Classic White Briefs Maketh A Man
Richard Shaw stood on his patio, having just arrived home from a day out, staring at his washing line. "What the fuck," he said to himself as he stood in his tattered boxers and t-shirt.
Richard lived alone in a modest cottage in the countryside since Helen’s cancer took her one year ago. He kept fit, not for vanity, but for sanity. Early morning runs through dew-soaked fields, kettlebell swings in the garage-turned-gym, and a strict no-biscuits policy. At fifty-two, his reflection showed a man who hadn’t surrendered to grief’s gravitational pull. Solid shoulders, a waistline that hadn’t expanded since his thirties and retirement hadn’t softened him either as he kept busy.
But his wardrobe? Utter delinquency. Threadbare socks with holes big enough for thumbs to poke through. T-shirts faded to ghostly pastels, collars frayed like shredded wheat. And his underwear? A graveyard of elastic surrender. Boxers that sagged like deflated balloons.
He’d devised a system whereby he'd rotate all his clothes until disintegration forced a reluctant trip to Marks & Spencer. Today, it seemed, the universe had intervened as he continued to take in the view before him.
The newly washed, worn-out boxers he had hung out to dry were gone. In their place hung ten pairs of pristine Marks & Spencer cotton briefs. Not the high-waisted abominations, but the Essential mid-waist kind. Crisp white tags still dangled from them as they moved in the gentle wind. On the other part of the washing line, ten pristine vests blew in the breeze, matching the briefs.
"What the fuck," he said to himself again. "Where have my boxers gone, and what the fuck, where did these vests come from?"
Richard walked over to the line, the damp grass cool under his bare feet. Pinned to a single pair of the new briefs was a folded note which he unpinned and read.
*It's about time you looked good in your underwear, Mr Shaw, and so I decided for you.*
The note, handwritten, fluttered against Richard's thumb. No signature. Just those nineteen words hovering between presumption and kindness. He stared at the crisp cotton briefs and vests swaying like surrender flags. His missing boxers, those baggy veterans of countless washes, felt like stolen comrades.
He scanned the garden for a clue to their origin. Evidence of a track or another sign on how they managed to be on his washing line, but failed to achieve the result he wished for. The only prime suspect were the Millers down the lane, but their teenage boys were more likely to lob eggs than deliver new underwear and vests.
His fingers traced the stiff tag on the nearest pair of briefs. *M&S Essential Briefs*. “Essential for what?” he asked himself. “Avoiding a wardrobe malfunction?” as he felt the fabric of the vests, equally labelled as *M&S Essential Vests*.
A dry chuckle escaped him, “Essential Briefs and Vests”. It felt absurdly intimate, this anonymous intervention. Someone had seen his laundry. Seen the ragged state of his life’s fabric and had decided to act.
"Right then," he muttered, unpinning the note card only to crumple it in his hand as he unpinned the pristine briefs and vests, one by one, folding them into a stiff, unfamiliar pile in the crook of his arm.
Their pristine whiteness mocked the faded greys and blues of his missing boxers. Who? And *why*? Was it pity? A prank that hadn’t quite landed? Or someone who genuinely thought sagging boxers with holes in places they shouldn't be, were a crime against humanity?
The quiet of the garden pressed in, amplifying the rustle of leaves and the distant drone of a tractor. He felt exposed, standing there clutching ten pairs of underwear he hadn’t bought.
Going back inside, the cottage felt suddenly smaller, watched. He dumped the underwear sets onto his kitchen table. They lay there, a stark, orderly rectangle against the woodwork. His gaze drifted to Helen’s photo on the Welsh dresser, her laughing, vibrant years before the sickness hollowed her out.
"Someone thinks I need an underwear upgrade, Hels," he said aloud, the sound flat in the kitchen. The absurdity warred with a flicker of something else… a tiny, unwelcome spark of curiosity. Who cared enough to do this? And what exactly did they expect him to do next? Wear them? Return them? Investigate? He picked up a single pair, the tag scratching his palm. *Essential*. The word echoed. Essential for moving on? Or just essential for avoiding ridicule?
He dropped the briefs back onto the pile. First things first, he needed a cup of tea strong enough to drown this bewildering event, as he put the kettle on while selecting his favourite mug.
As the kettle got closer to boiling, he pictured someone watching his washing line, cataloguing his sartorial crimes. The thought made his skin prickle. Not the Millers’ lads; he felt sure, this felt too precise, too… adult. Too expensive, and Steven Miller was the widower who had raised his boys after his wife had passed away in a riding accident.
Remembering the note on the washing line, *It's about time you looked good in your underwear* he uttered, "bloody presumptuous and intrusive if you ask me," and then he wondered what to do next, sitting down with his mug of tea, staring at the items he had not purchased.
"Fuck it," he muttered aloud, the sound bouncing off the Welsh dresser where Helen’s photo smiled eternally. The new briefs lay folded, crisp and white. Essential. The word mocked him again. “Essential for what?” as he rose from his chair, abandoning his cooling tea.
"Might as well try the damned things on. What harm could it do?" he mumbled to himself. "If they are scratchy or ride up, I can always bin them, anonymous benefactor be damned."
He grabbed a pair, the cotton cool and dense against his palm. Better quality than anything he’d owned in years.
Just as he hooked a thumb under the frayed hem of his old t-shirt, ready to peel it off and commit to the dastardly deed of trying the new clothing on, his mobile pinged, sharp and intrusive on the kitchen counter. He froze, mid-undress. Who texted him? Telemarketers, mostly. Or reminders from the surgery about Helen’s long-cancelled appointments. He snatched the phone, thumb smudging the screen.
