A Gentleman's Secret
His Tinder ad read: “American, raised on good manners and strong tea. I like slow evenings, gentle talk, and a kind of closeness that’s more about trust than show. Spend a day with an English gentleman — or at least someone who tries to be one.”
John H. Potts IV found me at the visitor center right at noon. A graduate student in ESL, he came from an old money family, and presented his lofty self with that quietly confident manner some people earn early. Tall, slim, with dark hair neatly parted, he wore glasses with thin frames that made him look more like a young professor than a club president. His suit was expensive, well-pressed and carefully chosen. He shook my hand like he meant it.
“We’ve communicated online,” he said, smiling. “I am John, nice to meet you, Professor.”
“Nice to meet you too, John,” I said. “What joy it is to meet you in person and attend your club’s meeting!”
“Let me show you around a bit,” John said with a sweeping gesture of a professional guide. “There are many places where our club is leaving a mark.”
We set off through the main quad, leaves scraping along the stone paths. Andrew pointed out the old library where they held weekly reading circles — short stories one week, speeches the next. Farther along stood a modern glass building—the Department of Philosophy, which hosted debate nights, the kind where everyone pretends not to take competition personally. Then there was a student café on the corner: that was their informal spot, he said, where newcomers could survive their first conversation without feeling judged. He spoke about each place like a map of his focused efforts, showing me with pride every place where shy students learned to be more confident.
Ah, his English! It was your pure and clean Midwestern American English but with notes of high-class British slowness and solemnity. It was a strange mixture of American English openness and friendliness and British English poshness. Along with the royal-sounding name, he carried the royal demeanor of quiet politeness and unyielding confidence.
Lunch was in a small dining hall tucked behind the science wing in a huge new classroom building. English lunch, he called it — fish, roasted potatoes, and tea thick with milk. Nothing fancy, just familiar. John ate with a fork in his left hand the whole time, as though someone once taught him dinner was part of language too. We talked about accents (I tried to place his—no success), the odd cruelty of idioms (after discussing the origin of “beating around the bush”), and how a misplaced joke in a foreign language can crack confidence for weeks (as when I told a pretty student “You’ll end up being a new Princess Diana.”).
Afterward, he led me to an ESL class in a sunlit room on the second floor. The teacher was explaining British humor — understatement, irony, the art of pretending nothing is funny while being hilarious. Andrew chimed in once or twice with examples, and a few students laughed a second too late, but they laughed all the same. He watched them closely, proud when they got it. The teacher introduced him as “our friend, Mr. Potts of the English Club” and he gave the best speech of my life announcing events at the club for the next semester. At least three big-eyed freshmen signed up.
The English club banquet waited for us in the university hall — long tables, small flags, polished silverware that reflected the chandeliers. Students straightened ties and dresses, rehearsing smiles and opening lines of their short toasts between impeccably served small dishes—eleven in total. When it was John’s turn at the podium, he spoke without checking his notes. He talked about English not as a subject but as a bridge — a way to meet strangers halfway, to understand what they love and fear. He didn’t push for applause; it arrived on its own.
After the event was over and I survived the seemingly endless polite mingling in the ante-chambre with glasses of wine, he walked me back to the dorms. The campus was quiet now, lamp posts throwing long shadows. I invited him to my room, and I saw the façade of politeness crack momentarily: He said, “After you, sir, if you could lead the way” a moment too quickly.
***
He fucked me over the huge armchair. I lay with my ass up, my face squished against the seat, and he drove in and out of me with small whimpers that sounded like short sobs. His hands that grabbed my hips trembled, and without seeing him I knew his knuckles were white and his knees were trembling. If I hadn’t known better, I would have thought I was punishing him and he was crying, begging me not to do it, not to submit to him, not to take him so hungrily, no, no, no, aaah, oooh, *sniff*, aaay, aaay, *sniff.*
Those were quick, shallow jerks, hips snapping in tiny arcs, his short fat cut cock dragging over the spot that made my toes curl. Those were quiet whimpers—short, high, sounding almost like an unending series of hiccups—like sobs he couldn’t swallow. The chair rocked; velvet hissed under my cheek.
