The knock came again. Louder. More insistent.
Vincent’s smirk dissolved into a thin line. He muttered a curse and stood, the mattress creaking beneath him.
“Stay,” he whispered sharply to Tristan.
The boy lay sprawled on the bed, chest bare, tank twisted up around his ribs, briefs soaked and clinging to him. His lips were parted, eyes glassy, body trembling with every shallow breath. He didn’t move, didn’t answer.
Another knock. Then a voice.
“Hello??”
Vincent froze mid-step. He didn’t recognize it.
He adjusted his tank hastily, tugging it down over his stomach before cracking the door.
On the porch stood a man in his late twenties. Clean-shaven, neatly dressed, posture straight. His polite expression was taut with worry.
“Sorry to bother you,” the man said. “I’m Jonah. I’m with Saint Luke’s. One of the youth leaders.” His eyes narrowed slightly. “We’re looking for Tristan. He was assigned this neighborhood for collections tonight. Some of us saw him come up to your door a while ago, but he hasn’t checked in.”
Vincent’s jaw tightened. His voice came smooth, practiced.
“Haven’t seen him.”
Jonah blinked. “Really? I could’ve sworn—” He gestured toward the sidewalk. “I watched him walk up here.”
Vincent chuckled—low, dismissive. “Nope. Sorry. Must’ve been mistaken. Maybe he hit the wrong house?”
Jonah studied him a second longer. His smile was polite, but his eyes carried suspicion. “Well… alright. If we can’t find him, I may stop back by later. Possibly with the authorities. Just to be sure.”
Vincent inclined his head. “You do that.”
Jonah gave a curt nod and walked away, his shoes echoing faintly on the pavement.
Vincent shut the door. Firmly.
For a moment, silence. Then his composure cracked. He cursed under his breath, running a hand down his face. His cock still ached. The boy was right there—open, ready, perfect—and now this. Jonah. A fucking church man sniffing around his door.
Vincent turned back down the hallway, his frustration burning hotter with every step.
Tristan was still on the bed, limp and dazed, briefs soaked darker now at the tip. His arms had fallen to his sides. His chest rose and fell, his nipples still flushed from Vincent’s mouth.
Vincent grabbed his polo and khakis in one hand, yanked Tristan upright with the other. The boy gasped softly, unsteady on his feet.
“W-what’s—” he murmured faintly.
“No time,” Vincent snapped. His voice was low but sharp, urgent. He tugged the white tank back down over Tristan’s chest, smoothing it against his trembling torso before shoving the rest of his clothes into his arms.
Tristan swayed, blinking in confusion, bare legs pale and trembling under the lamplight.
Vincent cursed again, guiding him roughly toward the door. “Go. Now. Out.”
The door opened. Humid night air rushed in.
And before Tristan could speak, before he could even gather himself, Vincent shoved him outside.
The door closed behind him with a heavy thud.
Tristan stumbled on the porch, barefoot, clothes clutched to his chest. His legs were bare. His briefs clung wet and obvious beneath the thin tank, fabric plastered to the curve of his cock. He blinked slowly into the dark, taking one dazed step after another down the cracked walkway.
The night pressed in around him. Cicadas hummed. His wet briefs cooled in the air.
It took him three steps—four—before his daze cracked.
He looked down.
Tank. White briefs. Wet. Clinging to him. Nothing else. His bare thighs gleamed under the porch light. The bundle of his own clothes hung useless in his arms.
His chest lurched.
“Oh my God…” he whispered.
Panic surged sharp through his veins. He clutched the clothes tighter, stumbling faster down the street, praying no one would see.
But every step made the wet fabric cling tighter, every movement reminding him of what Vincent had left unfinished.
And he couldn’t decide what terrified him more—being seen like this, or the fact that part of him already wanted to go back.
The night air clung to Tristan’s skin, sticky and cool all at once. Each step on the cracked pavement felt unsteady, as though the ground itself tilted beneath his bare feet. His bundle of clothes pressed against his chest like a shield, but it did nothing to hide the fact that he was walking through the neighborhood in nothing but a white tank and wet briefs.