Not recognising the number, he read the message: **I have left a present for you on your washing line because I think you will look amazing in it, but please make sure you tuck the vest into your briefs. It will stop the vest from riding up. Your secret admirer**
"What the fuck. I have a secret admirer now," he exclaimed.
He stared at the phone, then at the new underwear, then back at the phone. The screen went dark. He jabbed it awake. The message remained. Real and concrete.
Richard sat down hard on the kitchen chair, creaking under his sudden weight. "Secret admirer?" he muttered, rubbing his temples. The absurdity of the situation felt like a physical pressure behind his eyes, and he was now curious who the secret admirer might be.
His phone pinged again, sharp, insistent. The screen lit up with the same unrecognised number. **I am in love with you, and I know you are bi and lonely since Helen and I want to be your friend. If you're interested, come to the old Oak tree at 7pm, wearing nothing but your new underwear and meet me. If you don't come, I will know I have misjudged you.**
The words seemed to pulse on the screen. Richard dropped the phone as if it had burned him. It clattered onto the table beside the pile of pristine underwear. *Bi?* He hadn’t spoken that word aloud since university, buried it deep after meeting Helen. Who the hell knew? Who’d been watching him? The thought wasn’t flattering, but it was invasive, like finding footprints in freshly poured concrete.
He paced the cramped kitchen, bare feet slapping against cold tiles. The old Oak tree stood at the edge of Miller’s pasture, half a mile down the lane. A relic from before hedgerows, its gnarled branches a local landmark. Why there? And why 7pm? Dusk would be settling, shadows stretching long.
Richard glanced at Helen’s photo. Her eyes seemed to hold a question now, not just memories. "Bi?" he whispered to her. "Did you…?" But she’d never pried, never pushed. Acceptance wasn’t the same as knowledge. His chest tightened.
Richard picked up his phone and texted the number. **Who is this?**
In a matter of seconds, the reply arrived. **Come to the Oak tree and find out**
Racking his brain for a possible suspect, he recalled Steven Miller leaning over the garden fence last Tuesday, handing Richard a misplaced parcel. Steven’s shirt cuff had brushed Richard’s wrist, causing a small reaction in response to the man's tender touch.
Richard froze. "Steven? The widower, like me," he silently muttered. "The father of those egg-lobbing teens. Quiet, competent." They’d shared nods over hedges, brief condolences after Helen. Never… this. Never any discussions about sexuality. Never any indication that he might be bi, too. Richard dismissed his thoughts that his secret admirer might be him.
The air in the kitchen thickened. Richard stared at the briefs, the vests, the silent phone. 5:15 glowed on the oven clock. One hour and forty-five minutes to decide whether to unravel decades of silence, or let it coil tighter. "For fuck's sake, Steven doesn't even wear the type of underwear I have received," he muttered to himself, shaking his head again in an act of dismissal.
The kettle boiled, allowing steam to curl upwards as he poured the water into the teapot, as he remembered he’d been fiercely loyal to Helen, burying the bi part of himself as he fell impossibly in love with her while at university.
He’d never regretted it, not truly. Grief had been a vast, grey ocean, drowning everything else. But now… a tiny, treacherous warmth flickered low in his belly. A memory surfaced of tangled limbs in a cramped dorm room, sunlight catching dust motes, the sheer, uncomplicated joy of touch. Forgotten. Suppressed. Yet undeniably *there*.
The tea cooled untouched as he revisited the list of potential suspects, but always returning to Steven Miller. The quiet neighbour who’d fixed Richard’s fence after a storm without being asked. Who’d brought over shepherd’s pie when Helen was fading. Whose own eyes held a familiar, weathered loneliness. Now he saw it, in the careful distance, the lingering glances masked as neighbourly concern. Had Steven been cataloguing more than just sagging boxers?
Richard’s fingers curled around the new vest as the realisation hit him like a shockwave. Steven Miller was exactly Richard’s type: broad-shouldered, capable, with eyes that held quiet intensity beneath the sadness. Once, in another life, Richard might have pursued him, but that had been a long time ago.
He glanced at Helen’s photo. Her smile seemed softer now, almost encouraging. "Alright, Hels," he murmured, placing the vest back on the pile. "Let’s see what this lunacy is about."
Decision made, he moved. Upstairs, the shower hissed scalding water that turned his skin lobster-pink. He scrubbed mechanically, armpits, chest, the wiry grey hair on his calves, as if preparing for surgery. Towelling off, he caught his reflection in the mirror, lean muscle taut over ribs, shoulders still broad, but loneliness etched in the hollows beneath his collarbones. He didn’t linger. Naked, he padded back downstairs, droplets from his hair spotting the carpet as he entered the kitchen.
The underwear sets lay stiffly folded. He unfolded them, the cotton cool and substantial. He stepped into the briefs first and pulled them up. They hugged his hips snugly, the waistband sitting comfortably below his navel.
"Bloody hell," he murmured, turning slightly. They felt… secure. Supportive. A far cry from his old comrades. Next, the vest. He slipped it over his head; the fabric was soft, breathable, draping smoothly over his torso, longer than his usual rags, clearly designed to be tucked in.
