Copyright by Marathon Brad, 2026. Permission given to GayDemon to reprint this story. It may not be copied to another website without prior approval from the author.
May you continue to enjoy my latest story, The Chosen Jock: Office Boy
After a restful ten-hour sleep, I was down in the lobby with the outfits Mike had suggested I bring for an impromptu trip to his tailor. I was told that the Saturday morning outside air in Sydney would be crisp, with a cool coastal breeze coming off the Pacific Ocean. I felt a low, buzzing charge in my stomach—part nerves, part excitement as Mike had wanted to get me properly fitted for a few pieces of clothing to wear in the office. Maybe I’d be getting a company suit jacket or something custom-made for the role, as well? Honestly, I didn’t ask many questions. I was just grateful to be getting taken care of.
Mike had told me to wear something light to the tailor, and I did exactly what he said. He wanted me in my branded Milk Me Company’s white athletic performance shirt—a clingy, sleeveless top that was form fitted and showed off the outline of my pecs and abs. Below, I wore an ultra-tight pair of royal purple compression workout shorts. No underwear. I was nervous but wanted to please Mike. I pulled a university wrestling cap over my damp hair, trying to calm myself. I looked like a proud, freshly-graduated college athlete possibly being groomed for something bigger.
The glass doors of my new building—the towering, modern high-rise near Hyde Park where Mike had placed me—reflected the early morning sunlight as I stepped out. The place felt elite, the kind of space only top-tier athletes or media favorites might call home. I had been told the building housed executives, performers, and a few standout young professionals like me. That thought alone gave me a quiet thrill.
Before we left, Jai—the building’s concierge—had texted Mike to let him know that he was helping another resident that morning and would not be able to join us for the fitting. Mike had asked Jai to help make me feel comfortable with the choice of clothing that I would need in and out of the office. However, Mike didn’t seem concerned—just said Charles could help get Jai caught up later.
Another gentleman who had been helping me settle into my new life in Sydney was Heath, the company’s driver. He always looked sharp in his crisp dress shirts and slim-cut slacks, when he was around with me. Our destination that morning was just a few blocks away, near Town Hall Square, tucked into a narrow alley off Kent Street. Because of the limited parking near the tailor’s shop, Heath said he would stay with the car while Mike and I went inside.
Outside the tailor shop hung a discreet black-and-gold sign above the door, almost hidden from the street. A bell rang softly as we entered, and I was immediately hit by the clean scent of new fabric, leather chairs, and subtle cologne.
The shop was stylish—old-world masculine charm with dark polished floors, mirrored walls, and warm oak cabinets displaying silks, buttons, and fine tailoring tools. Along one wall were rugby ribbons, a trophy case, and a faded team photo of shirtless men in tight rugby uniform shorts with wild smirks—young versions of the tailor and his teammates I was told by Mike.
Charles appeared from behind a velvet curtain, the sole occupant. He was definitely an attractive, athletic Black tailor in his mid-40s with a clean-shaven head, handsome masculine features, and piercing eyes. His tight white shirt hugged his wide chest and thick biceps, and the fabric strained slightly around his shoulders. His fitted navy trousers showed off powerful thighs, and the way he moved revealed a quiet confidence, like someone used to being admired. You could see the shadow of his rugby days in the way he stood—legs slightly apart, chest forward, like a man who could easily hold control on the field.
“Michael, you look well,” Charles said with a smooth Australian accent as the two men embraced.
“Always better when I bring you fresh talent,” Mike replied, pointing to me. “This is Brad.”
Charles slowly looked me over. “Damn. Mike, you have outdone yourself. Where did you uncover this standout?”
“Damian found him. Just graduated from college in the States last month,” Mike said. “Brad was a college wrestler—one of the best.”
The tailor’s eyebrows lifted with interest. "A wrestler, huh? That explains those powerful thighs. I am an athlete too, Brad—I used to play professional rugby until my knees finally gave out." He looked me over with an expressive smile. "Wrestlers and rugby men... we both live by strength and control. It’s all about endurance, drive, and knowing how to move your body." He turned to Mike. "You thinking about putting him on the Milk Me Company’s rugby team?"
“That’s the plan,” Mike replied casually.
Charles let out a low breath. “Damn. If I had a team full of boys like this back in my day, we’d have taken every cup—and turned a lot of heads every time we walked out of a locker room.”
