1.
The smell in our kitchen—Pete’s and mine—on any given evening wasn’t just dinner. It was the ingrained scent of a couple over twenty years together—roasting garlic, a little thyme, and the comfortable layering of aromas that settles only in a place that’s well-lived in.
Pete moved around the kitchen like he knew where every utensil had been since the nineties, which he did. Muscular and compact, he hummed quietly as he stirred his risotto. His movements were economical, his energy tight—like a spring coiled and ready.
I sat at the island, arranging a modest charcuterie board. It was just for us, but every slice of prosciutto and wedge of cheese got the kind of care you’d expect in a food magazine shoot. Pete liked to rib me about it, but I thought it was meditative.
“Come on, Nate the Great,” Pete said with that grin, nudging me to take a chance, to be bold. At work, I was Nathan—no nicknames, all business, calling the shots—but here, with him, I was just Nate, or Nate the Great, when he wanted to poke fun. “You don’t have to be so careful all the time.”
It always made me smile, and when I needed a pen name, I borrowed it—a nod to when Pete believed in me before I believed in myself.
“Do you remember,” I began, not looking up from my work, “that trattoria in Rome? The one with the green awning? You ordered cacio e pepe, even though you said you just wanted a snack—that you’d eaten enough.”
Pete chuckled, low and easy. “You looked at me like I’d announced I was moving in.”
“Well, it was a surprise,” I said, meeting his eyes with a smile. “Just when I thought I had the day mapped out.”
“It was just a week there. Why not try everything?” Pete paused, spoon in hand. “Keeps it lively, doesn’t it?” He grinned—he always had that boyish, little brother look, even in middle age.
I’d look at my husband sometimes and see all the Petes—the fresh-faced guy I fell for, full of restless energy; the middle-aged guy with glasses and a gym-built body; and every Pete in between, all tangled up in the same grin, the same laugh, that same boyish heart. It was like seeing a whole life story folded into one person, and feeling lucky to be part of every chapter.
We were a good pair, always had each other’s backs, got along famously. But—well, it’s a known fact that for long-married couples—gay or otherwise—intimacy shifts. Ebbs and flows, like a tide. I regret to tell you, Pete and I weren’t exceptions.
During the latest and longest of those low tides, when the waters of our shared sex life receded, we didn’t open things up like some couples do. Monogamy still mattered. Instead, we each found our own way to fill the voids with our solo practices.
I started writing smut. Under my pseudonym, Nate_The_Great, I turned out stories and even novellas, always trying to level up. I published them on Nifty Archive, GayDemon, like messages in bottles tossed in the ocean—I like this, do you?—and found unexpected connections with strangers who liked my brand of storytelling. It was a quiet but satisfying world, where strangers’ messages flickered on my screen like small lights, reminding me I wasn’t alone.
Pete, always the more physical of the two of us, started his own kind of exploration. Toys, ordinary enough at first, soon grew extraordinary. Pete was naturally athletic, and even from a distance I could see he approached those toys the way he did weights at the gym—always adding more, pushing for a personal best.
The collection lived in the basement, tucked away in big bins. I tried not to pry, but I couldn’t help having inklings of the scale. Some were the length of my forearm but with far more girth, most shaped like human cocks of every kind, just... bigger. Others were more fantastic—horse cocks, tentacles, made to pry into areas others couldn’t. And so heavy.
Pete’s toys both fascinated and intimidated me, and I marveled at how Pete could take some of them without breaking.
We knew about each other’s habits, though we didn’t talk about them much. Pete would ask about my latest story ratings, or if my online readers were behaving. I knew about his toys—saw the charges on our card with each addition.
Sometimes, after a particularly rigorous session—begun after I’d gone to bed, or while I was out at the gym—Pete would emerge from the shower, skin red and scrubbed clean. Downstairs, the towels would be piled up, enough to fill the washing machine on their own.
I’d eye the rumbling washer, thinking the towels saw more action with Pete than I did. At least he wasn’t fooling around with another guy. That had to count for something.
Then I’d sit up late, fingers flying across the keyboard, posting another story, sending my creations out into the ether, warmed by the emails that came back. We were two planets, orbiting the same sun. Happy enough, but each with our own spin.