He tucked the fabric firmly into the briefs’ waistband, the ensemble feeling alien yet strangely correct and structured, even, contained. He then found his trainers and, tying the laces, he ventured out of the back door feeling vulnerable but determined as he climbed over the fence and started walking towards the Oak along the edge of the field.
Except for the Miller's cottage, a distant smudge of grey stone beyond hedgerows, he was utterly alone. The countryside stretched around him, vast and indifferent: rolling fields stitched with drystone walls, the distant hum of the tractor long gone. He was the sole anomaly, a man walking through wheat stubble and cow parsley clad only in pristine white briefs with a matching vest tucked in, beneath the vast sky.
He kept his gaze fixed on the distant silhouette of the Oak, its ancient branches stark against the fading light as he approached, mindful of the possibilities and the potential trap if that's what his secret admirer was setting.
The tree stood alone, a gnarled titan rooted deep in the earth. Its bark resembled cooled lava flows, thick and fissured, whispering of centuries witnessed. The air smelled of damp earth, crushed grass, and that persistent hint of pollen in the air.
His new underwear felt unnervingly secure, the cotton soft against his skin, the vest tucked firmly into the briefs’ waistband, preventing any ride-up. He felt absurdly exposed yet strangely liberated.
Above, the first stars pricked through the violet dusk. A tawny owl hooted nearby, the sound mournful and precise. He checked his watch: 6:58 PM. Two minutes. His pulse hammered against his ribs. Was this courage or madness? Helen’s face flickered in his mind. Not reproachful, but strangely supportive as he waited for his secret admirer.
He didn't have to wait long. A sharp *crack* echoed from the hawthorn thicket bordering the pasture. Richard jerked his head toward the sound, muscles tensing. A figure emerged, silhouetted against the fading light: broad-shouldered, moving with a hesitant, almost duck-footed gait that betrayed equal nerves.
Richard stared in disbelief. It was Justin Miller, Steven Miller's nineteen-year-old son, who approached the Oak tree wearing nothing else but the same brand and design white briefs and a white t-shirt, tucked in like him.
"You came, Mr Shaw. I didn't think you would, and you look amazing," Justin said.
Slightly flustered, Richard responded. "I hadn't expected it to be you, Justin. I suspect your father doesn't know, does he?"
"He has no idea, Mr Shaw, he has no idea at all," Justin replied, "And, I would like to keep it that way if okay with you."
"Call me Richard, Justin. Mr Shaw is way too formal for this meeting, but I don't understand. How long have you been in love with me and.....how did you know?"
Justin leaned against the oak's rough bark, arms folded across his chest. The fading light caught the flush creeping up his neck. "Since Dad had me help fix your fence last spring. You were lifting timber posts, sweat soaking through that faded Nirvana tee... I just *knew*. My gaydar's never wrong." He paused, scuffing a bare foot in the dirt. "I've liked older men since I was thirteen, fourteen? Dad thinks I'm a late developer and has no idea I'm... gay."
Richard stared. The boy, young man, stood barely two yards away, lean muscle defined beneath the thin cotton. Nineteen. "Christ, Justin. I'm fifty-two. Your father's my neighbour. My friend." The absurdity choked him. "And white Y-fronts? Seriously? Why not boxers?"
Justin shifted, the movement awkwardly graceful. "Dad wears boxers like you, and he looks terrible in them, like you," he said, voice low. "Baggy, grey things. Like sacks with zero sex appeal."
He glanced down at his own crisp briefs. "These... they're clean. Sharp. Like you." A blush deepened. "I saw your old boxers on the line. Saggy, holey, unloved and... sad and I had to do something,” as he met Richard's eyes, young defiance flickering. "I wanted you to feel... attractive, desirable and wanted. Like you deserve."
"I don't know what to say, Justin. I appreciate you buying me what you wanted to see me wearing, but perhaps you should have chosen a different way to attract my attention."
"I couldn’t work out a way to trigger your interest, but now you’re here, don't say anything, just let me touch you," Justin declared. "Let me give myself to you."
Richard stared. Justin's nipples pushed against the thin cotton vest, hard and distinct as shirt buttons. Desire flared low in Richard's belly, sharp and undeniable. His fingers moved without conscious thought, tracing the taut fabric over Justin's chest. The cotton felt damp with nervous sweat. Justin gasped, arching into the touch.
"Christ," Richard breathed, the word thick and rough. He closed the distance, his own vest brushing Justin's. He cupped Justin's face, rough palms against smooth skin. Justin's eyes widened, pupils swallowing the fading light. Richard leaned in, pressing his lips against the younger man's. It was gentle. It was tentative, even searching.
Justin froze for a heartbeat, then melted against him, lips parting. His response was eager, inexperienced, his tongue darting shyly against Richard's, as the older man cupped his hands around the young man’s buttocks, finding them firm and supple.
Richard broke the kiss, holding Justin at arm's length. The boy's breath came in quick, shallow gasps, his eyes wide and dark with want. "Justin," Richard said, his voice low and rough. "Have you been with a man before?"
"No, but I want you to take me. I trust you."
Justin's admission hung between them, raw and vulnerable. Richard felt the weight of it, the responsibility, the sheer insanity. Nineteen. Barely out of boyhood, standing pressed against an oak tree in his underwear.
Richard stepped back, putting a foot of cool air between them. "Are you sure, Justin, are you sure this is what you want?" feeling conflicted with decades of denial, grief, and buried desires for someone whose world was still unfolding?
Justin nodded fiercely, his eyes wide and earnest. "Yes. Please." He reached out, fingers brushing Richard's forearm. "I've thought about this... about you... for months."