He took a step closer, examining me like a prized athlete on display, his eyes tracing every curve of my body. “I can’t wait to see how his fit, athletic physique measures up.”
Mike and Charles kept speaking like I wasn’t standing right there, which somehow made me stand even more tall. I felt like a trophy being presented to judges. I mean, I didn’t totally understand why a tailor needed so many details, but maybe that was just how things were done at a corporation like the Milk Me Company. Everything here seemed more distinguished. More elite.
I noticed several small cameras were embedded in the room’s corners—one just above the fitting box, another tucked into a mirror frame, and two more near the ceiling molding. They blinked on silently, appearing to capture everything.
Mike handed over the clothing pieces I had brought. Charles glanced at the them—tight slacks, fitted dress shirts, two jocks, and a transparent mesh tank top.
“The usual fit?” Charles asked.
“Make it extra precise,” Mike answered.
Charles nodded and patted the small raised platform in the center of the shop. “Up here, please.”
I stepped onto the wooden box, about a foot high. The bright spot lights were direct and very warm. Mike eased back onto a leather sofa, positioned with a clear view only a few feet from the front side of the fitting platform. Charles stepped in, starting with my chest and shoulders. The tape slid around my upper body, his knuckles grazing my skin. His touch began professional—but just barely. There was something lingering in each contact, an extra second here, a firmer press there.
“Raise your arms behind your head,” he said gently.
I did as I was asked. My biceps flexed naturally, lifting high to reveal my underarms in my sleeveless shirt—clean, smooth, and just lightly damp from the heat of the lights. My trimmed hair was dark and tidy, the kind of detail Coach Franco used to obsess over during weigh-ins. I had kept the habit. Something about it made me feel ready—focused. Charles paused, watching the rise and fall of my chest. I could feel the exposure—the way his eyes lingered. It wasn’t just a tailor’s evaluation. It appeared to be a bit more desire.
Charles slowly circled me, dragging the tape over my waist, hips, and thighs. Every press of the tape felt more like a caress. When he reached my ass, his fingers brushed the seams of my tight shorts, tapping and then slipping inside the waist band. "Let’s get these off and switch into one of the jocks," he said smoothly.
I stepped down and slowly peeled off my shirt and shorts, folding them neatly and setting them aside. Standing stark-naked, Charles appeared to take his time handing me the cherry red jock from the set Mike had brought. I carefully slid it up my legs, the elastic snapping into place. The jock cupped me tightly, straps hugging under my glutes, lifting everything. I felt even more exposed, more presented. I stood there—muscles gleaming under the shop lights, my bare ass on full display.
When I climbed back onto the platform, I was fully positioned—an athlete in peak condition, standing tall. Charles moved around me, slower this time. His fingertips once more traced the lines of my lower back, the deep curves of my glutes, the muscle along my thighs. He stopped behind me, close enough that I could feel his breath across my shoulders.
“Brad, you have the kind of body that turns heads and stops conversations,” he said softly. "This isn't just a wrestler’s build—this is art. And every inch of your physique deserves to be shown off."
I swallowed hard. I was used to being stared at during my wrestling weigh-ins, even flexing in locker room mirrors, but this was different. Intimate. Worshipful. I didn’t move.
Charles resumed his measuring. But it didn’t feel like measuring anymore. His touch slowed, very delayed now. He pressed one hand to my abs and the other against my lower back, holding me steady as his fingertips skimmed the waistband of my jock.
Mike leaned forward slightly. “Let’s see how the jock moves on him. Brad, turn to the side. Flex your arms.”
I turned, raising both arms slightly as if mid-pose.
“Good. Now face the front again. Feet apart. Show us those thighs,” Mike said.
Charles stepped in with the tape, pulling it around my waist, then down the front to measure the tight pouch of the jock. “Hold still,” he said. His hands brushed against the outline of my hardening cock, fingertips pressing lightly. “Now turn around and bend over, Brad. Touch your toes.”
I turned and face away from Mike, slowly bending down, stretching my hamstrings and glutes. I could only imagine what they were seeing behind me. The jock strap pulled tight across the base of my cheeks, lifting them into a perfect view for the older men as I felt their eyes on my moist soft pink hole.
