S2 E2: Help Me Unpack
“Oh my god. Dylan?”
My voice cracked. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
He was standing in front of the building like he hadn’t just dropped out of my spank bank and landed in Paris. Tight blue compression tee. Black mesh shorts. Veins like warnings.
“Missed me?” he grinned. “Told you I’d book a flight.”
My jaw twitched. “Wait....seriously?”
“Trainer gig,” he said, like it was no big deal. “Some influencer brand I’ve been working with. One of the clients is in Paris for a shoot. So…” He gestured casually to the duffel bag in his hand. “They flew me out.”
Of course they did. He looked like a goddamn protein ad.
“I figured you were here,” he added, looking up at the building behind me. “Kept posting those little OOTDs with the same door in the background. Bit obvious, boy.”
My face went warm. “uhh...okay. Wow. So you’re staying nearby?”
He reached into a lockbox by the door, pulled out a key.
“Nope. I’m staying right here.”
“What.”
“Second floor. Airbnb.” He looked way too pleased with himself. “Figured if you were gonna act cute in front of this building every day, you probably lived here.”
“You stalked my location off an Instagram post?”
He shrugged. “One month without that mouth, Spaghetti Noodle. I had to improvise.”
I hated how fast my heart was thumping.
He slipped past me and headed up the stairs like he owned the place.
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The Airbnb was cozy and empty....bare walls, fresh linens, and that weirdly sterile smell of just-cleaned countertops.
Dylan dropped his duffel by the couch and glanced back at me. “You gonna help me unload?”
I raised an eyebrow, holding the tiniest bag I could’ve picked up. “Where do you want me to keep your stuff?”
He turned to face me fully.
“Oh, c’mon,” he smirked. “You know that’s not what I meant by unloading.”
My whole body buzzed. “You still talk like a frat boy with a dick appointment,” I muttered, stepping into the apartment.
He took the bag from my hand, dropped it without looking, then walked up and crowded me a little. “You’ve been thinking about me?” he asked, voice low, breath warm. “Because I haven’t stopped thinking about that wet little mouth of yours.”
I licked my lips, sarcastic. “You sure? Because you left me on read after telling me my throat was made for you.”
“Yeah,” he growled, “because I was busy jerking off to the memory of your throat"
“Fair enough”
He stepped even closer. “Been picturing you exactly like this. Mouth open. Knees down. Waiting.”
My knees nearly buckled. But I held my ground.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” I whispered. “Maybe I forgot how good your cock even tastes.”
“Oh yeah?” He grabbed my jaw, thumb brushing my lower lip. “Wanna remind yourself?”
I dropped.
Just like that.
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The mat by the couch was soft under my knees, cushioning me comfortably as I settled into place. Dylan stood before me, the faint rustle of fabric accompanying every small movement. His shirt was already peeled off, revealing the hard lines of his torso, and behind the thin mesh of his shorts, his cock was swelling thick and heavy, pressing insistently against the fabric.
“Missed this part,” he muttered, his voice low and rough, as his hand moved deliberately, palming himself through the mesh. The sound of his skin against fabric mixed with the quiet room, sending a familiar heat rushing through me.
I looked up at him, a smirk playing on my lips. There was something teasing in my gaze, a spark of challenge I couldn’t hide.
“You gonna unwrap it for me, or am I just supposed to hover my lips and hope for the best?” I teased, my voice soft but loaded with promise.
Dylan groaned, the sound thick with want. “Fuck, so sassy, Troy,” he said, pulling his shorts down slowly. The fabric slid over his hips, revealing his cock in full hard and heavy, exactly as I remembered. Maybe even thicker. The veins along the shaft bulged visibly, the tip flushed pink and already leaking precome, slick and inviting.
I didn’t rush. I dragged my tongue slowly up the side of him, tracing the length with deliberate care, teasing every inch as if memorizing it anew. The tip was especially sensitive, and I circled it with languid precision.
He hissed, a sharp breath of air slipping through clenched teeth. “Spaghetti Noodle, don’t fucking play with me,” he warned, voice low but edged with desire.
I murmured in response, licking the tip once more, my tongue tracing lazy circles around the head. “One month, Dylan. I should take my time,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper, filled with playful promise.
His hand shot out, grabbing the back of my head with a grip rough enough to make me feel it an urgent reminder of the control and passion he wielded. It sent a shiver down my spine, sharpening every sense, every nerve ending alive with anticipation.
I opened my mouth, letting my lips part, and took him in slowly. The warmth of him filled my mouth, the taste and texture familiar yet intoxicating every time. My tongue slid along the underside, exploring, teasing, tasting him fully as he groaned deep in his throat.
He shifted his weight slightly, steadying me, his fingers tightening their hold as I continued, my movements deliberate and slow, savoring every second of this connection, this shared moment. The heat between us built steadily, the air thick with tension and desire, nothing rushed just the slow, simmering promise of everything to come.
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He tasted like skin and sweat and travel. I moaned softly as he slid deeper, my throat stretching around the thickness. He cursed above me.
“God, that’s it,” he breathed. “Fucking perfect.”
His hips rocked slow. Controlled. Just enough to make it filthier.
I spit on it, sucked harder, let my hand stroke the base while I hollowed my cheeks. He looked down, one hand in my hair, the other gripping the couch.
“You were made for this,” he muttered. “That’s all I thought about on the flight. Your mouth. That slutty little throat.”
I whimpered around him.
He twitched in my mouth. “Look at you,” he whispered, voice like smoke. “On your knees. Fucking obsessed.”
I pulled off for air. A string of spit connected us. “Fuck, Dylan,” I gasped, catching my breath. “It looks like your cock’s gotten bigger. I don’t usually gag like that.”
He grinned down at me. “Boy, you are out of practice. Don’t worry, I’m here for a while now. I’ll get you back to throating me like a pro in no time.”
My lips stretched. My jaw ached. I gagged once, then relaxed into it.
He fucked my face like he was starved. Groaning now. Hand in my hair, muttering curses between thrusts. “Just like that,” he gasped. “Fuck yes. You’re still so good. Just like I remember.”
I moaned. Loud.
His cock throbbed.
“Don’t stop,” he panted. “You stop now, I’m gonna ruin your fucking throat.”
I didn’t stop.
I went faster.
Sloppier.
Spit everywhere. Wet sounds echoing off the walls. My nose pressed to his pelvis, eyes wet, cock straining in my shorts from how fucking filthy it felt.
He tensed.
Grunted.
Came deep in my throat.
I stayed there, swallowing every drop. My hands were still on his thighs, my cheeks flushed and lips wet. He stared down at me like I was the best thing he'd seen in weeks.
Eventually, he exhaled and stepped back, still breathless, his abs still flexing from the high. “Gonna hit the shower real quick,” he said, voice ragged.
“Yeah,” I said, licking my lips and wiping my mouth. “You do that.”
He disappeared into the bathroom, door clicking shut.
I stayed on the floor, knees sore and heart racing. My chest was rising and falling like I’d just run five blocks. I was still hard, still flushed, still replaying the way he looked down at me when he came.
My phone buzzed.
It was Elliot.
Elliot: I was thinking... I’ll bake some baguette for you tomorrow.😈
Another text followed almost instantly:
Elliot: And maybe cook you dinner too. 😉
I stared at the screen, flushed and fucked-out and still high off Dylan’s cum.
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