Every sound made him jolt. A distant dog barked. A car door slammed two streets away. He hugged the bundle tighter and lowered his head, praying no one would peek out of their windows.
He didn’t understand what had happened—not really. His body still burned, humming in places he’d never noticed before. His chest ached where Vincent’s mouth had been, his nipples still stiff and sensitive against the fabric. Worse, the damp cling between his legs made every step a reminder. His cock was soft now, but the briefs stuck to him, pulling tight with each movement, shame and sensation blended together.
He swallowed hard. “Just get home,” he whispered to himself.
Halfway down Willow Creek Lane, he spotted his home. A beautiful two story white and dark blue house with flowers on each side of the porch. Without thinking, he darted to it.
He stepped inside, breathing hard. Wincing at the soft creak of the hinges.
His hair stuck to his forehead, his face hot with sweat and shame. He glanced up and down the house. It was quiet. His parents were not home. Relief flooded him. He was safe.
He crept upstairs, barefeet silent on the carpet. In his room, he finally let out a shaky breath and pulled out his phone from his pants pocket. The screen lit up with Jonah’s name.
Where are you?
Are you okay?
We lost track of you. I saw you go up to that man’s place.
Tristan’s heart jumped. His fingers trembled as he typed a reply.
I’m okay. Sorry. I didn’t feel well and went home early.
He stared at the screen, then added quickly: Didn’t mean to worry anyone.
He set the phone down on his desk, screen still glowing, and stripped out of his clothes in silence. The polo clung damply as he pulled it off, his khakis still warm from his body heat. The briefs came last—wet, embarrassing, proof of what Vincent had done to him. He balled them quickly and shoved them to the bottom of his hamper.
The shower came next. Steam filled the small bathroom, but the hot water couldn’t wash away the memory. His skin tingled where Vincent’s hands had been, his chest flushed when he caught sight of his stiff nipples in the mirror. He scrubbed hard, as though he could erase the sensation.
But he couldn’t.
By the time he pulled on his pajama bottoms and an old t-shirt, he was trembling again—but from exhaustion now. He collapsed into bed, the sheets cool against his flushed skin.
In the dark, he pressed his face into his pillow and shut his eyes. The world spun, soft and dizzy. He replayed it in flashes: Vincent’s voice in his ear, the kiss against his chest, the way his body had betrayed him with wet briefs and soft moans.
Tristan swallowed hard, turning onto his side.
He was terrified.
But part of him had never felt more alive.
Sleep claimed him slowly—uneven, restless, haunted by the touch of hands that still lingered in his memory.
And when he finally drifted off, he was still reeling.
Still aching.
Still denied.
Sunlight filtered through the blinds, slicing pale stripes across Tristan’s bedroom. His eyes opened slowly, the weight of restless sleep still clinging to him. For a moment, he lay still, listening to the distant hum of the air conditioner, the faint sounds of his parents moving around downstairs.
Nothing unusual. Just another Saturday morning.
Except… it wasn’t.
His body felt different. His chest still tingled faintly, his nipples brushing against the fabric of his shirt with every small shift. His legs ached, not from strain, but from tension he’d never held before. And lower—he winced at the memory, heat creeping up his neck. The briefs shoved deep in the bottom of his hamper whispered like a secret. He still felt a pressure in his groin that he could not get rid of.
Tristan sat up slowly, rubbing his eyes. His parents hadn’t knocked, hadn’t asked questions. Maybe they hadn’t even noticed he’d come in late. Relief washed over him, though it was tangled with shame.
He dressed quickly—loose shorts, a faded t-shirt. Socks, sneakers. He tugged his silver cross chain out of habit, then tucked it beneath the collar of his shirt where no one could see. It pressed cool against his chest, a reminder he wasn’t sure if he wanted or not.
“Going for a walk,” he called quietly as he slipped down the stairs. His mother, busy in the kitchen, just waved without turning. His father grunted from behind a newspaper.