Charles ran the tape along my spine, then down each thigh. His hand rested briefly on my lower back, firm and admiring. “Damn,” he said softly. “This is how a jockstrap should look. It doesn’t just hold—it frames.”
He knelt to measure the curve of each glute, tracing the tape across the strap’s path. His fingers brushed softly across my hole, slipping beneath the elastic, adjusting for fit. I heard Mike exhaled slowly from his seat.
“Perfection,” Charles added. “He’s going to turn heads in your company’s office—and everywhere else.”
“Brad, do you know what you are?” he whispered in awe. “You are the dream every coach, every teammate, every admirer wishes walked into their life. A beautiful, trained champion—willing to be shaped, praised, admired.”
I trembled slightly at the intensity of his words as my cock throbbed inside the pouch of the jock.
Charles moved even closer. His hand slid, curving my glutes, lifting, pressing, admiring. “So, round. So, firm,” the tailor said as he continued to compliment my body.
Once more, his fingertips grazed my hole. I didn’t flinch—I was already too far gone. My pulse surged, but I held my position.
“No wonder Mike brought you to me," Charles whispered. "Stand up and slowly turn to face your new boss, again."
Charles stepped back and looked at me, arms crossed.
I did as he asked, pivoting on the platform, every muscle engaged, my fully hard leaking cock outlined beneath the thin red fabric.
He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “Fuck. You’re perfect.”
The beautiful athletic tailor walked to a mirror and pulled it toward me so I could see myself reflected—posing, glowing, displayed.
“I want you to remember this version of yourself,” he said. “Because this is just the beginning.”
Behind Charles, Mike stayed seated on the leather sofa, one ankle resting on the opposite knee. He hadn’t said anything for a while, just quietly watching. I could feel his eyes on me—studying how I moved, how the jock held me. His gaze wasn’t judgmental; I believe it held a quiet pride. Like maybe he saw something he had helped create. I realized then: that possibly this wasn’t just about fit or tailoring. Mike maybe had brought me here to be admired. That thought humbled me. I stood a little taller. I continued to want to make Mike satisfied.
Charles stood there, arms crossed, staring at me as if I were something more than a boy in a jockstrap. Slowly, he stepped forward, placing a hand on my abs. "Let’s take the jock off now," he said.
My fingers moved without thinking. I slipped the jock down my legs, stepping out of it completely. The moment the fabric cleared my cock, my erection sprang upward, fully hard. Charles’s eyes locked on it, and for a long moment, he just stared—mesmerized by the way the veins curved, the way the leaking head flushed a soft pink. I was stark-naked, fully exposed, yet again.
“Beautiful,” he whispered, reaching out to stroke my erection gently. His fingers circled the head, coaxing a clear bead of precum from the tip. “You were made for this. Just look at you.”
He let his hand linger, thumbing the crown of my cock with practiced ease, then slowly lifting the measuring tape again. “Still need a few final measurements,” he said with a wink. He circled me slowly, dragging the tape across my chest, down my ribs, and behind my back, as if still pretending this was all routine.
“Raise your arms once more,” he asked, and I did, flexing slightly, my cock jutting forward as I stood completely nude under the bright spotlights.
Charles then moved behind me crouching to bring his face level with my glutes. He brushed the tape along the curves of my completely exposed bubble butt and thighs, stopping occasionally to stroke a line or press a hand to my skin. “Every inch of you tells a story,” He whispered, fingers slipping from tape to skin without apology. “Discipline. Strength. Beauty.”
Mike smirked as Charles leaned in closer, inhaling deeply and breathing me in. "You smell like morning freshness," Charles said. "Like a young man who knows how to make an impression and push his limits."
“Damn,” he added.
In front of me, Mike eyes were heavy, focused. This wasn’t about business anymore. It was about something else—something deeply physical.
Charles stepped onto the back of the platform and his muscular chest brushed my shoulder blades. One hand cupped my bubble butt while the other reached around me and stroked my cock, like it deserved to be praised.
At this moment, Mike leaned forward slightly. From his pants pocket, he pulled out a small white bundle. “I figured this might suit the moment,” he said. “You remember what you wore at that pool party fundraiser in Philly? Coach Franco said it turned quite a few heads.”
He held out a very tiny, white, transparent matching G-string and bow tie. My heart pounded.
“I would like to see you model this for us,” Mike said.
