Hello, this is my first time writing cuckoldimg stories. Ive read a lots and from the previous group I read about Heart Stopper Cuckolding and I love it. So please let me know if its not a good writing or any criticism at all. Happy reads!
A Quiet House in Kent – Summer Evening
The Nelson house was empty for once.
Sarah had taken Tori to a university open day in Bristol. The dog was at the groomer’s. No rugby practice, no friends coming over, no revision panic. Just the low golden light coming through the kitchen windows and the faint smell of cut grass drifting in from the garden.
Charlie was barefoot on the cool tiles, wearing one of Nick’s old faded Harpers hoodies that came down to mid-thigh and nothing else. Nick noticed immediately—had noticed the second Charlie walked downstairs after his shower and deliberately hadn’t put proper clothes on.
“You’re doing that on purpose,” Nick said from the sofa, voice already a little rough.
Charlie gave a small, knowing smile and kept walking toward him, slow. “Doing what?”
Nick’s gaze dragged down the bare legs, the way the hem of the hoodie shifted against pale skin with every step. “Existing like that. In my house. In my clothes. With no pants.”
Charlie stopped between Nick’s spread knees. “You could take them off me if they’re bothering you.”
Nick exhaled through his nose, half laugh, half surrender. His hands found the backs of Charlie’s thighs immediately, warm palms sliding up under the fleece until his fingertips brushed the crease where thigh met backside. No underwear. Of course not.
“Jesus, Char.” Nick’s thumbs traced slow circles over the sensitive skin just under the curve of his arse. “You’ve been thinking about this all afternoon, haven’t you?”
Charlie’s fingers threaded into Nick’s hair, tugging just enough. “Since you came out of the shower shirtless and did that stretch thing in the kitchen. Yes.”
Nick groaned low in his throat and pulled Charlie forward until he had to climb onto the sofa, knees bracketing Nick’s hips. The hoodie rode up as Charlie settled, leaving him completely bare from the waist down. Nick’s hands went straight to his hips, thumbs pressing into the sharp lines of his hipbones.
They kissed like they’d been waiting hours instead of twenty minutes—open-mouthed, hungry, no preamble. Charlie rocked down instinctively, feeling Nick already hard beneath the soft rugby shorts. The friction made them both make small, helpless sounds into each other’s mouths.
Nick broke the kiss only long enough to yank his own shirt over his head. “Off,” he muttered, tugging at the hoodie. “Want to see you.”
Charlie let Nick pull it up and off, hair falling messily into his eyes. The second his chest was bare Nick’s mouth was on him—kissing the centre of his sternum, then lower, tongue flicking over one nipple, then the other, until Charlie arched and gasped.
“Nick—”
“Mm?” Nick’s teeth grazed the side of his pec, not quite a bite. “What do you want, baby?”
Charlie’s hips stuttered. That word always undid him. “Want you in me. Please.”
Nick’s eyes darkened instantly. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
Nick lifted him like he weighed nothing—hands under his thighs, strong arms flexing—and carried him the six steps to the big armchair in the corner. He sat with Charlie still straddling him, only now there was nothing between them but Nick’s shorts and the slick heat Charlie could already feel building low in his belly.
Nick kissed him again, slower this time, while one hand fumbled in the side table drawer for the lube they’d hidden there weeks ago. Charlie heard the cap snap open and then cool, slippery fingers were circling him, teasing, pressing in with careful patience.
Charlie dropped his forehead to Nick’s shoulder, breathing hard. “More.”
Nick gave him another finger, then a third, curling them just right until Charlie’s thighs shook and he was making those broken little whimpers Nick loved so much.
“God, you’re so tight,” Nick breathed against his neck. “Can’t wait to feel you around me.”
“Then don’t,” Charlie panted. “Please.”
Nick pulled his fingers out slowly, shucked his shorts in one impatient movement, slicked himself with more lube. He lined up, fat head nudging against Charlie’s entrance, and paused—always paused—waiting.
Charlie sank down in one long, steady glide.
They both groaned at the same time.
Nick’s head fell back against the chair, eyes squeezed shut. “Fuck—Charlie—”
Charlie braced his hands on Nick’s shoulders and rolled his hips, taking him deeper. The stretch was perfect, overwhelming, exactly what he’d been craving all day. He started to move—slow at first, then faster, finding the angle that made sparks shoot up his spine every time Nick hit that spot.