Outside, the morning air was already warm, the sun heavy on the pavement. Tristan started down the familiar neighborhood street, hands stuffed into his pockets, shoulders hunched.
At first, he just walked. Past trimmed hedges. Past kids on bikes wobbling down the cul-de-sac. Past a barking dog behind a fence. His sneakers thudded softly against the sidewalk, grounding him.
But the further he went, the more the silence filled with memory.
Vincent’s voice.
You don’t even know what you’re hiding, do you?
The press of rough fingers against his chest.
The way his own body had reacted.
Tristan squeezed his eyes shut as he walked. His stomach twisted.
What had happened in that house? He tried to replay it in order, but the edges blurred. He remembered drinking the water, the warmth spreading through him. He remembered lying down, Vincent’s hands guiding him. He remembered feeling things—strange, good, wrong—his body arching without his permission.
And then… the knock. Jonah’s voice. The panic in Vincent’s face. The door slamming behind him as he was shoved out half-naked into the night.
Tristan’s cheeks burned hot. He tugged at his shirt like it could erase the memory.
How close had Jonah come to seeing him like that? What if anyone else had looked out their window? The thought made him nauseous.
Yet underneath the fear, another feeling gnawed at him.
Need.
He swallowed hard, walking faster now, sneakers scuffing against the sidewalk. His body remembered Vincent’s hands, Vincent’s mouth, the worship whispered against his chest. The way his cock had swelled inside his briefs, straining and leaking until he thought he would burst—only to be left aching, unfinished.
He hated that he remembered. Hated that part of him wanted it back.
At the end of the block, Tristan stopped. He looked around—quiet houses, sunlight through the trees, the ordinary hum of a weekend morning. It should’ve calmed him.
Instead, he muttered under his breath, voice breaking:
“What’s happening?”
The cross against his chest felt heavier than ever.
A few days had passed. The sun hung lower now, glinting through the trees as Tristan walked the narrow sidewalk near the edge of town. He wore a plain gray t-shirt and loose shorts, socks tucked into his sneakers, his silver cross resting cool against his chest beneath the fabric. He kept his hands shoved in his pockets, head down, replaying last night in flashes he didn’t want but couldn’t escape.
Vincent’s voice. His hands. The burn in Tristan’s chest when he’d been shoved out into the night.
He swallowed hard and quickened his pace.
That was when he noticed the man.
Sitting on a bench near the old creek trail. Mid-40s maybe, tan skin, salt beginning to pepper his dark hair. His shirt was half unbuttoned, sleeves rolled, work boots planted wide in the dust. He held a cigarette between his fingers, the smoke curling lazily in the warm evening air.
Tristan meant to pass him without looking, but the man’s eyes tracked him immediately. Direct. Heavy.
“You look lost,” the stranger said, voice low and smooth.
Tristan blinked, startled. “I—no, I’m just walking.”
The man smirked. “Walking like you’re trying to outrun something.” He tapped ash to the dirt, then nodded to the bench. “Sit. Take a breath. Won’t kill you.”
Tristan hesitated. His pulse skipped. But his legs moved anyway, and before he realized it, he was lowering himself to the far end of the bench, leaving a polite space between them.
The man chuckled softly. “Good boy.”
Tristan stiffened. His hands clutched his knees, his sneakers tapping nervously against the ground.
They sat in silence for a while, the cicadas buzzing in the trees. Then the man leaned closer, resting his elbow on the back of the bench, his knee brushing Tristan’s.
“You got that look,” he murmured. “Like you’re not sure if you want someone to stop you… or keep going.”
Tristan’s throat worked. “I don’t—know what you mean.”
The man smiled, slow and knowing. His hand slid over, warm and heavy, landing on Tristan’s shoulder. He didn’t squeeze. He didn’t move away. He just stayed there, the weight undeniable.
Tristan’s breath hitched. He should’ve pulled back. He didn’t.
“Come on,” the man said quietly, standing. He nodded toward the tree line, where a faint dirt path cut down toward the creek. “Little more private down there. No one to bother us.”