Richard couldn't prevent himself as he spoke, the words rough-edged and thick with suppressed urgency. "Let me see what I have to work with. Let me see you."
Justin obeyed instantly, his movements jerky with nervous energy.
He tugged the crisp white vest upwards, the fabric catching momentarily on his chin before he pulled it free and dropped it onto the grass. Then his thumbs slipped under the elastic waistband of his pristine M&S briefs, letting them slide down his hips and thighs, pooling at his ankles as he stepped out of them.
Justin stood utterly exposed, his erection pointing towards the stars, breathing shallowly, the warm evening air raising gooseflesh across his bare skin as Richard took in the sight of his beautiful body. "I didn't know you were circumcised, Justin."
"My dad had it done when I was a baby," Justin explained, shifting his weight nervously. "He said it was cleaner."
Indeed it is," Richard answered. "It's beautiful and so... Can I suck it?"
Justin nodded breathlessly. "I was hoping you might. Yes."
Richard dropped to his knees without waiting for another word, the damp earth cool against his skin. He took Justin's cock into his mouth with a sense of urgency that surprised even himself. The smooth, warm skin tasted faintly of soap and salt. Justin gasped sharply above him, a choked sound that dissolved into a low groan. His hips jerked instinctively forward.
Richard steadied him with his hands on Justin's hips, feeling the tremble in the young man's thighs. He explored with his tongue, tracing the ridge beneath the circumcision scar, swirling around the sensitive head. Justin's fingers tangled in Richard's damp hair, not pushing, just holding on, anchoring himself as his breath came in ragged gasps.
"Oh god," Justin moaned, his head tipping back against the rough bark of the oak. "Oh god, Richard... that's... yes..." His words fragmented into incoherent sounds of pleasure. It was raw, inexperienced, and utterly overwhelming for him. Richard felt the tension building rapidly in Justin's body, the muscles tightening under his hands.
Richard sucked harder, deeper, drawing Justin further into the heat of his mouth. Justin cried out, a sharp, startled sound that echoed briefly in the quiet dusk. His body arched, thrusting uncontrollably once, twice, and then he was coming, spilling hotly into Richard's mouth with a shuddering gasp. Richard swallowed instinctively, the unfamiliar taste sharp and salty.
Justin slumped back against the tree, panting heavily, his eyes wide and dazed. "Wow," he breathed, looking down at Richard with stunned disbelief. "That was... wow."
Richard wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, rising slowly. His own arousal pressed insistently against the cotton briefs. He saw Justin's gaze flicker downwards, a flicker of nervous anticipation replacing the blissful haze.
"That's not for you now, young man; you will have to wait because I'm not taking your cherry here. I'm taking you home."
Justin blinked, still breathless. "Home?"
Richard didn't explain further. With a grunt born more of determination than strain, he hooked an arm under Justin’s thighs and hoisted the younger man clean off the ground. Justin yelped, instinctively grabbing Richard’s shoulders as he was flipped upside-down.
Richard settled Justin’s lean torso over his shoulder like a sack of grain, one arm securing Justin’s legs firmly against his chest. Justin’s bare backside, smooth and taut in the cool air, was suddenly presented squarely to Richard’s free hand.
*SMACK!* The sharp, crisp sound echoed across the pasture. Justin gasped, more from shock than pain, his skin flushing instantly warm beneath Richard’s palm.
"Hey!" Justin protested weakly, kicking his legs.
*SMACK!* Another firm slap landed on the opposite cheek. "Quiet," Richard commanded, his voice low and resonant. "You wanted a man? You’ll get one. But on my terms. And my terms involve my place and privacy in the back garden, not a bloody oak tree."
Justin stopped struggling. He lay draped over Richard’s shoulder, the rhythmic motion of the walk and the occasional sharp sting blending into something unexpectedly thrilling. Each *SMACK!* sent a jolt through him, a mix of embarrassment, submission, and a raw, burgeoning excitement at being utterly claimed.
Richard strode purposefully through the wheat stubble, the distant lights of his cottage growing brighter. The absurdity of the situation, a fifty-two-year-old widower marching across a field at dusk carrying his nineteen-year-old neighbour’s naked son over his shoulder, was eclipsed by a profound sense of liberation.
Justin remained pliant, a warm, trusting weight. As Richard approached the garden fence, he delivered one final, resonant *SMACK!* that made Justin jump and whimper softly. "Almost home," Richard murmured, a possessive edge in his tone. "Then we’ll see about that cherry of yours."
Justin shivered, anticipation coiling tight in his belly, his earlier bliss replaced by a deeper, more urgent hunger as Richard placed the naked young man on the sunbed in the garden. "You wait there while I get something. I'll be back in a minute.
Richard disappeared through the cottage’s back door, leaving Justin exposed beneath the deepening twilight. The warm air prickled his skin, amplifying every sensation, the lingering warmth where Richard’s hand had gripped his thigh, the phantom sting of the smacks on his bottom providing reality.
Richard returned swiftly, holding a small, unassuming tube. "KY Jelly," he stated, his voice low and steady, noting that Justin's erection had recovered. "Thought we might need this."
He placed it on the wooden armrest of the sunbed, the plastic tube gleaming faintly in the porch light filtering through the kitchen window. Justin stared at it, the implication settling over him like a physical weight. This was real. Now.