“Please higher, sir,” he said. It sounded so out of place with his dick up my ass, I even shuddered a bit, and my foreskin painfully rolled back, squished to the armrest of that huge old armchair. I followed the gentle order, almost standing on tiptoes, straining, but letting him get a sharper angle.
The shallow stutter ended; he dragged back until only the head stretched me, then eased in again—in one long, deliberate glide that bottomed out with a wet click. His palms landed on my sides—suddenly but gently—and those rhythmic slaps were as if coaxing me to come open. I answered, pushing back hard, my ass cheeks smacking his wiry bush, each slap now echoing beneath his breathy grunt. Another slow withdrawal, another full bury; with every of them my moans leaked out, each one raw and grateful, vibrating through the cushion. Time after time, meanwhile, this gentleman’s cock nudged that deep ache within me again and again, each stroke measured, claiming, polite no longer.
The room filled with a slow, deliberate orchestra: the armchair groaned under us—its deep, woody creaks rolled out every time our bodies collided, like an old cello bow dragged across loose bass strings. His hips snapped forward and the fat slap of skin on skin cracked through the air, loud and sharp, followed instantly by the small slurp of lubed flesh parting again. Between the thrusts he let out tiny breath-sobs—uh… uh—high, clipped, almost embarrassed, each one punched out of him on the inward push. I answered lower, with guttural moans that vibrated against the cushion, stretching into full-throated ahhhs when he ground deep and held, pubic hair prickling the split of my ass.
Slap… creak… whimper… moan—four beats, over and over, the tempo luxuriously slow, every measure drawn out so the echoes could settle in our ears before the next chord of bodies struck…
Each slow drag of his cock inside me carried a flashback on its crest. In my mind, I saw him that afternoon—tailored tweed, umbrella hooked over forearm—showing me the places where his English Club left a mark on university history. Then came the velvet-soft: “I thought we might get to know one another better.” Behind the courtesy there was an animal spark in his eyes, wild and unmistakable, the way lightning back-lights a perfect summer cloud.
Later, in my room, he peeled off civility thread by thread: jacket on the back of the chair, tie folded exactly in half, shirt cuffs aligned—diver’s protocol, back turned so I wouldn’t see the tremor in his hands or the slow rise of his fat short cut cock that I saw in the smallest detail in the mirror…
That same back then bowed over me, spine dipping with every luxurious moment of his cock ghosting my body; the measured chairman was gone, replaced by this panting animal who whimpered against my shoulder blade while his dick first entered me, hot, hard, girthy, and then drilled me open. Memory and present fused: the polite campus tour, the neat stack of clothes, the fire I glimpsed—each memory landed with the wet slap of his hips, the creak of the chair, the hot spill of his breath that turned into sobs as he savoured every inch of my ass he finally, fiercely claimed.
The pleasure within me unfolded like slow brass—warm, weighty, inevitable. Each measured glide of his cock found the small, electric button inside me; the blunt head nudged, retreated, nudged again until a soft, insistent glow started pulsing behind my balls. His whimpering ceased; it was now replaced by quick, effort-filled moans, the kind a man makes hefting a trunk up narrow stairs.
“Please—still higher, sir,” he suddenly breathed and the courteous plea jerked through me like a second cock. I adjusted, knees inching up the chair’s bolster, angle steepening; the next thrust speared deep, his cock head scraped sweetly across my prostate. A loud, involuntary cry burst out of me into the cushion. His hairy balls now slapped wetly against my perineum, matching the beat, and the itch—delicious, maddening—started in my urethra, a warning tingle that orgasm was already climbing, inching higher and higher against the pleasant dull ache inside me with every of his pushes.
Then the gentleman broke—his voice cracked into breathless curses: “Oh… fuck… Christ…” each word barely audible yet scalding. His hips snapped faster, two-beat rhythm: in–slap, in–slap, palms cracking gentle against my sides as if urging me to let out my human animal, too. Short moans welded into one long, rising wail that poured hot into my ear, those endless vibratos shaking through my skull and my spine.