Tristan’s chest tightened. Every instinct told him to run, but his legs obeyed the stranger instead. He stood, following a few paces behind, sneakers crunching in the dust.
They reached a shaded spot near the water, where brush and tall reeds grew thick. The stranger stopped, turned, and looked him over.
“You nervous?” he asked.
Tristan’s cheeks flushed. “I—I don’t know.”
The man stepped closer. His hand rose again, tracing down Tristan’s arm, then catching his wrist. He lifted it gently, pressing Tristan’s palm against his own chest, just above his open shirt.
“Feel that?” the man asked. His heartbeat thudded steady beneath Tristan’s fingers.
Tristan swallowed hard. “Yes.”
The man’s lips curled. “Good.” He guided Tristan’s hand lower, just to the top of his stomach, before letting go. “You don’t have to pretend you don’t feel it too. That ache. Here.”
His own hand slid briefly across Tristan’s abdomen, over the gray t-shirt, lingering just above his shorts’ waistband. Not pushing—just hovering.
Tristan’s groin stirred faintly. That familiar pressure returned, soft but present. He shifted on his feet, but the man caught it instantly.
“There it is,” the stranger whispered. “Don’t lie to yourself, boy. Your body’s already telling me yes.”
Tristan’s breath came shallow now. He shook his head weakly. “I—I shouldn’t—”
“But you are,” the man interrupted, his hand gliding down to Tristan’s thigh. He pressed lightly, just above the knee, then higher. “You came with me, didn’t you?”
Tristan froze, his chest rising fast.
The man stepped closer, the scent of smoke and sweat filling Tristan’s head. His thumb rubbed slow circles against Tristan’s thigh through the fabric of his shorts.
“You’re dressed so careful,” he murmured. “Like you don’t want anyone to see. But I see you.” His hand pressed a little firmer, sliding upward just another inch. “I see what you’re hiding.”
Tristan’s cock twitched faintly, a soft ache growing in his groin. He clenched his fists. “Please—”
“Please what?” the man whispered, leaning close to his ear. His breath was hot, direct. “Please stop? Or please don’t?”
Tristan squeezed his eyes shut. He didn’t answer. Couldn’t.
The man chuckled, low and dark. He lifted both hands now, cupping Tristan’s face gently between them. “You’re trembling. God, I love that.”
He brushed his thumbs along Tristan’s jaw, then let his hands slide down, over his shoulders, across his chest. The gray t-shirt shifted, the silver cross chain faintly visible beneath the fabric.
“Even wearing a cross,” the man said softly. “Still hungry underneath it.”
Tristan’s chest heaved. The pressure between his legs grew hotter, heavier.
The man’s hands drifted lower, tracing his abs through the shirt, stopping just at the waistband of his shorts. He didn’t pull. Didn’t open. Just lingered there, fingers spread, the promise of more hanging thick in the air.
“I want to take this off,” the man whispered, tugging lightly at the hem of Tristan’s shirt. “And those shorts too. I want to see what you’re hiding under here.”
Tristan shuddered. His eyes opened, glassy and wide.
The man smiled, leaning back just enough to meet his gaze. “Not yet,” he said. “But soon. You’ll let me. I can see it in you.”
His hand pressed firmly against Tristan’s thigh once more, holding him there, making him feel it.
Tristan stood frozen, caught between terror and curiosity, shame and heat. The ache in his groin pulsed faintly, undeniable.
And he realized he wasn’t pulling away.
The man’s hand lingered heavy on Tristan’s thigh, thumb pressing against the fabric of his shorts. His eyes narrowed, watching every twitch, every flicker of confusion on the boy’s face.
“You’re shaking,” he murmured. “That’s good. It means you feel something.”
Tristan swallowed hard. His lips parted, but no words came.
The man’s hand slid higher, palm broad and warm, pressing into the muscle of his inner thigh now. Tristan’s cock stirred faintly, the pressure in his groin undeniable.
The man leaned in close, his breath hot against Tristan’s ear. “Tell me something, boy. You religious?”
