Sunlight stabbed through the gap in the curtains, painting a harsh stripe across my face. Matt was dead to the world, sprawled on his stomach, one arm flung over my abandoned pillow, snoring softly into the mattress. I eased out of bed carefully, sticky and sore. A quick, hot shower washed away the lingering traces of Matt and the night, the water soothing my muscles. I dressed in simple grey sweatpants and a soft, worn black t-shirt, the casual comfort a stark contrast to last night's tailored look. Padding barefoot down the creaking stairs, the rich aroma of coffee guided me like a beacon to the kitchen.
Shawn was already there, leaning back against the counter, a steaming mug dwarfed in his massive hands. Morning light streamed through the window, catching the silver flecks in his dark stubble. He offered a slow, knowing grin as I entered, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Morning, sunshine," he rumbled, his voice still a bit rough from sleep and port. "Sleep well?" He pushed off the counter and ambled towards the coffee pot, grabbing a second mug without asking. The silence stretched comfortably as he poured, the dark liquid swirling.
He handed me the full mug, his gaze sharp and amused. "Heard you two managed to stay awake long enough for... extra-curriculars last night," he said, his tone light but loaded. "Impressive stamina, considering the state he was in." Heat flooded my cheeks instantly. I stared into the dark depths of my coffee, scrambling for a response that wouldn't sound completely idiotic. "Yeah, well," I mumbled, taking a desperate sip of the scalding brew, "Guess he takes after his dad." The words tumbled out before I could stop them, stupid and flustered. Shawn's low chuckle vibrated through the quiet kitchen. He raised his mug in a mock salute, his grin widening into something genuinely pleased. "Damn right," he said, his eyes holding mine with a spark of appreciation. "Best compliment a man can get." He took a long, satisfied swallow of his coffee, the unspoken understanding hanging warm and slightly awkward in the air between us.
He turned back to the counter, pulling out a carton of eggs. "Speaking of stamina," he began casually, cracking an egg one-handed into a bowl with practiced ease. "Matt mentioned you're into Pilates. Keeps you flexible, huh? Good for that..." He gestured vaguely towards my lower half with the empty shell, "...core strength. Important." He cracked another egg, the rhythmic *tap-tap* echoing in the sudden silence. My blush deepened, crawling down my neck. He wasn't just *mentioning* Pilates; he was steering the conversation right back to where he'd left it, circling the subject of my body and its capabilities with deliberate, teasing precision. "Uh, yeah," I managed, my voice embarrassingly high. "Helps with... everything, I guess." He nodded, whisking the eggs with surprising vigor. "Solid foundation. Matt trains hard, obviously – explosive power, speed work. But raw, brute strength? Endurance?" He paused, glancing at me over his shoulder, a glint in his eye. "That's built differently. Different kind of grind. Requires a certain... resilience." He emphasized the last word, letting it hang. He knew *exactly* the effect he was having.
It was disorienting. Shawn was Matt's *dad*. The alpha of this house, solid, grounded. Yet standing there, radiating that weathered, powerful aura, rolling his shoulders subtly as he poured the eggs into a sizzling pan – he didn't feel paternal in that moment. He felt like a competitor sizing me up, appreciating the view, enjoying the game. He was barely eighteen years older than Matt, a fucking mountain of a man in his absolute prime, confident to the bone. And he knew I knew it. The knowledge thrummed between us, thick as the smell of frying bacon he added next.
He deftly flipped the conversation, like shifting gears in a powerful truck. "Matt mentioned you're over here practically every other day now," he observed, his tone light but probing. He scooped scrambled eggs onto plates. "Late nights, early mornings... must be hell on your workout schedule." He slid a loaded plate towards me across the counter. "What's your usual rhythm? Matt's glued to the pitch or the gym most afternoons." He leaned his hip against the counter, crossing his arms. The movement pulled his worn t-shirt tight across his broad chest, emphasizing the sheer mass.
I took the plate, grateful for the mundane topic. "I'm flexible," I said, digging in. "Pilates is mostly mornings. Weekends are free, usually. Matt drags me to the gym sometimes." The eggs were perfect, fluffy and rich. Shawn nodded, chewing thoughtfully. "Good. Consistency's key. Matt's relentless, gotta match that energy." He paused, his gaze sharpening again, but this time without the teasing heat. "Place is always open to you, Danny. Seriously. Don't feel like you gotta bolt after breakfast." He gestured around the warm, slightly chaotic kitchen. "Make yourself at home. Use the den, the back garden... whatever. You're part of the scenery now."
