A Night in Montreal
Paris lingers in Marc’s mind, a distant pulse across the Atlantic. Six hours of time difference stretches like an ocean. Back in Montreal, the last five weeks blur—work, gym, repeat. In the locker room, his eyes betray him, stealing glances at other men. Desire like a fever. Touch. Kiss. Possess. A strange night in Paris had awakened something raw, something he can’t shake.
Saturday dawns. Marc spends the morning hunched over spreadsheets at the office, lunch with his boss, then the gym. Leg day. The air hums with the clank of weights, the rhythm of exertion.
Halfway through his leg extensions, a tap on the machine. “Can I jump in between your sets?” A man stands there, towel slung over a broad shoulder, eyes fixed on the weight stack. Strong jaw, dark stubble, a body carved from discipline. “Sure!” Marc replies, too quickly, voice bright with nerves.
The guy adds weight—more than Marc’s load—and powers through reps like they’re nothing. His face sharpens with focus, jawline cutting through the air. Marc watches, caught between admiration and envy. His gaze drifts lower, to thighs straining against shorts, to the bold outline beneath. God, he’s strong. Heat creeps up Marc’s neck.
My turn. Marc adjusts the weight, ego nudging him to add two extra plates. A challenge. The first reps feel good, solid. By the tenth, his quads burn, screaming for release. The guy watches now, his gaze steady. Marc catches it in his peripheral vision but locks his focus. Legs. Extension. Inhale. Exhale. Eleven. Twelve. Done.
He releases the handles, chest heaving, sweat pooling on the vinyl seat. His legs tremble, but he’s done it.
“Good job!” The guy’s hand lands on Marc’s shoulder, warm and firm. Heat floods Marc’s already flushed face. “Thanks,” he squeaks, voice cracking. Get it together.
“You new here?” the guy asks, adjusting the weight stack, his body close—too close.
“About a year. Usually mornings before work,” Marc says, stealing another glance. Why don’t I come afternoons?
The guy leans in to tweak the machine, his shoulder brushing Marc’s cheek. The scent of sweat, sharp and masculine, hits him. Marc scrambles to stand, stumbles, nearly falls. Strong hands catch him, pulling him upright. For a moment, they’re pressed together, sharing breath, heartbeats syncing. Oh, God.
“Sorry, I—” Marc stammers, stepping back.
The guy just smiles, settles onto the machine, and starts his set.
Marc moves to another machine, then to the locker room. Lucky day, he thinks, catching sight of the guy entering. Marc’s already stripped down, towel around his waist, skin still damp from exertion. He heads for the showers, passing close to the guy, who’s watching him, smiling. Taller, more muscular, but not overly so. Big arms, broad chest, powerful legs. I want to see him naked. I want to see his cock.
Marc’s mind races. He realizes he forgot his shampoo, hurries back to his locker, grabs it, and turns—just in time. The guy is naked. Marc drinks in the sight, parched for it. Broad shoulders, muscles etched sharp. A faint six-pack ripples across his abdomen. Clean-shaven pubes frame a cut cock, veins prominent, bold in its exposure. Marc stares, unable to look away. The guy stares back, unashamed.
Their eyes lock. The guy’s smile is easy, confident. Marc opens his mouth to apologize, but words fail. His face burns. The guy grabs a towel, wrapping it around his waist. “Sorry about that,” he says, voice low.
“No, no… You have a nice body.” The words spill out, unfiltered. What am I saying?
The guy winks, heading for the showers. Marc feels like he’s drowning in his own embarrassment.
The showers are open stalls, ten in a row, water hissing against tiles. Marc picks one, lets the hot spray scald his skin, trying to ignore the ache in his body. Calm down. He finishes, returns to the locker room. The guy’s half-dressed now, thank God.
As Marc pulls on his clothes, the guy approaches. “I’m Stephen. Pleased to meet you.” He extends a hand, smile warm.
“Marc.” He shakes Stephen’s hand, swallowing the urge to say the pleasure’s all mine. His face heats again.
“Listen, I’m starving after that workout. Want to grab coffee and something to eat?” Stephen pauses, slinging his gym bag over his shoulder. “I don’t know many people who train as hard as you. Most guys would’ve dropped the weight when it got tough.”
Marc blinks. “You think I train hard?”
“Are you kidding? You pushed through that last set, legs shaking like hell. That takes guts.” Stephen grins. “Plus, I feel bad about earlier. Let me buy you a sandwich to make up for the awkwardness.”
“You don’t need to—”
“Come on. Decent café next door. Next time’s on you.”
The café smells of fresh coffee and warm bread. Marc relaxes, the tension easing. They talk—single life, city chaos, the grind of work. Marc shares his Paris trip, the Armagnac discovery. “Some tiny distillery in Gascony,” he says, gesturing with his cup. “I had three glasses. Fell in love.”