Richard stood before him, his snug white briefs straining visibly against his erection. "Last chance, Justin," he said, his gaze unwavering. "Say no now, or don’t say it at all once I start."
Justin shook his head fiercely, his throat dry. "No. I want this. I want you." The words came out hoarse, thick with need. Richard nodded, a flicker of something intense, approval, possession, crossing his features. He uncapped the tube with a decisive *snick*, squeezing a generous dollop of cool, clear gel onto his fingers.
He knelt before the sunbed, his movements deliberate. One hand pressed firmly against Justin’s hipbone, pinning him gently but immovably to the padded surface. Justin gasped as Richard’s slicked fingers traced the sensitive skin of his inner thigh, then circled his entrance, having rolled him onto his side.
The touch was probing, insistent, yet controlled. Justin tensed instinctively, a low whine escaping his lips. "Relax," Richard commanded, his voice a low rumble. "Breathe."
Justin forced air into his lungs, focusing on the rough texture of the sunbed beneath his back, the scent of cut grass and KY Jelly, the unwavering pressure of Richard’s hand on his hip. Slowly, deliberately, Richard worked one finger inside him. The intrusion burned, stretching muscles unused to such invasion. Justin cried out, fingers scrabbling against the vinyl padding. "It Hurts..." he gasped.
"Shh. It will do, but the pain will go once you get used to the intrusion," Richard murmured, his other hand stroking Justin’s flank soothingly.
Richard waited a moment, letting Justin adjust, the stretch a fierce, undeniable ache. "Just breathe through it. It’ll ease."
Gradually, the sharp pain subsided into a deep, unfamiliar pressure. Richard began to move his finger slowly, carefully stretching him, adding more lubricant. The sensation shifted, becoming less alien, more intense, a strange, invasive fullness that sparked a confusing mix of discomfort and a dawning, illicit thrill.
Richard watched Justin’s face intently, gauging his tolerance, his own arousal a palpable presence in the charged air. "Ready for another?"
Justin nodded, biting his lip, his eyes wide and fixed on Richard’s face. Richard added a second finger. The stretch was profound, overwhelming. Justin arched off the sunbed, a choked sob tearing from his throat. Richard held him down firmly, his voice dropping to a gravelly whisper. "Easy. Almost there. You’re doing so well."
He scissored his fingers gently, stretching Justin open, preparing him for what came next. Justin panted, tears pricking his eyes, his body trembling violently between the conflicting sensations of pain, submission, and the terrifying, exhilarating promise of what was to come. Richard withdrew his fingers slowly, leaving Justin feeling strangely hollow and exposed.
Justin rolled onto his back and watched as Richard tugged the vest from his briefs. Pulling it over his head in a single fluid movement. Next, he slipped his fingers into the waistband of his briefs. "Now," he said, his voice thick with intent. "Let's see about that cherry of yours," as he pushed his Y-Fronts down.
Richard stood naked before him, fully aroused. With surprising strength, Richard gripped Justin’s hips and hauled him upright. Justin instinctively wrapped his legs around Richard’s waist, locking his ankles at the small of the older man’s back. Richard held him easily, the solidity of his frame a grounding anchor against Justin’s nervous tremors. Then, without breaking eye contact, Richard lowered himself backwards onto the padded sunbed, pulling Justin down with him. Justin landed straddling Richard’s thighs, his own arousal pressing against Richard’s stomach.
Richard’s hands slid up Justin’s back, pulling him close. Their lips met, a slow, deliberate press that deepened as Richard’s tongue traced Justin’s lower lip. Justin moaned into the kiss, surrendering to the warmth, the taste of tea and something uniquely Richard. When Richard broke the kiss, his breath ghosted against Justin’s ear. "Take your time," he murmured, voice rough velvet. "Slip onto me. Feel it. Enjoy yourself. No rush. Just go with what feels right."
Justin nodded, breath catching. Shifting his hips back slightly, he felt the blunt, slick pressure of Richard against his entrance. He hesitated, the memory of the stretching ache sharp in his mind. Richard’s thumbs stroked soothing circles on Justin’s hips. "Easy," Richard whispered. "Just breathe."
Justin inhaled deeply, the scent of KY jelly and Richard’s skin filling his lungs. He pushed down slowly, gritting his teeth against the intense, burning stretch. Richard remained perfectly still beneath him, his gaze unwavering, supportive. Inch by inch, Justin lowered himself, feeling Richard fill him, a profound invasion that gradually morphed from sharp pain into a deep, overwhelming fullness. Tears pricked his eyes, but he didn’t stop. He focused on Richard’s face, the warmth in his eyes, the faint sheen of sweat on his brow.
Finally, Justin settled fully seated, Richard buried deep inside him. He gasped, the sensation indescribable, pain still throbbed at the edges, but beneath it bloomed a fierce, possessive intimacy. He was utterly claimed. Richard’s hands tightened on his hips. "There," Richard breathed, his own voice strained with restraint. "You did it. You’re mine now."
Justin stayed motionless for a moment, adjusting, feeling the incredible heat and pressure. Then, tentatively, he lifted his hips a fraction and lowered himself again. A low groan escaped Richard, his head tipping back against the sunbed. Encouraged, Justin repeated the movement, finding a rhythm, slow, shallow, exploratory.
Each rise brought a gasp, each descent a sigh. "That’s it," Richard murmured, his thumbs brushing away a stray tear. "Just like that." Justin closed his eyes, losing himself in the sensation, in the impossible reality of being filled by Richard Shaw, under the watchful stars.