The intensity of the earlier moment dissipated, replaced by a surprising warmth. Shawn wasn't pushing boundaries; he was acknowledging them, then deliberately stepping back onto solid ground. He was intelligent, perceptive. He knew exactly what he’d stirred, and now he was offering a safe harbor – his home, open and welcoming. It was a subtle power play, but a comforting one. He’d seen my reaction, enjoyed it, and then firmly switched lanes, leaving the unspoken acknowledgment hanging, unthreatening, in the sunny kitchen air.
We were already halfway through breakfast when Matt finally shuffled into the kitchen, squinting against the bright morning light. He wore nothing but low-slung grey sweatpants, the waistband resting precariously on his hips. His sculpted chest, dusted with freckles and still flushed from sleep, glistened faintly under the overhead lights. The heated house was comfortably warm for October, allowing him this effortless display. Shawn chuckled, a low rumble as he scraped the last of the eggs onto a clean plate. "Look who finally crawled out of his crypt," he teased, sliding the plate towards Matt. "Forgot your shirt, Hercules? Or just showing off the goods?"
Matt grinned, stretching languidly, muscles rippling across his abdomen and shoulders. He ambled over to the counter, deliberately flexing a bicep as he grabbed the plate. "Gotta let the guns breathe, Dad," he retorted smoothly, his voice thick with sleep but playful. "Besides, Danny appreciates the view." He shot me a wink, utterly unselfconscious, before digging into his food. Shawn snorted, shaking his head, but his eyes held clear amusement as he refilled his coffee mug. Matt leaned against the counter beside me, hip casually brushing mine, radiating warmth and contentment.
The conversation drifted easily through the morning. Matt talked about his upcoming physio appointment, Shawn mentioned needing to restock the fridge for the week ahead – "Gotta hit the supermarket later, before the crowds descend," he announced, finishing his toast. We lingered over coffee refills, discussing rugby highlights Shawn had watched earlier, Matt teasing his dad about clinging to outdated tactics. The mood was warm, effortless. When Shawn finally pushed his plate forward, stretching his arms overhead until his knuckles brushed the ceiling, he declared, "Right. Time to wash off yesterday's sins." He nodded towards the sink. "Danny, toss those plates in while I grab a shower?"
Matt drained his orange juice and slapped my shoulder lightly. "I'm hitting the shower too, bubble butt. Don't be long." He padded out, leaving Shawn and me alone with the breakfast detritus. We worked quietly, him rinsing plates under hot water, me loading the dishwasher. The silence wasn't awkward; it felt companionable. Shawn chuckled softly, scrubbing dried egg off a spatula. "Never let my partner go showering without me," he mused, glancing sideways at me with playful eyes. "Course," he added meaningfully, "they knew better than to try." The implication hung in the steam-filled air.
I felt a flush creep up my neck. "Well," I offered, stacking a mug carefully, "I already got my pounding yesterday. Remember?" My voice was deliberately light, echoing his teasing tone. Shawn's bark of laughter filled the kitchen, deep and genuine. "Who'd have thought," he grinned, shaking his head, water droplets flying, "you'd change your attitude that quickly? From polite dinner guest to... well." His gaze swept over me, lingering just a fraction too long on my hips encased in soft grey sweats. "Adaptable."
We fell back into quiet rhythm, the clink of plates and the rush of water the only sounds. But the air felt charged, thick with unspoken acknowledgment. Shawn leaned against the counter beside me while I wiped down the surfaces, his proximity radiating warmth. I studied the worn cotton of his Henley stretching across his broad shoulders, the way his jeans hugged powerful thighs – details impossible to ignore. Loyalty to Matt was absolute, a bedrock. Yet observing Shawn, appreciating the sheer physicality he carried with such casual confidence... that felt like harmless admiration, a secret indulgence granted by the quiet intimacy of the shared chore. Watching wasn't forbidden, was it? His nearness, the low rumble of his breathing, the scent of soap and coffee clinging to him – it all coalesced into a strangely potent presence I couldn't quite look away from.
A week later found us sprawled on Matt’s bed, the drone of a cooking show filling the room while muffled laughter drifted up from Shawn’s backyard barbecue below. Six of his rugby mates roared over beers and charred burgers, their voices a bass rumble echoing through the open window. Matt scrolled on his phone beside me, one hand resting lazily on my hip beneath my thin t-shirt. "Bet Dad’s showing off his flipping technique again," he murmured, thumb grazing my skin. "Claims it seals in the juices." His grin turned wicked. "Wonder what he’d say seals in *your* juices?" His fingers dipped lower, teasing the waistband of my sweats. Heat flared instantly, pooling low in my belly. "Probably something about low and slow," I shot back, arching slightly into his touch.