2.
A few nights later, I awoke from a dream. Not a nightmare, nor one of the weird ones where you’re at work but it’s your grandmother’s house. Some dreams have a way of sneaking up on you when you least expect it. If you’ve ever had one that feels too real, you know what I mean.
I remembered looking down, sensing something large, substantial, moving inside Pete. But I was the one between his legs. I was focused, and he was lost in pleasure as I drove into him. And it felt like us—like how we used to be, only more.
And the thing is, it felt like more than a dream. A vision of a future where we were connected in more than the day to day, but in all the way—pushing boundaries I hadn’t even let myself imagine.
I lay there for a long time, Pete snoring softly beside me, his cherubic face and muscled shoulder catching the blue light of the alarm clock. It was like the afterglow from the dream was lighting him up.
The next morning, that feeling lingered. Over breakfast, the air was quiet, chores ahead of us, and I circled the topic like a nervous cat. I wasn’t usually the one to start these conversations, but there was no way to say it but to say it.
“I had a dream last night,” I started, swirling the coffee in my mug, my voice softer than usual, “A pretty intense one. About… us. Together. And it involved some of your toys.”
His gaze met mine, and I tried to let my face show the vulnerability and hope I felt saying these things, so he’d see I was sincere. “I know we haven’t done anything like that in a long time. But if you’re up for it, I’d like to—maybe—try again. To explore that, with you. Together.”
Pete listened, quiet and thoughtful. My stomach knotted with anticipation and a little fear—that he’d laugh, or worse, just look away. Putting yourself out there like that? It’s scary, even with a guy as good natured as Pete. Maybe you’ve been there.
“No pressure,” I added, filling the silence that suddenly felt huge. It was probably less than a minute on the kitchen clock, but I felt each second. “All I want is for you to be happy. And if it’s not the time, that’s fine. But… I’m willing to try. Just about anything.”
It was the truth. I loved Pete and was turned on by him, and the thought of giving him that kind of pleasure was compelling, even if it scared me to admit it.
“Okay,” he breathed, and smiled—a real, open smile that wiped away the tension. “Not tonight, but soon.” He caught my eyes. “It’s just been a long time of doing it alone and I just… I need to prepare. Mentally.”
Then he stood and wrapped me up in one of his long, warm hugs. It was not quite as much as my highest hopes realized, but far from my worst fears.
3.
So began the quiet work of folding our separate rivers into a single, deeper one. The first attempts, as you might guess, came with a learning curve. Pete would prepare with a thoroughness I hadn’t realized—cleaning out for hours—finally emerging from the bathroom, fresh-faced, readiness in his eyes.
Then, in the basement room, J-lube and towels at the ready, he’d pull out a selection of toys—a warm-up to begin with that would have been aspirational for most guys, and then the bigger, more daunting ones.
I’d take them up—my fingers tracing the slick, unfamiliar shapes. I’d seen them before, but it was something else to handle them myself: the long, thick shafts, the horse cocks with knotted heads. My lean muscles tensed as I tested their surprising weight, adjusting to the heft of each piece.
I started with the smaller warm-up pieces, rapidly escalating to meet Pete’s capacity, always watching his face, listening for his gasps, reading his pleasure as I eased the toys inside him.
Sometimes I glanced up at the mirror on the wall. There we were—me, long and fluid, focused and careful, and Pete, compact and muscular beneath me, his face a mix of trust and pleasure. Seeing us like that, reflected back, made the moment feel even more real.
It was strange, being the one delivering so much pleasure, but through something inanimate. At first, it felt awkward. But quickly I found a rhythm, encouraged by Pete’s responses and my own reinvigorated lust.
Pete, freed from the limits of solo play and unburdened by solitude, would melt under my touch, his body arching into the things I could do that he couldn’t do to himself. That boyish, little brother energy was still there—his face lighting up with a sort of playful trust that made the whole thing feel less kinky and more intimate.
But what surprised me most wasn’t just how much he could take, but the sheer intensity of his orgasms.
I’d been around—with guys before Pete, and with him in the before times—thought I knew most things about getting off. But with his toys, his climaxes had become body shuddering events, leaving him trembling, breathless—more climactic than anything I’d seen in anyone else, in bed or in porn. More than I’d seen before in him, or in me.