He rocked faster, driven by instinct, his hands braced on Richard’s chest. The friction shifted from sharp discomfort to a deep, resonant ache, then bloomed into something else entirely, a slow-building pressure low in his belly. Richard’s hips lifted to meet him, driving deeper. Justin cried out, a sharp sound swallowed by the night air.
Richard groaned, his hands sliding down to grip Justin’s hips, guiding the rhythm. "God, Justin... you feel incredible." His voice was thick, strained.
Justin’s movements became frantic, desperate. The pressure intensified, coiling tighter with every thrust. He felt Richard’s muscles tense beneath him, heard the ragged edge in his breathing. "Richard... I'm close," Justin gasped, his voice cracking.
"So am I," Richard rasped. "Let go and cum."
Justin threw his head back as the wave crashed over him. His vision whited out, his body locking rigid as pleasure tore through him in violent pulses, sending a heavy load of semen towards Richard's face and chest.
He felt Richard buck beneath him, a guttural groan ripped from his throat as he spilt deep inside Justin, the heat a shocking counterpoint to the cooling night air.
Justin collapsed forward onto Richard’s chest, trembling violently. Richard wrapped strong arms around him, holding him close, breathing ragged, hearts hammering against each other.
Richard gently pushed Justin up, staying lodged deep inside him as the young man sat on the first cock he had ever received. "Easy now," Richard murmured, his touch gentle as he played with the young man's nipples.
Justin flinched but leaned into the tenderness. "Does it hurt still, Justin?"
"A bit," Justin admitted, his voice small.
"It’ll ease," Richard said softly, wiping his stomach, smoothing the cum that had been deposited. I hope it was everything you expected?"
"It was wild, Richard, totally wild, sick, yes. Everything I expected it to be."
"Well, we're in no rush. Once my cock starts to soften, you will naturally slip out of me, but let's enjoy the moment, and then we can do it all again once I have recovered, or would you like to fuck me? You will be quicker to recover, if you know what I mean?"
Justin stared, processing the offer. "You'd... you'd let me?" The concept seemed unexpected but thrilling.
Richard chuckled, a low rumble vibrating through Justin's chest. "Why not? Seems only fair. Besides, you might prefer to give and not take, moving forward. As for me, I haven't been fucked in thirty years."
Justin slid off Richard's lap and stood. The porch light caught the lean lines of his body, the taut stomach, the smooth planes of his chest, the dark trail leading down to where his cock, still semi-hard, curved against his thigh. He looked like a Renaissance sculpture misplaced in a country garden. Richard stared, a slow warmth spreading through his chest that had nothing to do with lust. Awe, maybe, but definitely, wonder.
"Come and stand in front of me, I want to see you," Richard demanded.
Justin approached Richard, standing at the end of the sunbed. "Richard, I need a piss, where's the bathroom?"
Richard grinned, eyes gleaming with possessive delight. "Don't worry about the bathroom, lad. Do it on me. Tonight's about sharing everything and learning your pleasures, your dislikes." He spread his legs wider, palms smoothing over his own thighs. "Right here. Show me. Shower me."
"I've never done that before, Richard. It sort of seems wrong."
"You don't know if it's wrong until you've tried it, Justin, and I, for one, love golden showers and drinking piss…. Well, I used to, but it's been so long since someone entertained me in that way."
Justin hesitated, shifting his weight. The request felt alien, transgressive, yet Richard’s steady gaze held no judgment, only a dark invitation.
Justin wrapped trembling fingers around his semi-hard cock, aiming the tip toward Richard’s face. "You want to drink my piss, is that it?"
"Indeed, it is, and once you have finished, I feel certain you will be able to fuck me very soon. The piss is holding you back, that's all," Richard advised his newbie.
For a long moment, nothing happened. Justin clenched his jaw, muscles tightening with the effort of forcing release against instinct. Then, abruptly, the dam broke. A fierce, pressurised stream arced through the dusk, splattering hot and urgent against Richard’s face.
Justin gasped at the sheer volume, the shocking force of it, the pent-up relief after holding himself for too long. Richard leaned back, eyes drifting shut as the warm torrent soaked his skin, trickling down into his mouth.
"Christ, lad," Richard murmured, spreading his legs wider. The scent, sharp, ammoniac mingled with KY jelly and crushed grass. "You weren't kidding about needing to go."
He dragged a hand through the wetness, slicking it over his own softening cock. "Feels primal, doesn't it? Marking what's yours."
Justin watched, mesmerised, as Richard guided the last spurts onto his chest, the liquid gleaming under the porch light. When the flow finally ebbed to drips, Richard grabbed Justin’s wrist, pulling him down. Their damp bodies slid together, Justin straddling him again. Richard licked a stripe up Justin’s neck, tasting salt and exertion. "Good boy."
Justin shuddered, pressing his face into Richard’s shoulder. The aftermath hummed between them, sticky skin, racing hearts, the raw intimacy of shared taboo. Richard traced idle patterns on Justin’s back. "Still sore?"
Justin nodded faintly. "Give it ten minutes," Richard said. "Then we’ll see about round two." His thumb brushed Justin’s lower lip. "Unless you’d rather I take over?
Justin’s eyes widened. "Could I... fuck you from behind if you lean on the garden table?"
Richard’s grin was wolfish. "Thought you’d never ask."