Tristan hesitated, then nodded faintly. “Y-yes…”
The man smiled against his skin, his voice dropping to a rough whisper. “Of course you are. I can tell. The way you sit so proper. The way you’ve kept yourself locked up, waiting. They taught you to be afraid of your own body, didn’t they?”
Tristan’s chest rose sharply. “I… I just want to be good.”
“Oh, you’re good,” the man said, his tone almost reverent. His hand pressed harder against Tristan’s thigh, sliding closer to the heat between his legs. “But being good doesn’t mean being empty. Doesn’t mean starving yourself.”
Tristan’s eyes fluttered shut as the man’s palm cupped him through his shorts, firm and deliberate. His cock twitched again, swelling just enough to make the fabric strain. He gasped, hips jerking faintly into the touch.
“There it is,” the man whispered. “That ache. Your body’s been begging for this, boy.”
He began to knead slowly, squeezing Tristan’s bulge through the soft fabric, dragging his hand up the full length and back down again. Tristan moaned softly, a sound caught halfway in his throat, shame and relief tangled together.
“Good,” the man coaxed. “Let me feel you. That’s it. Don’t fight it.”
His other hand slid around Tristan’s waist, pulling him closer until their bodies touched. The man ground against him—slow, deliberate pressure—letting Tristan feel the solid weight of his own cock through his jeans. Their hips brushed, the friction sharp even through layers of clothing.
Tristan whimpered, his hands clenching into fists at his sides.
“Relax,” the man murmured. “Feel what you’re doing to me. You see? Nothing wrong with that. Nothing sinful. Just two bodies that know what they want.”
He rolled his hips again, grinding their bulges together through denim and cotton. Tristan gasped louder, his thighs trembling, the pressure inside him growing with every push.
“Good boy,” the man whispered, nipping at the shell of his ear. “That’s it. Let me hear you.”
Tristan moaned softly, muffled, but it escaped.
The man chuckled darkly. His hand left Tristan’s crotch and slid upward, stroking across his stomach, pressing against the soft ridges beneath the t-shirt. His fingers traced the faint outline of abs, teasing upward, until he reached the hem.
He tugged it lightly. Then again.
Tristan’s breath caught.
The man’s voice softened, coaxing. “Lift your arms, boy. Let me see you.”
Tristan hesitated—only a heartbeat. Then slowly, trembling, he obeyed. His arms lifted, shy and unsteady, baring his stomach, his chest, the silver cross glinting faintly against his skin.
The man peeled the shirt upward, inch by inch, until it slipped free. He tossed it aside carelessly and looked at him in the fading light.
And then he smiled.
“God…” he whispered. His hands spread over Tristan’s bare chest, squeezing softly, thumbs brushing the pink peaks of his nipples. “You’re beautiful.”
He leaned in, voice hot, low, and certain.
“They tried to hide this from the world. But now it’s mine to admire.”
The man’s hands roamed Tristan’s bare torso, slow and deliberate, palms spreading across his chest as though memorizing it. His skin was warm, smooth, alive under the stranger’s touch. Tristan trembled, his arms lowering awkwardly, unsure of what to do with them now that his shirt was gone.
“Look at you,” the man murmured, his eyes drinking him in. “Strong chest. Tight stomach. And that chain…” His fingers brushed the silver cross that dangled against Tristan’s skin. He pinched it lightly, tugging it upward until the metal rested just above his collarbone. “Even with God pressed against you, you can’t hide what your body wants.”
Tristan gasped, his lips parting. “I—”
The man silenced him with a slow squeeze of his pec, kneading the full muscle. Then his thumb flicked across one nipple.
Tristan jolted. His back arched involuntarily.
The man froze, then grinned wide. “Well, well… sensitive, aren’t you?” He pinched again, harder this time, and Tristan moaned softly, eyes fluttering shut.
“God, you love that,” the man whispered. “These perfect nipples—so soft, so pink—just waiting for someone to play with them.” He rolled one between his fingers, watching the boy’s entire body react: chest heaving, thighs tensing, lips trembling.
Tristan shook his head weakly, but the sound that came out of him betrayed him. A moan.