His chuckle vibrated through me. "Low and slow… yeah." His gaze locked onto mine, suddenly intense. His hand slid firmly over my groin, palming the growing hardness beneath the fabric. "Feels like someone’s ready for the main course." The playful banter evaporated, replaced by raw, simmering tension. I pushed myself up onto my knees, swung a leg over his hips, and settled onto his lap. The thick ridge of his cock pressed insistently against me through both layers of cotton. We ground together, slow and deliberate, friction building deliciously. His hands clamped onto my ass, pulling me harder against him. "Fuck," he breathed against my lips, his voice thick. "You look so good like this. Wanna watch you choke on it." The dirty promise sent shivers down my spine. He didn’t kiss me; he just watched, eyes dark and hungry, waiting for me to break.
I slid down his body, settling between his sprawled legs. The view was breathtaking: thick thighs straining the grey sweatpants, the defined bulge tenting the fabric obscenely. I hooked my fingers into the waistband, pulling them down just enough. His cock sprang free, thick and heavy, already slick at the tip. "Look at you," I murmured, wrapping my hand around the base. "Always showing off." He flexed his bicep deliberately, the muscle bulging under my gaze. "You love it," he rasped, hips lifting slightly. "Love this cock." I leaned down, silencing any argument with the wet heat of my mouth enveloping him. His groan filled the room, deeper than any sound from the yard below. My focus narrowed to the weight on my tongue, the salty tang, the pulse beneath my lips. Arguing could wait. Right now, there was only the perfect stretch of my jaw and the solid heat filling it.
My tongue traced the thick vein running along the underside, flattening against the sensitive ridge of his crown with each slow withdrawal. Precome flooded my mouth – warm, thick, intensely salty – a familiar taste amplified by my focus. I worked myself deeper deliberately, swallowing around him, feeling the head bump the back of my throat. A low growl escaped Matt, his fingers tangling gently in my hair, guiding but not forcing. He knew I could take him deeper. He knew I would. The anticipation was its own thrill, the slight resistance yielding as I relaxed my throat, breathing sharply through my nose as I pushed forward. My chin touched the base, the entire heavy length buried deep. A ragged gasp escaped him, followed by a sharp, triumphant shout that echoed off the bedroom walls, louder than the barbecue rumble below. His head snapped back against the pillow, muscles corded in his neck, eyes squeezed shut in pure ecstasy. He held me there for a long, breathless moment, suspended in the deep, consuming pressure.
Slowly, I pulled back, dragging my lips along his shaft, teasingly slow. My tongue swirled lazily around the swollen head, tasting himself mixed with my spit. Drool slicked my chin, a messy badge of my dedication. I looked up at him, meeting his dark, hooded gaze. The sheer sloppiness was part of the ritual – the wet sounds, the shine on my lips, the damp patch spreading on my sweats where I knelt. Matt watched, transfixed, his chest heaving. "Fuck, Danny," he breathed, voice thick with awe and lust. "You look like such a greedy little whore." His thumb brushed the drool from my chin, smearing it slightly. Pride surged through me under his scrutiny. This *was* whoring myself out – for him. And he loved it, worshipped it, his gaze devouring the display.
"Go on," Matt exhaled, fingers tightening in my hair.
I lowered my head, relaxing my throat muscles deliberately, breathing sharply through my nose as I slid my lips down to the base in one smooth, practiced glide. Matt's moaned—a raw, guttural sound of pure ecstasy—as his head snapped back against the pillows, veins straining in his neck. For a long moment, I stayed there, locked deep, feeling the heavy pulse against my tongue, tasting the salt-musk mix of precome and my own spit coating the underside. Then, slowly, teasingly, I pulled back with agonizing slowness, dragging my tongue along his entire length, swirling it around the slick crown before plunging down again—deep, deliberate strokes that milked ragged groans from him each time my lips met his skin.
Drool slicked my chin, dripping onto the worn sheets between his thighs. I relished the wet sound of each plunge, the salty warmth flooding my mouth, the sheer sloppiness of it—chin glistening, lips swollen and slick. This was my worship, offering myself as his eager whore, and the fierce pride in Matt’s darkened gaze told me he adored every filthy second. "Fuck, look at you," he rasped, thumb tracing the mess on my jawline, voice thick with awe. "Perfect little slut." His praise washed over me, a wave of heat tightening low in my gut. "Finish it," he commanded hoarsely. "Let me paint that pretty face."