To hover as high as I could for him, I teetered on tiptoes, calves burning, his hairy legs collided against mine with every lunge; cock inside me pistoned at cruel angles, head kissing prostate then retreating, stabbing upward again. Balls swung heavy, landing with loud thuds on the tender skin beneath my sack, each impact sparking the sweet itch higher up my shaft. His sweat-slick chest slid across my back, hairs rasping; his open mouth grazed my nape, panting curses and wails mingling until the whole chair creaked beneath the orchestra of skin, breath, slap, and cry—pleasure so crowded I couldn’t tell which sensation would crest first.
I shoved up on my elbows, neck craning, needing to see the face that once offered cucumber sandwiches without a tremor. What I found was unrecognisable: the polite eyes now wide and bloodshot, almost bulging; once neatly parted dark hair now plastered flat to his skull, dripping sweat onto my shoulder; the impeccably smooth-shaven mouth now twisted into a rictus of pure exertion, a silver thread of saliva swinging from the corner with every jerk of his hips. His Adam’s apple leapt—up, down—like he was swallowing air to stay alive. The whole deranged portrait lunged closer with each thrust, then snapped away, closer, away, in what seemed like an endless cycle of repetition.
Between us my cock throbbed untouched, the itch coalescing into a hot climb. I locked my mind’s eye on that dripping, desperate face—and let go. The first spurt arced, splattering the brocade; the second hit my chest; four more followed, each timed to the savage nudge inside me, every pulse milked by his relentless angle. He felt it—my hole clenching around him—and answered with a guttural bark, hips stuttering through my spurts until the final drop smeared across the ruined armchair seat and the room smelled of polish, sweat, and spent sex.
He rasped, “You done? You done?”—voice shredded, barely human—and yanked free with a wet, rude pop that left me clenching empty air. One rough pull on his slick shaft and he spattered hot stripes across my the small of my back, and higher, higher, as high as the neck and the shoulder blades, each spurt accompanied by a broken grunt. Before the last drop landed he slid the messy crown of his cut shaft up through his cum, smearing it into my skin, balls dragging on either side of my spine, like two wheels of a hot scooter. Then he collapsed forward, mouth open, kissing and licking the cooling trails—fierce, grateful, teeth grazing my skin—until my back was a map of saliva, semen, and wild abandon.
When I rose to face him, he buried his face in both palms, peeking through cracked fingers like a scolded choirboy. “Please don’t look at me, sir; thank you, sir,” he whispered—voice raw, as though the orgasm had shredded every last protocol he had sworn to follow. I pried the trembling hands away, held them steady, and pressed my mouth to his—trying to be gentle yet insistent—and smelled the faint bergamot of the cologne he’d worn at lunch. His thick cock—still slick, half-swollen—drooped between us; for two heartbeats I let it rest along my navel, warm weight twitching, a last pulse of pleasure shivering through both of us before the real world crept back in…
… Then we showered and the steam filled the narrow stall, blurring the elegant lines of the naked English Club chairman into something softer, almost fragile. I watched the water chase streaks of cum smudged over his chest, and thought that beneath the spray he looked smaller: his slick hair was now pasted flat to his skull, his long lashes beaded, his lips still parted in quiet pants.
During the day, at one moment he’d been the crisp tour guide showing me the campus buildings; the next, the ESL teacher advertising his brainchild the English Club; then he was the Club president calling the banquet to order. And just minutes ago—he was a snarling stranger fucking me senseless, soft polite requests sounding so out of place in the middle of passionate pushes… Now he shivered, eyes averted, whispering “sorry, sorry… thank you, thank you,” endless as a rosary. I pulled him in under the cascade, arms circling his back, and kissed the apology from his mouth until the words melted into quiet breath and the water ran clear between us…
***
He didn’t stay the night. We had one more cup of tea as he dried after the shower; then I watched him get dressed in the same meticulous manner, and then he turned to me and said: “Gentlemen’s secret, all right?” I channeled my inner Princess Diana and said “Of course,” while the Prince Charles in me remarked “Whatever “gentleman’s secret” means…”
Now this secret is between us, readers. Shh, don’t tell anyone.
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