The man chuckled low. “Don’t lie to me, boy. Your chest is telling me everything.” He leaned down and flicked his tongue across one nipple, wet and teasing. Tristan gasped, his hips jerking forward.
“That’s it,” the man praised. “You feel that all the way down, don’t you?”
He alternated between the two—fingers pinching one, tongue teasing the other—until Tristan was whimpering softly, his body arching up into every touch. The cross chain slid across his skin with each movement, glinting faintly as though mocking his surrender.
The man’s hand slid lower, over Tristan’s stomach, pressing into the firm ridges of his abs. He kneaded slowly, then lower still—fingers grazing the waistband of his shorts before pressing flat against the bulge straining beneath.
Tristan’s cock twitched violently at the contact. He gasped, his thighs trembling as the man began to knead.
“There it is,” the stranger whispered, stroking and squeezing through the fabric. “God, you’re thick even under these. So full.” He rubbed the head through the cotton, slow circles, smirking when Tristan whimpered. “I love seeing you like this—squirming, aching, leaking into your shorts like a good boy who’s never been touched before.”
He ground his own hips forward, letting Tristan feel the solid press of his arousal through denim, grinding against him with steady pressure. Their bulges pressed together—hot, demanding—fabric against fabric.
Tristan cried out softly, his hands finally grabbing at the man’s arms, not to push him away but to hold onto something, anything, as his body betrayed him.
The man grinned, teeth flashing. His mouth returned to Tristan’s nipples, sucking, flicking, biting gently. His hand never stopped kneading the boy’s cock through his shorts, stroking the length, cupping the weight of his balls.
“Your chest… your cock… everything about you reacts so perfectly,” he whispered hotly against Tristan’s skin. “You were built for this. Built to be worshipped. And I could do this to you all day.”
Tristan’s head tipped back, a broken moan escaping him. The pressure in his groin had returned—hotter, harder, unbearable—his cock throbbing against the stranger’s palm, his body begging for release he didn’t even understand.
The man pulled back just enough to admire him, chest heaving, nipples stiff and red, bulge straining against the damp fabric of his shorts. He grinned, eyes dark and hungry.
“Beautiful,” he murmured. “And you don’t even know how far I could take you yet.”
The man’s hand never left Tristan’s crotch. His palm kneaded, rubbed, pressed in slow circles that made the boy twitch helplessly. Beneath the thin fabric of his shorts, Tristan’s cock throbbed against the dark green briefs clinging tight to him, the waistband cutting into his hips. The cotton was damp at the tip already, a patch blooming darker just like the night before.
“Feel that?” the man murmured against his chest, lips brushing over one stiff nipple before kissing it softly. “That pressure building? That’s your body begging to be let go.”
Tristan moaned quietly, his head tipping back, throat exposed. “I—I can’t…”
“You can,” the man corrected, his voice low and firm. His thumb flicked over Tristan’s nipple again, gentle but rough enough to make his chest arch. “Your body already knows what to do. You’ve just never let it happen.”
The stranger’s hips pressed forward, grinding their bulges together through layers of fabric. Tristan whimpered at the contact, thighs trembling as the man rolled against him in a slow rhythm, cock to cock, heat to heat.
“That’s it, boy. Grind back. Don’t hold it in.”
Tristan’s hands clutched at the man’s shoulders, his knuckles pale. His cock strained painfully in his briefs, the tight waistband keeping it pinned upward, head leaking freely now against the damp fabric. Every grind made him gasp, the wetness spreading, the briefs sticking tighter to him.
The man kissed his chest again—gentle, worshipful—before pulling his mouth away just enough to whisper:
“God, you react so beautifully. These nipples—” his fingers pinched lightly, rolling them until Tristan moaned, “—you love when I play with them. Don’t you?”
Tristan shook his head weakly, but his moan betrayed him.
The man chuckled. “Liar. They’re perfect. Sensitive. Just like the rest of you.”