It’s funny how people surprise you, isn’t it? Just when you think you’ve figured them out.
I found my own pleasure in this new landscape, too. Sometimes, as Pete rode a truly formidable toy, I’d get off right there—jerking off, just watching the way his body responded, the sounds he made, my own climax tangled up in his pleasure.
Other nights, we’d include a more traditional connection—me inside him, trying to bridge the gap between my human form and the new kinds of satisfaction Pete had discovered. He always said it was a different kind of good, and I believed he meant it. But sometimes it left me wondering if I’d ever fully catch up.
Months went by. We tried, we experimented. It was a success, in its own way—a patient period of exploration. But it still wasn’t the seamless, deeply integrated experience I’d naively imagined when I’d proposed we try again.
I became better at coaching when things got tough—“That’s it, Pete. Breathe. You’re amazing.”—though of course, it was Pete doing the heavy lifting. I didn’t need to see him take more, but every time he did he seemed to reach a new level of pleasure. And afterwards he always seemed so high off of it.
Then, one night, after a session that left Pete delightfully spent and me feeling a new kind of accomplished, Pete shifted beside me.
“I like it when you push me,” he said, skin still dewy with sweat, a little breathless.
“Well, I am a smut author of some small renown,” I joked. “I have a reputation to maintain.”
“How many guys have you gotten off with your stories?” he asked. “Hundreds? Thousands, must be.”
The question caught me off guard. Crazy as it sounds, I’d never thought of it that way. It’s a good feeling when someone thinks more of you than you do yourself—and even better when it’s the guy you’re crazy about.
He laughed, and then his tone changed. “Nate, there’s one more thing I want to try.”
A prickle of anticipation ran up my spine as I waited to hear. Another boundary waiting to be explored together.
“Pegging,” Pete said, meeting my eyes. “I’d like to try it. The size, you know—not just in me, but really fucking me. With you doing it.”
My back stiffened a little—not out of judgment, but confusion. I understood why women did—the toy an augmentation they needed, to stand in, for the thing I’d been born with—and a pretty good one I thought, and had been told.
“I… I don’t know,” I said, the old concerns immediately rising. “Where would my dick even be? I mean, it would just be… out. Excluded.” I tried to articulate the knot forming in my stomach. “It feels… like it might be degrading. Or disconnected. Like there’s a sex party and everyone’s invited except my dick. The part that makes me feel like I’m having sex would be completely left out. Like a bystander. Like it wouldn’t really be us.”
I was used to my hands steering the toys into him with no problem—a lot of satisfaction, in fact. I’d made the cum shots to prove it. But fucking him with one, my own dick just flailing there, seemed different.
Pete reached out, squeezed my knee, eyes warm. “It’s you I want, Nate. It’s not about leaving you out. It’s about us finding a new way to connect. For me, it would be you there, knowing when to push me, knowing how. Trusting you to do that to me. That’s what matters.”
I pictured Pete’s biggest toys, thought about my own body. For the first time, I felt a little skeptical—maybe our paths had diverged too far to ever really come together again. Maybe this was as close as we’d get again.
4.
I spent the next few days mulling over Pete’s proposition. The idea of pegging felt foreign—a step outside our established norms, even after all our recent explorations. My concerns about my own body feeling sidelined were real, but Pete’s quiet, 'It would be you there, with me,' echoed in my mind, along with his trust in me to do it.
We ordered a simple black leather harness online from Mr. S Leather. When it arrived, my skepticism resurfaced. Holding it in my hands, comparing those flimsy straps to the hulking silicone pieces Pete had collected, I couldn’t quite see how it would work.
“Honestly, Pete,” I said, shaking my head, “I don’t know how you handle these. You’re a champ. But this little peg is supposed to suspend that?” Pete just smiled, a confident glint in his eye.
Pete didn’t push, left it entirely to me—if, when, and how I’d ever feel ready to try. There was no pressure, no sulking, just his usual patience, a kind of hopeful calm. The door was open, but I knew I could close it for as long as I needed.