My rhythm intensified—deep, sucking pulls timed with the frantic pulse beneath my lips—until his fingers clenched in my hair, his hips lifting off the bed. With a sharp cry, he jerked forward, thick ropes of cum erupting hot across my forehead, cheeks, and chin. I pulled back just enough to watch, lips parted, letting the warm streaks splatter skin and eyelids, feeling it pool sticky on my lips. He gasped, shuddering, gaze locked on me—king of his own domain, muscles taut and gleaming, powerful thighs trembling beneath my resting hand.
Slowly, deliberately, I dragged my tongue across my upper lip, catching a thick dollop. The earthy-salt taste bloomed on my tongue as I met his heavy-lidded stare, licking slowly, obscenely, cleaning every streak while he watched, breath still ragged. A satisfied smirk tugged at his lips. "Good boy," he murmured, sinking back into the pillows, utterly spent, utterly worshipped. My heart hammered against my ribs—mission gloriously accomplished.
But Matt wasn't done. A great athlete and an even better lover, he understood the rhythm of pleasure didn't end at climax. While I savored the taste of him on my lips, he inched upward against the headboard, dragging me effortlessly with him until my head rest between his softening but still substantial cock and his powerful thigh. His scent—musky sweat and sex—filled my nostrils as he leaned over me, one hand already tugging at the waistband of my sweats. "Gotta finish you off, bubble butt," he murmured, fingers slipping beneath the fabric.
His spit-slicked thumb circled my entrance slowly, teasing the tender rim before pressing insistently inside. "Enjoy it," he commanded softly, my body practically locked between his thick thighs and torso.
The intimacy was overwhelming—his softening cock resting heavy against my temple, radiating warmth and musk, while his thick fingers worked me open with deliberate expertise. Every stroke sparked sharp pleasure mixed with soreness from last night, my hips grinding instinctively against the mattress beneath me. Trapped against the vast expanse of his body—the rough hair on his thighs brushing my cheek, the iron-hard muscles of his abdomen looming above—I felt utterly surrendered, pinned and pleasured.
My own neglected cock throbbed where it was pressed into the sheets, trapped beneath my weight and Matt’s control. I rutted against the friction helplessly as his fingers curled deeper, crooking just right to hit that spot. He watched my reaction intently, grinning as I gasped. "Right there, huh?" he murmured, adding a third finger, stretching me wider. His breath hitched when I moaned, hips bucking wildly as I came closer to my own release.
The dominance was intoxicating—his powerful thighs bracketing me, the sheer weight of him pinning me down, the possessive grip on my hip keeping me angled just so for his fingers. Every thrust pushed me harder into the mattress, grinding my trapped cock through the thin sweats. Pleasure coiled tighter, hotter, blending with the soreness until I was trembling. When release crashed over me, it ripped through me silently at first—a full-body shudder—then a choked gasp escaped as my hips jerked uncontrollably against the bed. Warmth flooded my groin, soaking the fabric as I pulsed against the sheets.
It felt great—his thick fingers stretching me open, my hips bucked helplessly, grinding my trapped cock into the sheets as I came, soaking my sweats in warm pulses. Matt watched with a low, satisfied groan, fingers still working me through the aftershocks, his softening cock heavy against my temple.
It was deliciously overwhelming for amoment, only for amoment— Then the door flew open with a sharp *crack* against the wall. Shawn stood frozen in the threshold, eyes wide, coffee mug dangling forgotten in his hand. His gaze swept over the scene: Matt looming shirtless above me, fingers buried deep inside me, my sweats dark with release, my ass arched obscenely high—exposed, marked, and trembling. Matt jerked upright with a furious, sleep-roughened snarl. "Daaaad!" he barked, yanking his hand free instantly, instinctively shielding my hips with his broad forearm.
Shawn blinked, flushing crimson. "Shit—sorry!" he stammered, voice thick with embarrassed disbelief. "Heard the TV... thought you were... clothes..." His words trailed off uselessly as he remained rooted, gaze flickering helplessly between Matt's furious glare and the undeniable wreckage of me sprawled beneath him. I kept my face buried in the sheets, burning with humiliation, acutely aware of every inch of my exposed backside gleaming under the overhead light—the exact view Shawn had gotten.
Matt didn't move his protective arm. "It's fine," he growled, voice tight with annoyance. "Just fucking turn around and let us get dressed instead of talking and watching longer!" Shawn swallowed hard, muttering "Yeah, of course," before spinning abruptly, shoulders stiff. He paused for a fraction of a second, hand hovering on the doorknob—a low, choked sound escaped him, part amusement, part shame—before he pulled the door shut firmly behind him. The latch clicked, sealing us back into the stunned silence.
