I had just dropped my bag by the door when I heard it:
A heavy thud behind me.
Greg.
I didn’t even need to turn around. The breathing gave him away: deeper than usual, rough, like he’d just finished a match. He was standing there, in all his glory, his high rugby socks tight on his muscly legs, as if he was just about to start a match:
“Yo.”
He was still in his training gear, shoulders tense, neck stiff, one hand pressing into the back of it like something was off.
“You bought what I asked?”
“Uh… I just got back, I...”
“Good.” He cut me off and walked back in the living room, resting his big frame on the wall separating the semi-open kitchen from the living-room. “Show me. You got everything?”
I swallowed, before joining him nearby the fridge area :
“Yeah, I think so.” I opened the tote and started pulling things out one by one. “Olive oil, since apparently we were in a crisis.”
Greg grumbled:
“Yep. We cook with it pretty much daily”
“Eggs,” I continued, placing the carton carefully on the counter. “Some mushrooms, shallots, parsley… a bit of crème fraîche… and bread.”
Greg leaned in slightly, inspecting like a coach reviewing a play. “Not bad. Seems you know the good brands too."
I held up the bottle.
“Yeah, most of it is organic or Label Rouge. Thought you’d approve.”
He gave a low, satisfied grunt:
“Yeah… that’ll do.”
There was a brief pause. I could feel his presence next to me, warm, solid, imposing in that way he had. My body was still on edge from the day, from everything… but this felt different. Simpler.
“So…” Greg added, casually, “you gonna cook with all that?”
I blinked:
“Uh yeah. I mean… I can, if you want.”
“I do.” His gaze was always on me “Been eating garbage all day. Surprise me.”
There it was again, he was ordering me.
And somehow… I didn’t mind.
“Alright,” I said, rolling up my sleeves a bit. “I’ll make an omelette.”
Greg raised an eyebrow:
“An omelette? That’s it?”
Shit...
He wanted something more fancy?
I smirked slightly, trying to defend my recipe:
“Not just an omelette. Stephane's Oemelette. Trust me.”
He gestured like, go on then.
I got to work, cracking eggs into a bowl, whisking them slowly.
“The trick,” I explained, “is low heat. You don’t rush it. You keep it moving, so it stays soft… almost like a custard inside. And you add all the spices one by one.”
Greg watched closely, surprisingly attentive:
“Why the crème fraîche though?” he asked.
“Adds richness. Makes it smoother.” I glanced at him. “Also… it’s just better.”
“Huh. You're from Normandie or what?”
"Close call. Bretagne."
I let this information sink in. I spotted a smile on his face when he learned about my origins. Nothing to fancy actually, it seems that more than 10% of parisians have ancestors from my region.
I melted butter in the pan, the smell immediately filling the kitchen. Greg’s posture shifted slightly, like his whole body had tuned in.
"You use lot of fat to cook.”
"True, I guess I learned it this way."
I poured the eggs in, stirring gently with a spatula, slow circles.
“You don’t let it sit too long,” I continued. “Otherwise it dries out. French omelettes are supposed to be… tender.”
Greg folded his arms again, watching the motion.
“Trying to recreate the Omelette of la Mère Poulard?” he asked.
“Aha, the one from Mont Saint-Michel? I wish I could sell them 30 bucks too,” I said. “When I want something comforting, I usually go for a similar texture yeah.”
The word hung there a second, my rugby guy was clearly intrigued. I folded the omelette carefully, letting it slide onto a plate, soft and slightly glossy, then sprinkled chopped parsley over it. Greg leaned in, eyes narrowing slightly, impressed despite himself.
I grabbed the bread, toasted it quickly, added a drizzle of pepper.
“Try.”
He didn’t hesitate. Grabbed a fork, cut into it (the inside still soft, almost creamy) and took a bite.
There was a moment of silence.
Then:
“Fuck… okay, yeah.”
I laughed lightly:
“Good?”
He pointed the fork at me:
“Don’t get cocky. But yeah. That’s solid.”
He took another bite, slower this time.
“You’re gonna have to cook for me more often,” he added between mouthfuls.
I leaned back against the counter, watching him eat, feeling… oddly satisfied.
“Damn” he added, without even looking at me.
I swallowed and stepped closer.
“What’s up?”
He rolled his shoulders, before fully turning to me:
Then I saw the beast.
His beast.
Trapped inside his sports shorts, a massive bulge that was clearly struggling to be contained by the fabric.
Shit.
Why did my knees feel weak the moment I noticed it?
“Finish.”
His order almost threw me off.
When I looked at him again, I realized Greg was talking about my omelette sizzling in the pan—not his colossal dick that somehow always managed to hijack my attention.
I focused back on the food, but I could feel Greg getting closer and closer behind me, inch by inch, until his swollen length settled perfectly between my ass cheeks.
I didn’t dare say anything.
It was like we were meant to be connected like that, like that was where he belonged.