He pinched again, harder this time, while his other hand stroked Tristan’s cock through his shorts—long, deliberate motions from base to tip. The outline of him was obvious now, thick and pulsing.
The man whispered, his lips brushing Tristan’s ear. “I can feel the wet patch through your shorts. That’s how bad you need this.”
Tristan’s hips bucked into his hand, unthinking, desperate. The waistband of his briefs dug into him, trapping his cock in place, making every throb unbearable.
“Easy,” the man coaxed, slowing the strokes just as Tristan’s moans grew louder. “Not yet. You’re not ready to finish. I want you to feel it longer.”
He grinded against him again, firmer now, their cocks straining against each other through denim and cotton, heat building between them. His fingers returned to Tristan’s nipples, rolling them until they stiffened under his touch. He alternated—stroking the chest, grinding, kneading the bulge—keeping Tristan right at the edge, never letting him slip over.
Tristan’s voice broke. “Please—”
The man smiled, lips pressing hot against his collarbone. “Please what, boy? Please stop? Or please don’t?”
Tristan moaned instead of answering, his cock jerking violently in his briefs, the wet spot spreading wider.
“That’s what I thought,” the man said, dragging his hand slowly up and down the length of his clothed shaft. “You don’t want this to stop. You love the way it feels. Every squeeze, every rub… it’s all yours.”
Tristan’s body convulsed softly, his stomach twitching, abs flexing under the stranger’s hand. The cross chain shifted against his chest with every arch, glinting faintly in the dim light.
The man kissed the center of his chest, lips brushing the silver. “Even with this around your neck, your body tells the truth.” His hand cupped Tristan’s cock firmly, grinding the wet fabric against him. “You want this. You need this. And I’m going to keep you here until you can’t take it anymore.”
Tristan whimpered, his cock pulsing wildly, straining in its damp prison. The waistband cut into his hips, his thighs shook, and the pressure in his groin grew unbearable.
Still, the man didn’t let him finish.
He worshipped his chest with lips and hands, pinched his nipples until they peaked harder than ever, ground against him with slow, steady force, and kept his palm pressed to the thick outline of his cock until Tristan’s whole body writhed in denial.
“Such a good boy,” he whispered, breath hot against Tristan’s ear. “Held right on the edge. I could do this to you forever.”
The man’s palm pressed firmly against Tristan’s bulge, stroking him through his shorts with a slow, deliberate rhythm. Each squeeze dragged Tristan’s cock against the soaked green briefs, the wet fabric clinging tighter with every pulse. His waistband dug into his hips, trapping him, making every throb sharper, crueler.
Tristan’s chest heaved, nipples stiff beneath the stranger’s fingers as they were rolled and teased. His abs clenched each time the man pinched just enough, pleasure shooting down into his groin like sparks.
“I bet you’re leaking so much,” the man whispered, lips grazing Tristan’s neck. “Your cock’s screaming at me. You feel it, don’t you? The way your body’s begging me to let you go?”
Tristan’s answer came in a strangled moan, his head tipping back, throat bared. His hips bucked into the man’s hand, desperate, unthinking.
The man chuckled darkly. “That’s begging, boy. Every thrust, every twitch. You don’t even have to speak. Your body’s pleading for me.”
He ground their hips together again, slow and steady. Denim crushed against Tristan’s shorts, and Tristan gasped—louder this time, a broken sound that vibrated in his chest.
The man’s hand tightened, stroking him faster, then slowing suddenly, dragging out the torture. Tristan’s cock jerked violently in the briefs, the wet patch spreading wider, soaking through.
“Good boy,” the man praised. “Hold it. Feel how close you are. Teetering. Shaking. Your cock’s ready to explode, but I won’t let it. Not yet.”
Tristan whimpered, his fingers digging into the man’s arms. His thighs trembled, calves tight, every muscle locked in anticipation of release that never came.
The man leaned close, biting the words into his ear. “You love it. The ache. The pressure. You love me keeping you right here—ruined and leaking.”
He lightly pinched Tristan’s nipple again, rolling it between his fingers, watching the boy’s body arch helplessly, his cock twitching wildly.