Nick’s hands roamed everywhere—gripping Charlie’s arse, sliding up his back, tangling in his hair to pull him down into another filthy kiss. Their mouths stayed locked together as the rhythm picked up, skin slapping softly, breathy moans muffled against lips.
“You feel so good,” Nick gasped when they broke apart. “So fucking good—look at you, taking me like that—”
Charlie’s rhythm faltered as the praise sank in. He clenched involuntarily and Nick swore, hips jerking up hard.
“Close,” Charlie managed. “Nick—touch me—”
Nick wrapped a big hand around him immediately, stroking in time with the thrusts from below. It only took a few passes before Charlie was trembling, nails digging into Nick’s shoulders, coming with a broken cry that echoed in the quiet living room. He spilled over Nick’s fist, across both their stomachs, body shaking through the aftershocks.
Nick followed maybe ten seconds later—deep, grinding thrusts, low groan rumbling through his chest as he pulsed inside Charlie, filling him up.
They stayed like that for long minutes—Charlie slumped against Nick’s chest, Nick’s arms wrapped around him, both of them breathing like they’d run sprints. Nick pressed soft, lazy kisses to Charlie’s temple, his cheek, the corner of his mouth.
Eventually Charlie lifted his head, cheeks flushed, eyes glassy and happy.
Nick smiled—soft, stupid, completely gone for him.
“Hi,” Charlie whispered.
“Hi,” Nick whispered back. Then, after a beat: “We should probably clean up before Mum gets home.”
Charlie laughed quietly, still feeling Nick softening inside him. “Five more minutes.”
Nick kissed him again, slow and sweet.
“Five more minutes,” he agreed.
(And they definitely took ten.)
\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_
The Party – Saturday Night
Daniel Dela Vega’s flat was one of those converted warehouse lofts near the canal—high ceilings, exposed brick, fairy lights strung everywhere like he’d personally bullied the stars into coming indoors. Music thumped low and warm through good speakers, not so loud you couldn’t talk, just loud enough you felt it in your chest. People spilled across every surface: beanbags, the kitchen island, the wide windowsills. Laughter bounced off the walls. It smelled like lime, tequila, expensive cologne, and someone’s vanilla candle.
Charlie had been nervous about coming. New people still made the back of his neck prickle sometimes, even now. But Nick had squeezed his hand in the Uber and said, “We’ll stay an hour. If it’s shit, we ghost. Deal?” So here they were.
Daniel spotted them the second they stepped through the door.
He was leaning against the kitchen counter in a black open-collar shirt that showed the clean line of his collarbones, sleeves rolled to the elbows, dark hair artfully messy. He looked like he’d stepped out of someone’s Pinterest mood board titled “University Fuckboy But Make It Tasteful.” When he smiled it was bright and easy, the kind of smile that made you feel specially chosen.
“Charlie Spring,” Daniel called over the music, crossing the room in long, lazy strides. He pulled Charlie into a one-armed hug that smelled like cedar and citrus. “You actually came. I was half-convinced you’d bail.”
Charlie laughed, a little flushed already. “Nick’s fault. He said we had to socialise at least once this term.”
Daniel’s eyes slid to Nick then—slow, appreciative, like he was tasting something expensive.
“Nick Nelson,” he said, offering his hand. His voice dropped half an octave on the name, warm honey over gravel. “The man, the myth, the rugby legend. Heard you’ve been breaking hearts and try lines in equal measure.”
Nick shook his hand, easy grin in place. “Only the try lines. Hearts are Charlie’s department.”
Daniel’s thumb brushed once—barely—over the back of Nick’s knuckles before he let go. “Lucky Charlie.”
He didn’t linger on the words. Just let them hang there, light as smoke, then turned to steer them both toward the drinks. “Come on. You need something stronger than whatever sad squash you’ve got in that red cup.”
They ended up in the kitchen corner, backs to the fridge, Daniel mixing something with far too much tequila and not enough mixer. He kept the conversation bouncing—funny stories about his flatmate’s failed attempt at sourdough, a disastrous group project, how he once accidentally joined the wrong fresher’s WhatsApp—while his body language did something else entirely.
He stood a fraction too close when he handed Nick his drink, fingers brushing Nick’s as the glass changed hands.