Justin scrambled off him, legs shaky but determined. He stood dripping wet, urine glistening on his thighs. Richard rose next, fluid despite his age, the porch light catching the wet sheen on his chest and face. They closed the gap between them, drawn like magnets. Justin’s hands found Richard’s waist, pulling him close as Richard cupped the younger man’s jaw. Their kiss was deep, lingering, tasting of salt and shared transgression. Justin moaned softly into Richard’s mouth, feeling his cock stir back to life against Richard’s hip, the renewed arousal swift and insistent.
Hand in hand, they walked towards the weathered garden table. Richard pressed the KY tube into Justin’s palm. "Remember to lube well," Richard murmured, his voice thick with promise. "And be kind. It’s been a while." He turned his back to Justin, planting his palms flat on the scarred wood. He bent forward deliberately, presenting himself. "I’ve not had a cock for years," he added, a low chuckle rumbling in his chest.
Justin’s breath caught. He fumbled with the cap, squeezing a thick, cold stream onto his fingers. He hesitated, staring at Richard’s exposed backside, the taut muscles shifting under the skin. "How... how do I...?" he stammered, the enormity crashing down.
"Slowly," Richard instructed, his voice steadying. "Fingers first. One. Make sure I’m ready for you." He pushed his hips back slightly in silent invitation.
Justin obeyed, slicking his index finger thoroughly. He pressed gently against Richard’s entrance, feeling the surprising resistance yield under patient pressure. He slid the finger in slowly, encountering a tight, unfamiliar heat. Richard inhaled sharply, muscles clenching briefly before relaxing. "Good," Richard breathed. "Now... another. Slowly."
Justin added a second finger, working them carefully, scissoring gently as Richard had done for him. He felt Richard push back against his hand, a low groan escaping the older man. "Christ, lad... that’s it," Richard gasped, his knuckles whitening on the table edge. "Now... slick yourself. Generously."
Justin withdrew his fingers, coating his hard cock with the cool gel until it gleamed. He stepped closer, aligning himself. The blunt head pressed against Richard’s stretched entrance. Richard pushed back firmly. "Now, Justin," he commanded, his voice rough with need. "Take me."
Justin thrust forward, guided by Richard’s backward push. He slid in smoothly, buried to the hilt in one surprisingly easy stroke. The heat and tightness were overwhelming. Justin froze, gasping, his hands gripping Richard’s hips. Richard arched his back, a deep, satisfied groan tearing from him. "God, yes... fill me," he rasped. "Move."
Justin pulled back almost completely, then drove forward again, finding a rhythm. Slow, deep strokes at first, each thrust drawing a guttural sound from Richard. Justin’s hands slid up Richard’s sweat and piss-covered back, feeling the powerful muscles flex beneath his palms.
Richard met every thrust, pushing back hard, urging Justin deeper, faster. The table creaked faintly under their combined weight and motion. Justin’s breath came in ragged gasps, the friction building a firestorm low in his belly. He leaned forward, pressing his chest against Richard’s back, biting softly at his shoulder.
Richard groaned louder, his hand reaching back to grip Justin’s thigh, pulling him impossibly deeper. "Harder," Richard demanded, his voice thick and strained. "Fuck me harder, Justin!"
Justin’s rhythm faltered, his hips stuttering as the pressure coiled unbearably tight. He cried out, a raw, guttural sound torn from his throat as he came, pulsing hotly inside Richard. Richard gasped, arching violently back against him as Justin slumped forward, trembling, pressing his forehead between Richard’s shoulder blades. Richard shuddered beneath him, breathing raggedly.
For a long moment, they stayed locked together, Justin still buried deep, the only sounds their harsh breathing and the distant hoot of an owl. Slowly, Richard pushed himself upright, Justin slipping free with a soft gasp.
Richard turned, pulling Justin into a fierce embrace. He kissed him deeply, tasting sweat and salt and something uniquely theirs. "Christ," Richard murmured against Justin’s lips. "That was… something else."
Justin leaned into him, exhausted but exhilarated. "Yeah," he breathed. "It was," as he glanced down at their sticky bodies.
"So, Justin, what did you decide? Giver or taker?"
Justin traced a finger through the drying piss on Richard's stomach. "Both," he murmured. "But I....think I prefer taking. The feeling is exquisite and undeniably exciting."
"If that's the case, can I take you once more this evening before you go home?"
"I would like that, Richard. I would like that very much."
Richard smiled. "I thought you might, age not being an issue for you. Three times you've cum, one taken, one given like an expert and now, the grand finale."
“Wow, I hadn’t been counting, just enjoying,” Justin responded.
“In that case, Justin, I want you to lie down on the table for the next instalment in our new relationship.”
Smiling with anticipation, Justin lay down on the garden table, presenting his cheeks to Richard, as he squeezed fresh lube onto his cock, slicking himself thoroughly.
"Deep breath," Richard murmured, placing a steadying hand on Justin's stomach, pressing forward slowly, the head breaching Justin's entrance with deliberate care. Justin gasped, the stretch still burning but not as much as the first time.
Richard sank deeper, impossibly deeper than before, until Justin felt the older man's balls press flush against his buttocks.
Richard's gaze locked onto Justin's face, the parted lips, the fluttering eyelids, the flush spreading down his neck. Justin stared back, drowning in that possessive focus. He hooked his ankles behind Richard’s hips, locking them together, surrendering completely to the slow, grinding rhythm.