But I loved him, and the idea of shutting down something he clearly wanted felt wrong. He’d been so willing when I suggested we try again—how could I do less when the tables turned?
So, one afternoon, deep into a session, the basement air thick with sweat and the sharp scent of poppers, I found myself holding one of Pete’s truly intimidating silicone toys. Pete was arching into my hand, breath coming in gasps, and something clicked.
I stood up and picked up the harness, resting beside the toy bin. “Let’s give it a go?” I murmured, my voice a little rough, impulse taking over.
Pete’s eyes widened, surprise quickly replaced by a spark of excitement. He nodded, maybe more eager than he let on.
I pulled on my discarded briefs, then strapped the harness over them: two thin bands that settled snugly in the crease between my thighs and pelvis, and a sturdier one wrapped around my hips, all connecting at the peg’s base.
The guys I’d seen online rested the flat base on their pubes, just over their dicks, but I pressed mine right against my own erection, my briefs providing a slight cushion.
Pete helped me attach one of the larger, smoother toys. He turned on his knees, and I caught our reflection in the wall mirror—me, long and lean above him, his muscles tensing and releasing, his boyish face expectant. A silent understanding passed between us, a shared breath of nerves and excitement.
I lubed up, pressed the head to his slicked entry, and suddenly realized the sheer size wasn’t an issue for the harness. It didn’t need to bear the full weight for long—just keep it steady and aligned while Pete and I did the work. One practical concern vanished.
I began to move, slow at first—a cautious, testing rhythm, watching the subtle muscles in his back shift. And soon my hips were grinding into him, my hands gripping his waist.
I was used to seeing him take mammoth toys, but even I could see this was different than the usual insertions by careful hand. The pace, the relentless thrusts by my greedy hips, in and nearly out—stretching his hole anew—and driving in to test the depth again.
I started to ride Pete hard, and I guess my body tricked me—because it was my hips grinding into him, my core engaged, my hands gripping his waist and chest—because ridiculous as it was, it felt like that silicone monster was all me.
“Fuck yes,” he choked out, working his hips back to meet me. “Fuck me.”
A quiet truth settled in: I didn’t feel degraded or disconnected. Not at all. The big silicone cock felt like it was mine—and then something new—a sense of self I knew from other parts of life, but never here—never like this. I felt powerful.
That huge cock, driving Pete wild—I was the one driving it, with the strength and rhythms of my own body, the one penetrating, the one bringing Pete to the edge.
“Can we go… bigger?” Pete gasped, just shy of pleading.
A jolt of excitement shot through me. Without talking, without thinking, I swapped out the toy for an even larger one—didn’t even ask him which. It was my choice. The one I wanted to fuck Pete with, to take him to his limits and beyond.
It was heavy in my hand. He’d taken it before, but not like this—not with my hips behind it.
I grabbed the bottle of J-Lube and poured freely—when you’re working with toys this size, there’s no skimping—copious amounts are mandatory. I slicked the toy, Pete’s hole glistened, already loosened from the first rounds. As I eased the toy in, streams of lube dripped down, slick and warm. Pete’s eyes followed my motions in the mirror, a mix of anticipation and trust.
A first hit of poppers, and then the initial stretch—intense, and I could feel him clutch at the invasion—his jaw clenched just a little, the muscles in his back tightened. In the wall mirror his eyes looked a little lost. I slid my hand down to grip his hip firmly but gently.
“Hey,” I whispered, voice low and steady. “You’re doing great. You’re amazing.”
He swallowed hard, but then he nodded. I held, feeling the moment stretch thin. And then the tension softened, replaced by a new openness, like he was letting go of something he’d held too tight and I sank into him.
Pete let out a shaky breath and his mouth opened slightly, a soft, rumbling low “fuuuuuckk” escaping him, a long deep release.
His breath came faster, chest rising and falling with a new kind of ease. In that moment, I understood something about Pete’s athletic drive—this was his personal best, a new peak, and I was the one pushing him there. “Take a hit,” I urged. His fingers closed around the poppers bottle, then a deep inhale, readying for a hard fuck.