Every now and then I had to shift slightly to the side to add pepper, salt, or other seasoning, but I did everything I could not to dislodge him. It almost felt like a game between us: his cock had to stay pressed firmly against me at all times, like a ship anchored in its harbor. And the strangest: and most exciting—part was that he wasn’t saying anything anymore. His mere presence was enough to make everything feel intense and overwhelming.
And you can guess it—the pressure of his hips against mine was pure torture. With his heavy, oversized cock, he kept pressing right against the plug still lodged in my ass (and now very, very dry, almost painful), completely unaware of what it was doing to me.
I got hard again almost immediately, which only made things worse since my own dick was crushed against the oven. Meanwhile, he didn’t even seem fully hard—that was just his baseline, some kind of half-hard state already thicker than I’d ever be.
What a stupid idea to leave that thing inside me.
I should’ve taken it out way earlier.
But now I was stuck.
If Greg found out… what would he do?
When I finished cooking, he leaned in close to my ear and sniffed a few times before letting out a low rumble from his chest, nudging me slightly against the kitchen counter with his solid pecs.
“Dinner’s ready,” I said, almost relieved to finally escape the intrusive contact of the rugby player.
Greg pulled his groin away from me and walked heavily to the couch, collapsing into it, spreading out his massive frame. His legs were already open, one arm draped over the backrest, still sniffing faintly like he was savoring what was coming next.
I brought our plates over and instinctively sat beside him.
“Enjoy,” he said, grabbing his fork.
Greg started eating under my gaze.
I liked cooking for people.
But with him, there was something different—something obvious in the way he carried himself, in his energy, in his faint smile, in his eyes. He loved it. He loved my food.
“Best omelette of my life,” he declared, setting his fork down.
I had barely started mine.
“Thanks.”
His knee slid naturally against mine.
“Same thing next Monday?”
I nodded, not entirely sure I was ready to fall into that kind of routine with him. At that exact moment, I got distracted by his massive bulge twitching, spasming so hard his entire short shifted around it.
“Eat.”
Another order.
For a split second, I imagined something else—but then he added:
“It’s getting cold.”
He wasn’t wrong.
When I finished, he told me to stand up and go to my room.
“R-right now?”
He nodded, insisting, signaling the next step of the evening.
“And dessert?”
“I’ll take care of it.”
No need to spell it out: Greg was clearly worked up, and I was the one he’d chosen tonight to deal with it.
He practically shoved me onto my narrow bed, making me bounce on the mattress—the plug pushing even deeper into my already sore ass.
Shit.
I was never going to get a chance to take it out.
He god right in front of my bed, his crotch before my very eyes.
Straight to the point. Of course.
I blinked, sitting up properly now.
“Uh… right now?”
I really don't have time to rest here?
Not even a sec to remove that damn plug!
“Your dessert.”
He dropped his shorts to the floor in a swift motion, exposing his white boxers. the pouch was a bit worn out, and almost a bit yellowish on the front. A strong smell was already emanating from it.
I hesitated for maybe half a second, before nodding, weak:
There it was again: that instinct.
To help. To be useful.
I moved closer, placing my hands carefully on his leg at first. His muscles were dense: tight under my fingers, still warm from exertion.
“Damn…” I murmured without thinking. “You’re really tense.”
I started slow, working his dick with my palms, then my thumbs through the fabric. But after like 5 seconds into this, something shifted over me:
“No. Everything but here.”
What?
He didn’t want me to touch his dick?
“Tongue out.” he ordered finally, voice a gravelly bark, hand fisting my hair to guide me.
I obeyed, tongue darting out to trace the hairy expanse of his thigh, lapping at the sweat-slick skin.
Salty, rough, the hairs tickling my lips as I worked higher, mouthing the thick muscle, sucking lightly. He grunted approval, shifting to let me nose his boxers, the heat from his heavy balls radiating through the fabric.
“Sniff.”
Shit..
I never did that kinda thing.
I never though about doing this to a guy, but Greg wasn’t just any guy.
With him, it was like the most logical next step.
I seemed natural to worship him, somehow.
He was so much more manly than me.
I pressed my face there, sniffing greedily: the deep, animal scent of his sack, musky and potent, making my hole clench around the plug in desperate rhythm. My hands gripped his calves, feeling the power coiled there, as I licked broader strokes up his legs, from ankle to knee, then back to those thighs that could crush me.
“Bitch,” he growled, pulling my head tighter against his crotch, the outline of his thickening cock pressing against my cheek. The domination was silent but total, his massive frame looming, making me feel small, slutty, owned in a way Julien's teasing only hinted at. The thought spiked the thrill, but Greg's grip tightened and I lost myself in it, tongue exploring every inch of his hairy power, craving the orders that would come next, my body aching for more of this possessive storm.
I wanted to please him so much more.