A shaky breath escaped me. "Well," Matt said flatly above me, finally withdrawing his shielding arm. "That was... something." He shifted, his gaze dropping to my trembling form. "Now he knows why I love you so much,"
I didn't find it funny. "Matt," I hissed, scrambling to pull my sweats up, desperate to cover myself. "Let go of me! Before he walks back in and sees me utterly *at* his mercy again." My cheeks burned hotter than the sun.
Matt chuckled, low and unrepentant, tugging his own sweats straight. "Come on, bubble butt, it wasn't that bad. Let the old man have a view. Consider it charity." He leaned down, planting a quick kiss on my flushed cheek. "He's probably halfway through his coffee already."
I had to smile, despite the mortification twisting my gut. His dad wasn't old – late thirties, solid as an oak – and Shawn could definitely see some fine pieces if he wanted. "He saw everything," I muttered, pulling my shirt down fiercely. "Fine pieces included."
Matt grinned, wolfish and possessive. "Only mine," he declared, tossing me a discarded t-shirt. "He can come in!" he bellowed towards the door as we finished dressing, fingers brushing mine briefly.
The knob turned slowly. Shawn stood framed there, grinning broadly, cheeks still flushed crimson but eyes sparkling with amusement. "Sorry about... barging in," he rumbled, deliberately avoiding glancing towards the bed where I was burrowed under the duvet.
He leaned casually against the doorframe. "Just wanted to say," he chuckled, shaking his head, "the burgers are burning. Figured you two might need reminding... since you seemed *busy*." His tone was light, genuinely funny, dissolving the last shreds of awkward tension clinging to the air.
"Right," Matt snorted, pulling on a fresh shirt. "Wouldn't want the main course ruined." He shot a wink towards my mound of blankets. "Danny's just finishing dessert cleanup." Shawn's bark of laughter echoed warmly as he pushed off the frame. "Well, hurry it up, Hercules. Meat waits for no man—or enthusiastic throat." The easy crudeness, delivered with pure amusement, instantly dissolved any lingering shame curling under my ribs. Shawn’s grin stayed wide and unashamed, radiating genuine humour about the whole absurdity of it—making the awkwardness evaporate for me too.
He turned to leave, tossing over his shoulder, "And Danny? Grab a shower before you come down. You've got..." He gestured vaguely towards his own face, chuckling. "...a little something-something." Matt chuckled beside me, rummaging for socks. "Subtle, Dad." Shawn paused at the top of the stairs. "Subtlety wasn't on the menu this morning, son," he retorted, his voice thick with laughter. "Just charred protein. Move it!" His footsteps thudded heavily down the stairs, leaving behind the faint, comforting smell of woodsmoke and barbecue sauce.
I finally emerged from the warm cave of the duvet, face still flushed but smiling faintly. Matt tossed me a damp washcloth he’d snagged from the ensuite. "Here," he murmured, leaning close, "quick fix."
I didn't take it. Just shoved it back at him. "I need a whole shower," I muttered firmly, already heading towards the hallway bathroom Matt’s room shared with Shawn's study. "Not a cloth." I paused at the doorframe, turning back to face him, stung by the lingering humiliation. "And you owe me something," I added sharply, "for letting him walk in again without reminding me I had *cum* all over my face."
Matt just grinned, leaning against his dresser, arms folded over his chest like a smug statue. "Relax, bubble butt," he chuckled, his eyes dancing with amusement. "It was just a joke. Dad's seen worse."
"*You're* a joke," I shot back, salty and clipped. He took it light, shrugging one powerful shoulder, but his grin widened into something predatory. "Fine," he murmured, low and promising. "I'll let you suck it more later."
I didn't turn. Just flipped him my middle finger over my shoulder, feeling the heat climb my neck again, and pushed open the bathroom door. The click of the lock echoed satisfyingly in the sudden quiet, sealing me away from his infuriating charm.
Under the hot spray, I scrubbed fiercely—soap biting into tender skin, washing away the sticky evidence plastered across my forehead and chin. Water sluiced down, mingling with the remnants of Matt's release swirling at my feet. Each droplet felt like absolution. Outside, muffled voices drifted up—Shawn's deep rumble, Matt's answering laugh, the clatter of plates downstairs. Normal sounds. Life moving on. Yet the echo of Shawn’s choked gasp, his wide-eyed stare frozen in the doorway, lingered beneath the steam. My skin prickled, not entirely from the heat.
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