Stephen laughs, eyes crinkling. “Three? That’s dedication.”
“I’m planning another trip just to taste it again.”
“That’s a cause worth fighting for.”
Conversation flows, effortless. They laugh over shared gripes about Montreal’s winters, the gym’s quirky regulars. Twice, they dissolve into laughter so loud the waiter glares. When he approaches for the sixth time, Stephen checks his watch. “They probably need the table back.” He stands, looks at Marc. “Want to continue this at my place? No Armagnac, but I’ve got decent wine.”
Stephen’s apartment is a short walk, all exposed brick and soft lighting. They talk the whole way, words spilling easily. In the elevator, silence falls, heavy with anticipation.
Inside, Stephen kicks off his shoes. Marc kneels to untie his laces, precise, deliberate. When he stands, Stephen’s there—close. Too close. Their breath mingles.
The first kiss is soft, testing. Marc’s lips part, and Stephen deepens it, tongues meeting, hungry. This is it. Marc’s body ignites, arousal sharp and immediate. Stephen’s hands roam, pulling Marc closer, their hardness pressing through fabric.
They break apart, eyes locked. Stephen kisses him again, urgent, desperate. Marc presses into him, hands clutching Stephen’s hips. Stephen leads him to the couch, Marc sinking into the cushions as Stephen tugs off his own shirt, revealing a chest dusted with dark hair, muscles taut from the gym.
Stephen’s hand slides under Marc’s shirt, fingers grazing skin, sending shivers. He moves lower, into Marc’s pants, gripping his cock—already hard, slick with pre-cum. Oh, fuck. Stephen strokes slowly, deliberately, then pulls back to strip off his clothes. Marc sheds his shirt, Stephen helping with his pants, underwear sliding to the floor.
Stephen kneels, taking Marc’s cock in his mouth. Slow, teasing, his tongue swirls over the tip. Marc moans, hips bucking, pleasure so intense it’s almost pain. I’ve never felt this. Stephen’s pace builds, lips and tongue working in rhythm. Marc’s close, too close, when Stephen pulls back, kissing him again. Marc tastes himself on Stephen’s lips, salty and raw, and reaches for Stephen’s cock—big, thick, shaved smooth. He strokes, fingers brushing the heavy balls, excitement spiking.
Stephen stands, pulling Marc up. They kiss, bodies pressed tight. Marc moves down, kissing Stephen’s jaw, licking his nipples, trailing lower. He kneels, tasting the pre-cum, sharp and heady, before taking Stephen’s cock in his mouth. It fills him, stretching his lips. So big. So good. His hand cups Stephen’s balls, head moving in slow, deliberate strokes. Stephen moans, low and guttural, fueling Marc’s hunger.
“Turn around,” Stephen says, voice rough.
Marc hesitates, hand still stroking. “I’m a virgin,” he whispers.
Stephen smiles, warm, reassuring. “Never mind. I’m not.”
Marc turns, Stephen guiding him to kneel on the couch, ass up. It’s going to hurt. I want it, but I’m scared. His body trembles. Instead of pressure, he feels Stephen’s lips on his hole, kissing, licking, tongue probing gently. Marc gasps, tension melting into pleasure. This is unreal. Stephen’s finger follows, slow, slick with spit, circling, then easing inside. Marc’s cock throbs, harder than ever.
“I’m going in, okay?” Stephen asks.
“Yes!” Marc’s voice cracks, desperate.
Stephen’s cock presses against him, gentle at first, then firmer. Pain flares, sharp and overwhelming. Marc moans, instinctively pulling away. Stephen’s hands steady him, pulling him back. “Relax,” he murmurs. Marc exhales, eyes shut, and feels Stephen slide in. Pain lingers, then fades, giving way to a flood of sensation—fullness, heat, connection. This is it.
“You okay?” Stephen’s voice is soft, caring.
Marc nods, breathless. Stephen moves, slow at first, nearly pulling out before sliding back in. The rhythm builds, light strokes deepening. Marc’s prostate sings with each thrust, pleasure and pain blurring. I’m being fucked, and it’s incredible.His moans grow louder, body yielding completely.
Stephen’s pace quickens, deliberate, powerful. Marc’s cock pulses, untouched, and he cums hard, ass clenching around Stephen. The sensation tips Stephen over, and he thrusts deep, cumming inside Marc with three final, shuddering pounds. He leans over, still inside, kissing Marc’s neck, lips soft against sweat-slick skin.
Slowly, Stephen pulls out. Marc gasps at the emptiness. Stephen grabs tissues, gently cleaning Marc’s ass, then his own cock. They collapse together, breathless, tangled on the couch.
Marc’s heart races, body humming with aftershocks. This is what I wanted. Stephen’s arm drapes over him, warm, grounding. Outside, Montreal hums, but here, it’s just them—two men, spent, connected, alive.