Greg's gripped my hair, yanking my head back just enough to make me gasp, my tongue still tingling from the salty drag across his thigh. His dark eyes bored down, that shaved head casting a shadow over me like a fucking eclipse.
«Down. » he grunted.
Greg was shoving me lower, forcing my face toward the floor where his massive feet waited, trapped in those high white rugby socks, stretched tight over his arches from practice. The fabric was damp, clinging to the outline of his toes, and even from inches away, the stench hit me: rank sweat mixed with the earthy funk of leather cleats, potent enough to make my plugged hole spasm.
I hesitated for a split second, but his hand pressed harder, guiding my mouth to his right foot.
« Suck it. » he barked, voice low and unyielding, lifting the socked foot to press the sole against my lips.
The warmth seeped through, the gritty texture of the fabric rough on my mouth as I parted my lips and kissed the ball of his foot, tasting the salty bitterness soaking the cotton.
Fuck, it was nasty !
Flavorful in that dirty, weird way : sweat and musk exploding on my tongue as I licked a broad stripe up the arch, the sock fibers scraping my palate.
Why is this so erotic?
I never had a thing for feet before.
My cock throbbed harder though, pre-cum slicking my boxers as the plug shifted with my kneel, rubbing my prostate just right.
I thought again about what Julien had told me while I was blowing him:
Wearing the plug while servicing a dude would make my brain associate the pleasure with the anal stimulation.
Was this really true?
I moaned into the sock, sucking on the big toe through the fabric, feeling it flex under my mouth, Greg's calf muscle bunching as he watched me debase myself.
I wasn’t actually that bad.
Damn…
How could I say that?
But the fragrance was making my head spin.
« Good slut, » he rumbled, his free hand palming the bulge in his shorts, the thick outline of his dick straining against the seam.
His comment made my cock jump.
I’m fucked.
Really.
Him saying that was like a reward. A small thing that made all this actually worth it.
I caressed the ankle above, fingers digging into the hairy skin peeking out, then trailed up to knead the meaty calf, all corded power from tackling fools on the field.
Bzzz.
He pulled his foot back, swapping to the left one without a word, presenting it like a king offering his scepter. I dove in, kissing the heel first, then lapping at the instep, the stink stronger here, more concentrated where his toes had stewed all day.
Bzzz.
Fuck, my phone was buzzing, probably messages.
I didn’t know what to do exactly, I was working on pure instinct. And it seemed to satisfy him, at least for now.
Trying to forget my phone, I worked my tongue harder, soaking the sock a bit, I caressed this leg too, hands sliding up the hairy shin, feeling the coarse curls under my palms as I massaged the muscle, worshiping every inch like it owned me.
Greg watched, silent but intense, his cock now fully hard in his boxers, a fat ridge tenting the front, right over his massive kiwis. I moved higher, mouthing the inner thigh, nose buried in the dark curls, inhaling his ball sweat as I lapped at the sensitive skin near his crotch.
Then the door opened again.
“Yo slut… Been texting you ! Why aren’t you suck...”
Julien froze mid-step.
His eyes moved from Greg sprawled across my bed… to me, kneeling beside him, hands on his thigh.
There was a beat.
Then his eyebrows shot up.
“Well damn,” he let out, half-laughing. “Didn’t know we were doing that now.”
I pulled my hands back slightly, instinctively. “It’s just a massage.”
“Relax,” Julien said, raising his hands in mock surrender, a grin spreading across his face. “I’m not judging.”
He stepped further into the room, clearly entertained.
“Actually…” he added, tilting his head, “I was about to ask for one too.”
Greg didn’t even lift his head:
“Get in line.”
Julien snorted:
“Oh, so you booked a private session, huh?”
“Got here first,” Greg replied simply.
Julien looked between us again, amused but with a flicker of something else—mild frustration, maybe.
“Unbelievable,” he said, shaking his head. “I leave you alone for five minutes…”
I couldn’t tell if he was serious or joking anymore.
Probably both.
He leaned against the door frame, still smiling:
“You’re in demand, Steph.”
I rubbed the back of my neck with one hand.
“Sorry.”
“Hey, I get it,” Julien cut in lightly. “Man’s gotta recover. But I've got my needs too, you know?”
Greg shifted again under my hands, clearly not interested in the conversation.
“You done begging?” he grunted. “We’re buy here dickhead.”
Julien laughed:
“Alright, alright. I’ll be on my way then.”
He pushed himself off the door frame, stepping back into the hallway.
“But seriously,” he added, pointing at me with a grin, “I’m next.”
Greg scoffed:
“We’ll see.”
Julien winked at me:
“Oh, by the way, still wearing your new toy, slut?”
And just like that, he was gone. The door clicked shut and silence settled back in.
I’m so done.
Greg was about to understand everything.
I hesitated for a second… then placed my hands back on Greg’s leg.
“Sorry,” I muttered.
“What’s that toy?”
Merde…
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