When Nick laughed at something Daniel said, Daniel tilted his head just enough that the light caught the sharp line of his jaw, the faint shadow of stubble. He watched Nick’s mouth for half a second longer than necessary.
Later, by the makeshift dance floor (really just the cleared space between the sofa and the TV), Daniel clapped a hand on Nick’s shoulder—casual, friendly, brotherly—except his palm stayed. Thumb resting lightly against the nape of Nick’s neck for two full heartbeats before sliding away.
Charlie noticed.
He noticed the way Daniel’s eyes flicked to Nick’s chest when Nick reached up to push his hair back—broad shoulders stretching the fabric of his navy polo, the way the top button strained just slightly.
He noticed how Daniel laughed too loud at Nick’s jokes, head tipping back, throat working, exposing the long column of his neck.
He noticed the slow once-over when Nick turned to talk to someone else, Daniel’s gaze dragging from Nick’s shoulders down the dip of his spine to the way his jeans sat low on his hips.
And he noticed—most of all—how Daniel never once crossed the line. No blatant touches, no crude comments, no cornering. Just… attention. The kind that felt like sunlight on skin: warm, constant, impossible to ignore.
Nick, bless him, seemed mostly oblivious. He kept one arm looped around Charlie’s waist the whole night, thumb rubbing absent circles over Charlie’s hip under his jumper. When Daniel said something flirty-but-not-quite (“You must spend half your life in the gym to look like that, mate”), Nick just shrugged and said, “Nah, mostly chasing Charlie around the house keeps me fit,” and pulled Charlie closer to kiss his temple.
Daniel’s smile didn’t falter. If anything it sharpened, like he’d just accepted a challenge no one else knew existed.
Around midnight they found a quieter corner near the balcony doors. Cool air slipped in. Daniel leaned against the frame, drink dangling from his fingers, sleeves pushed higher now so the veins in his forearms stood out under the low light.
“So,” he said, eyes on Nick again, “you two ever think about… branching out? You know. Experimenting.” The word was soft, almost playful. “Plenty of room in this flat. Spare bedroom’s got a very sturdy headboard.”
Charlie felt the words land like a pebble in still water—small ripples, but unmistakable.
Nick blinked once. Then twice. His arm tightened around Charlie’s waist.
Charlie answered before Nick could. Voice calm, smile small but steel-edged.
“We’re pretty happy with the current lineup, thanks.”
Daniel held his gaze for a beat—long enough that the air felt charged—then laughed, low and easy, raising both hands in mock surrender.
“Fair. Can’t blame a guy for asking.” He looked at Nick again, slower this time. “Offer stands, though. If you ever get curious.”
He pushed off the doorframe, clapped Nick on the shoulder one last time—fingers lingering just a fraction too long on the muscle there—and melted back into the crowd.
Nick exhaled hard through his nose once Daniel was gone.
Charlie turned in his arms, looking up. “You okay?”
Nick’s ears were pink. “Yeah. Just… didn’t expect the full-court press.”
Charlie’s lips twitched. “He’s got taste. Can’t fault him there.”
Nick groaned, dropped his forehead to Charlie’s. “Stop. You’re supposed to be jealous and territorial, not… approving.”
“I’m not approving,” Charlie murmured, sliding both hands up under Nick’s polo, palms flat against warm skin. “I’m just not threatened. He can look all he wants.” His fingers dug in slightly. “You’re still coming home with me.”
Nick’s breath hitched. “Fuck yes I am.”
They left twenty minutes later.
In the back of the Uber, Nick pulled Charlie half into his lap and kissed him slow, deep, possessive—hand cupping the back of Charlie’s neck like he was staking a claim. Charlie smiled against his mouth.
Back at Nick’s, the second the front door clicked shut, Nick had Charlie pressed against it—hands under his thighs, lifting, mouths crashing together like they’d been starving for it.
“Still thinking about him?” Charlie gasped between kisses.
Nick growled low, teeth grazing Charlie’s jaw. “Thinking about how I’m going to fuck you so hard you forget anyone else’s name exists.”
Charlie laughed, breathless, already tugging at Nick’s belt.
“Good answer.”
(And Daniel’s quiet, knowing smile as they’d said goodbye stayed in the back of Charlie’s mind all night—sharp-edged, patient, like he wasn’t finished playing yet.)