Each thrust wasn't just penetration; it was claiming, a deliberate reconquest of territory already surrendered. Justin arched, a low moan escaping him as Richard brushed that spot deep inside, sending sparks along his nerves. He felt impossibly full, stretched, owned. Richard’s hand slid down Justin’s flank, rough fingers tracing the curve of his hip before gripping hard, anchoring him against the relentless drive.
Justin surrendered to the sensation, letting it wash over him, the ache, the heat, the profound intimacy of being so utterly filled and watched. He was floating, tethered only by Richard’s gaze and the anchor of his body.
Richard shifted his angle subtly, driving upward now, hitting Justin’s prostate with unerring precision. Justin cried out, fingers scrabbling against the wooden tabletop. "Richard... oh God..." The pleasure was sharper this time, brighter, layered over the deep throb of being taken. Richard leaned forward, his free hand braced beside Justin’s head, his breath hot against Justin’s ear. "Feel that?" he growled, punctuating each word with a deliberate thrust. "That’s mine."
Justin could only nod frantically, his legs tightening reflexively around Richard’s waist, pulling him impossibly deeper. He was lost in the rhythm, the pressure building like a storm inside him, focused entirely on the man above him, inside him, watching him unravel.
Richard’s pace quickened, the slow grind giving way to powerful, driving strokes. Sweat slicked Justin’s chest where Richard’s torso pressed against him. The table groaned beneath them. Justin gasped Richard’s name, over and over, a desperate mantra. He felt Richard’s control fraying, the rhythm becoming ragged, urgent.
Justin wrapped his arms around Richard’s neck, clinging as the older man drove into him with fierce, possessive intensity. The world narrowed to the slap of skin, the harsh gasps, the overwhelming pressure coiling tight in Justin’s belly. He was hurtling towards the edge, helpless against the force of Richard’s possession.
Richard’s groan was guttural, primal. He slammed home one final time, burying himself to the hilt, his body locking rigid against Justin’s. Justin felt the hot pulse deep inside him, the intimate flood triggering his own climax.
He arched violently, crying out wordlessly as pleasure tore through him, sharp and blinding. He shot his load between their sweat-slicked stomachs, his body convulsing with each spurt of his seed.
Richard held him tight, shuddering through his own release, his face buried in Justin’s neck. They collapsed together onto the table, limbs tangled, breathing ragged, hearts pounding against each other. Justin lay pinned beneath Richard’s weight, utterly spent, the lingering throb inside him a visceral reminder.
Richard lifted his head slightly, his eyes dark and satisfied. "Still prefer taking?" he murmured, his thumb brushing a stray tear from Justin’s cheekbone. Justin managed a weak nod against Richard’s shoulder, too shattered for words. Richard chuckled softly, a low rumble Justin felt deep in his bones. "Good."
With deliberate slowness, Richard withdrew, slipping free. Justin hissed softly at the sudden emptiness, the loss of that anchoring heat. He lay still for a moment, catching his breath, the cool night air prickling his sweat-damp skin. Then, gingerly, he pushed himself up onto his elbows. The sticky warmth trickling down the inside of his thighs felt strangely intimate, a visceral reminder. He swung his legs over the edge of the table and stood, swaying slightly, feeling the slick slide against his skin.
"That was incredible," Justin breathed, his voice rough. He met Richard’s gaze, a flicker of vulnerability in his eyes. "Thank you. Seriously." He glanced towards the field gate, silhouetted against the deepening twilight. "I guess... I should go now." He hesitated, chewing his lip. "But... can I come tomorrow?"
Richard barked a laugh, the sound rich and unrestrained. He stood, stretching his shoulders. "Justin," he said, stepping close, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur thick with promise. "You can *always* come with me,” as he cupped Justin’s jaw, tilting his face up, and kissed him deeply, possessively, lingering, tasting of sweat and shared exertion. "Anytime."
Richard stepped back, leaning against the garden table. "Go on," he said softly, his gaze tracking Justin’s lean form. "Before someone wonders where you are."
Justin nodded, a shy smile touching his lips.
“Before you go, what did you do with my boxers?” Richard asked.
A beaming smile developed across his face. “In the bin, my bin, not yours,” he replied, as he turned and walked towards the gate, his naked body moving with a newfound, unselfconscious grace under the porch light.
Richard muttered, “Oh,” to the answer Justin had provided to his question, realising he would never see his trusty boxers again as he remained transfixed watching the young man, noting his features, the curve of his spine, the taut muscles shifting in his shoulders and legs, the faint gleam of drying fluids on his skin. His observations ignited a fierce, possessive hunger deeper than anything Richard had felt in decades. More potent, somehow, than the act itself.
Justin pushed open the creaky garden gate and stepped into the wheat stubble field, turning to wave goodbye to Richard.
Richard returned his wave as the cool night air washed over Justin, a welcome contrast to the lingering heat inside him. The rhythmic crunch of stubble underfoot, the vast expanse of stars above, the lingering scent of Richard on his skin, it all combined, stirring an unexpected resurgence of arousal. His cock stirred, thickening against his thigh. He needed release again, a private moment under the oak tree where this madness began. Just him and the memory as he planned to…..
He reached the familiar silhouette of the oak, its branches stark against the sky. His hand drifted instinctively towards his cock, ready to chase that solitary peak. Then a voice sliced through the quiet, sharp and incredulous.
"Justin?"
Justin froze, his blood turning to ice. He whirled around. Standing just beyond the shadow of the oak in his pjs, face pale and twisted with disbelief under the moonlight, was his younger brother, Liam.
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