I watched his face redden and contort, heard his groans and felt the tremors running through him. The force of what I was creating was intoxicating—and the friction of the base against my own cock, seeing Pete’s body wrapped around the toy I controlled, was getting me off in ways I never expected.
Pete neared his peak, his body trembling, and I felt my own climax building. He was jerking himself fast, a pace I knew meant he was at the edge. “I’m going to cum,” I gasped, not sure if it was a warning or the truth breaking free.
Pete glanced back, maybe to see if I really meant it. I shoved hard, and with a guttural groan from him and a grunt from me, it happened—Pete’s body seized, his climax triggering mine. I erupted, right there in my briefs, my cock throbbing against the base of the harness. My uncontrollable thrusts pushed the toy deeper, wringing the last of his pleasure from him as mine crested.
5.
The pegging dildo slipped free from Pete’s hole, dropping with a heavy, lube-slick thud onto the floor. Pete, still trembling from the intensity, blinked up at me, voice rough. “Did you really?” He sounded genuinely surprised; I realized he’d probably thought my “I’m going to cum” was just sex talk.
I pulled the harness off, then my briefs. There it was—the proof, unmistakable: my cock still leaking a load, hot and white. “Holy fuck,” Pete breathed, and I couldn’t help but grin, triumphant and a little stunned.
But I wasn’t done. Some animal urgency, so unlike my usual careful self, took over. I scooped up more lube in one hand, wrapped it around my still-hard cock, and with the other, pulled Pete close. My fingers dug into his shoulders, holding him tight—half to touch him, half to steady myself.
As he caught his breath he looked uncertain what was coming next—and I wasn’t sure either. I just knew I had to see it through. I jerked my cock, my head pressed against his, the memory of my own unexpected orgasm, and the reality of Pete next to me—his face, his body, his scent—fueling me.
“Oh, fuck,” I groaned as the second wave hit—a body-quaking orgasm, shaking me to my core. It was a climax that rivaled anything Pete had shown me—pure, unfiltered release.
Pete probably thought there was no way I could go again so soon—until the heat of my cum splashed his thigh. He gasped, and then let out a roar: “FUCK YEAH!”
He clutched me as my body shuddered for what felt like long minutes. Even through the haze, I caught the pride in his voice—the same pride I’d felt for his glorious climaxes.
It felt like I’d never cum so much in my life. When I could see straight again, I looked down and saw the streak I’d left on the biggest toy—the one that had been in Pete moments ago. It was streaked with cum, bottom to top, pooling stark white in the dark silicone’s furrows. Pete shook his head, grinned hard, and pulled me closer. “Fuck yeah,” he said again, quieter this time.
We knelt there for a long moment, aftershocks rippling through us both. The room was quiet except for our breathing. Eventually, we got up—stumbling a little, cleaning and putting things away, then showering off the remains of our night. We managed a light dinner, conversation spare but easy—the kind where every grin and touch says more than words.
Later, lying in bed with Pete’s head on my chest, I stared at the ceiling. The room was dark and still, but my body was humming, and my mind was alive with a hundred new thoughts.
I had to laugh at myself. For years, Nate the Great had been a name on the screen—half joke, half hope. And Pete’s name for me when I needed to believe in myself. But that night, I felt I’d earned it. Some names you have to grow into.
I’d gone into the night fearing I’d feel small—left out, diminished. But instead, I had come out feeling bigger, having found a wellspring of power and connection. I thought I knew everything about sex, about Pete, about myself in this relationship. But tonight proved how much more there was to discover—how endlessly elastic love and desire could be.
As I drifted toward sleep, a new kind of dream started to form. One filled with harness straps, silicone, and the surprising promise of greater shared pleasure—things we hadn’t even thought of yet. In it, Pete and I were older, still fit, still lusting after each other, still finding new territory to explore.
People sometimes say gay men can’t be monogamous—that it’s not in our nature. For some, maybe that’s true, and I never judge them. I hope they won’t judge me. We all have our own journeys. But I think the mistake is confusing the long shadows of our oppression for our true nature, whatever that may be.
Was it just a dream? Or a vision? You tell me. But it felt like us. It felt real. It felt like the future.
I smiled in the dark, certain of one thing: even when Pete hits ninety-nine, he’ll have that little brother grin.
END
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