopping, just hovering—and the quiet hums with the ache of wanting to last.
I feel it again. His incredibly hard, thick cock, knocking at my door. I want him so badly I arch again to take him. My hole is like the venus flytrap and his cock is the victim. I push myself onto him and I hear what have become my two favorite words: “Good boy.”
I’m amazed at how much pleasure I’m receiving from giving him pleasure. It’s a rush I’d never experienced before. Fantasized, yes, but never truly experienced. I want him to value these two hours as much as I am, and so far, I think I’ve succeeded.
He picks up where he left off, but now any discomfort from my hole has disappeared and the sensation of his giant cock sliding in and out of me sends waves of electricity throughout my body. I’d never experience pleasure so intense that it’s nearly intolerable. Until now.
I want his cock so deep in me that I feel it in my throat. I ache for it. I keep pushing back on him, which makes him laugh because there’s nothing more to take. And he’s at least 9”. I’m ravenous. I’m insane. I can’t get enough.
He doesn’t pull out; instead he holds me, both of us slick, trembling, undone. His arms squeeze me from behind, heavy with care. The hood is gone before I realize he’s unlaced it; light seeps back in around the edges. I twist my head to see his face for the first time in what feels like hours—flushed, tender, eyes searching mine as though he’s checking that I survived what he gave. I have. I have never felt more alive.
We lie there, his cock throbbing inside me, owning me, our breaths stitching together. The air smells of skin and musk and something faintly metallic. Time stretches thin again. He whispers small, ordinary things—how good I am, how beautiful this am—and each phrase lands deeper than any endearment I’ve ever believed.
When he finally withdraws, it feels like a tide pulling away from shore: slow, reluctant, inevitable. The absence is its own sensation. He presses his lips to the back of my neck, a kiss that feels like both apology and benediction.
I wanted to go on forever, but I knew I wouldn’t last much longer. Everything up to now had been perfect, and I wanted our orgasms to be as well. “I gotta cum, sir”, I confessed. “Me too, boy. You’re fucking perfect.” That comment sent chills up my spine as powerful as his cock sliding in and out of me.
Without being asked, I tell him, “I want you to cum in my face. I want to taste you. All of you.”
He knew exactly what to do. He directs me to lie on the bed with my head hanging over the edge. He straddles my head between his legs so his balls hang directly in my face. I needed no further instruction because, after his cock and his hole, his balls were my favorite part of his body. I knew we were close to the end so I savored every salty, sweaty taste suck of those two succulent orbs. I inhaled them. Devoured them. Worshipped them. And not long after, he picked up the pace, stepped back behind me so his gift to me would land on my face. “IT’S GONNA BE A HUGE LOAD,” he shouted and, within seconds, I opened my mouth and felt rope after rope after rope of hot, salty jizz cover my face. I caught much of it in my mouth and the taste was exquisite. Warm, salty, briny and as real as he was.
Now it was my turn. My cock was still tied up and bound, but that didn’t matter, I was so close. He squirted some lube on it and not five strokes later I shot the mother of all loads myself. It’s been awhile since I’de covered my own chest with my jizz, but this was one of those times.
It remained quiet for a few moments. And then, we had to recover.
He reached for a towel and cleaned me with care that bordered on reverence. My face, my chest, the pool under my cock. Even my hair. Every motion said: I meant all of it.
He laid back down on the bed and patted the spot next to him to join him. “You’re not going anywhere, you sexy boy,” he smiled.
I crawled next to him and, instinctively, cuddled right into him. We found comfort in a silence that didn’t need translation. The afterglow was thick and quiet; our heartbeats learned each other’s timing.
“Stay,” he murmurs. Not an invitation—a command.
He holds me in his arms, not casually, but with purpose. He hugs me with the same force as when I arrived. He’s a living restraint. When his breathing deepens and the tension in him drains, I feel something like peace. Or its cousin. But eventually, reality re-enters the room, polite and unignorable.
I want to say something, but I know anything that would come out of my mouth would be a trite cliché. There are no words to describe how I feel. He arms pressing around me, holding me, not letting me go, speak louder than anything clever I could say.
He leans over and kisses me gently on my cheek. I know it’s time, but he’s behaving like he’s as moved as I am. He sits up and begins to move. I watch him in the dim light: the curve of his shoulder, the tattoo on his arm, the ordinary grace of a man putting himself back together. On the dresser is the framed photo—two men in leather harnesses, sunlight in their hair. He and his very handsome husband. The love that belongs to another world. I look at it and feel strangely honored to have been trusted with the part of him that can’t appear in photographs.
We dress slowly, exchanging quiet words that don’t try to define what just happened. He asks about the drive home, about whether I’m okay, and I realize he genuinely wants to know. There’s nothing scripted in his concern. It disarms me more than the leather ever could.
At the door, he touches my face, thumb tracing where the blindfold once was. “Be safe,” he says.
“You too,” I manage.
Outside, the night is cool and a little unreal. My car waits under a streetlight that hums faintly, indifferent witness. When I look back, he’s still standing in the doorway, arms crossed loosely, watching me the way someone might watch the tide recede—knowing it will return, but not soon.
I drive with the windows cracked, air rinsing the scent of him from my skin but not from my memory. My body aches in small, private ways; my chest feels wide open. The paradox hums louder now that I’m alone: I paid for this, yet what he gave can’t be bought. Maybe that’s his gift—to make surrender look like choice, to make need feel holy.
The highway unspools ahead, lights flickering over the windshield. I think about his words, his patience, the impossible tenderness that threaded through the power. I think about how he held me afterward, not because he had to, but because he wanted to.
When the city skyline comes into view, I realize I’m smiling. It isn’t joy exactly. It’s recognition—the sense that for a few hours, in a room built for forgetting, I was completely seen.
And maybe that’s what love is, in its simplest, most complicated form: to be known, even when you’ve paid for the privilege.
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