“Beautiful,” the man whispered. “You’re so sensitive. So desperate. And you don’t even know how to ask for it, do you? That’s why you moan like that. Why your hips won’t stop. That’s your begging, boy. Silent, raw, perfect.”
Tristan’s eyes fluttered shut. His mouth opened, but only a breathless whimper came out. His cock strained harder, trapped in the tightness of his briefs, tip leaking freely, soaking him.
The man stroked again—long, full motions from base to head, squeezing through fabric—then stopped just as Tristan’s hips surged. The boy cried out, a broken, needy sound, his body jerking into empty air.
The man grinned. “That’s it. Squirm for me.”
He ground against him once more, steady, relentless. Tristan moaned louder now, his chest flushed, nipples red and hard, abs twitching under the stranger’s hand. His cock throbbed, wetter than ever, so close it hurt.
And still—the man denied him.
“Not yet,” he whispered again. “I want you ruined for me. Leaking. Aching. Begging with every inch of your body until you can’t take it anymore.”
Tristan’s back arched sharply, his cock twitching so hard it nearly buckled him. His breath came in gasps, hands gripping the man’s shoulders like he’d fall without him.
His whole body was begging now—hips grinding up, chest thrusting forward, voice breaking into desperate moans.
The man kissed his ear, his words hot and final. “Good boy. Stay right there. Edge for me. Be mine.”
Tristan’s cock throbbed violently, trapped in the damp prison of his briefs. The tight waistband pressed cruelly into his hips, holding him in place, making every twitch sharper, harsher. The fabric clung wet to the swollen head, and suddenly—another pulse.
He gasped.
A hot leak spread inside his briefs, soaking through to the shorts above it. He could feel it, slick and insistent, coating the sensitive tip until it burned.
His stomach clenched. His thighs shook.
It didn’t feel good anymore. Not completely. The pressure in his groin was unbearable now—too much, too sharp, like being stretched to the point of pain. His cock strained so hard against the cotton that it ached, each beat of his pulse sending a stab of need through him.
Tristan whimpered, his head rolling back. His chest heaved, nipples still stiff and raw from the man’s hands. His whole body felt hot and desperate, but his cock hurt—pleasure and pain blurred until it terrified him.
He twisted suddenly, pulling back.
The man froze, hands still hovering over his chest. “Boy?” he murmured, voice low but softer now. “You okay?”
Tristan shook his head fast, panic in his eyes. He grabbed at his shirt, snatched it off the ground, and shoved it clumsily over his head. His arms shook as he forced them through the sleeves, chest heaving.
“I—I can’t—”
He didn’t finish. He turned, sneakers pounding against the dirt as he bolted from the shaded creekside path.
“Hey!” the man called after him. Not angry—curious. But Tristan didn’t look back.
He ran.
The humid air clung to him, sweat soaking through his shirt as his body burned with denial. His cock was still hard, throbbing with every step, the wet patch spreading in his briefs. He could feel it squelch against him, a humiliating reminder with every stride.
His heart hammered. His throat ached.
What was that?
What’s wrong with me?
The words tumbled through his head as he sprinted down the cracked sidewalk, clutching his chest. He couldn’t escape the feeling—the burn in his nipples, the ache in his groin, the slick dampness of his briefs sticking to him.
By the time his house came into view, he was gasping, sweat dripping down his temples. He slowed only long enough to slip through the door and up the stairs, praying his parents wouldn’t notice.
In his room, he collapsed onto the edge of his bed, chest heaving, clothes clinging to his skin. His cock still ached, still pulsed angrily, still trapped in its damp, strained prison.
He undressed and the briefs were sticking to his body. His cock still semi hard. He had that pain and ache in his groin. He took the briefs off and slowly got into the shower. Letting the warm water pour over him.
Tristan buried his face in his hands, shaking.
He’d never felt anything like it.
And he was terrified—because part of him wanted to feel it again.
Hope everyone enjoys the second part of Tristan’s story. Feel free to let me know what you think. If you have any questions, don’t hesitate to ask.