I hesitated at first, but stepped down from the platform and slowly pulled the G-string up my legs. It clung to me instantly, the paper-thin fabric, the pouch barely containing me. My hard wet cock pointed upward, the head easily poking out above the waistband. The back thin string disappeared between my ass cheeks, nestled deep between the two mounds of my wrestler’s butt.
Mike stood and adjusted the bow tie around my neck. Charles watched in still silence and full of interest.
“Go on. Walk around and show us how it looks on you, Brad,” Mike said, his voice low and deliberate.
I turned slowly and began to move barefoot about the room. Every step caused the string to shift deeper between my cheeks, my cock bobbing as it strained forward. The mirrors caught every angle—my tanned back, the roundness of my glutes, the teasing stretch of the fabric. It was a slow reveal, like I was presenting myself for their private pleasure… and for the cameras as they blinked red.
“Wow,” Charles muttered, eyes glued to me. “That’s G-string is something else.”
After a slow walk, he encouraged me to step back onto the platform.
Charles moved closer. His fingers trailed the side of my thigh, then slid under the tiny strap of the G-string.
“You don’t even need any more clothes,” he said. “You could model like this forever.”
He then crouched again, face behind me, and pulled the back string aside. He spread my bubble butt cheeks gently, his breath warm against my skin. His tongue touched me—soft, deliberate. I gasped and arched my back slightly as if I was inviting Charles to pleasure my hole. I couldn’t believe what was happening—but I stayed perfectly still, open for more.
After a few minutes, Charles stood and led me off the platform, encouraging me to bend forward to steadying my hands on Mike’s thighs. The tailor then moved behind me once more, licking me slower this time, his strong hands keeping me in place.
It was intimate. Wet. Deep.
He rimmed me with focus and care, teasing me open with each stroke of his tongue, occasionally moaning low in his throat as he continued to taste me. My whole body trembled.
Mike’s fingers now trailed up and down my sides, stroking my skin in slow, soothing lines. “You are being a good boy,” Mike said.
Charles moved his entire body closer to my hole, tongue working me hard in circles before dipping in deeper, pressing just enough to make me cry out. His hands roamed my glutes and thighs, his admiration evident in every touch, every sigh.
He paused, lifting his head slightly. "Your soft pink hole is perfect," he said. "Like it was made to be worshiped."
I blushed at the praise.
From a drawer nearby, Charles reached in and retrieved a little brown bottle. He unscrewed the cap and held it up for me.
“Baby, inhale from this bottle as long as you can.”
I did as I was told, still naive to how the scent from that little brown bottle would work its way through me. However, something did surge inside of me, loosening everything. My body softened, my hole giving in. I moaned softly as my face came to rest gently against Mike’s thigh, warm and obedient.
I continued to feel the wetness of Charles’s mouth as he moved behind me; the skills he used as he made love to that most hidden part of me with his tongue. Only when my knees began to shake did Charles suddenly stop and rise.
Mike leaned forward slightly. "Your turn, Brad. Show Charles how grateful you are. Let Charles feel how much you appreciate his rimming."
I nodded and dropped to my knees in front of Charles, his trousers already unzipped. I reached up and eased them down so he could step out. He wore no underwear. His thick, dark cock sprang free—already hard. I paused, taking in the scent of him. Then I leaned forward and wrapped my lips around his cock.
His cock was huge. I had to pace myself. My tongue explored the underside, tracing the veins. I wrapped one hand around the base while my mouth worked the shaft. I looked up. Charles was watching me with focused eyes, hand resting on the back of my head.
“Good lad,” he whispered. “Just like that.”
I adjusted, letting more of him slide in. My lips stretched, my throat opened. I bobbed my head slowly, the wet sound of my mouth filling the quiet shop. I reached lower, cupping his heavy balls, licking them. Charles exhaled deeply, his hand tightening gently in my hair.
Mike shifted in his seat. "That’s my boy."
Charles gripped the sides of my face. He let out a breath, then gently pulled his cock from my mouth, admiring the slick trail of spit clinging to it. I licked the head once more and looked up at him, silently asking if I should keep going.
“Oh, mate,” he said softly. “You’ve got a talented mouth.” I held still for a moment, my lips just brushing the head of his cock, unsure if I was meant to continue or wait. Something from that little brown bottle lingered in my system—I felt it warming me. My body buzzed—maybe from arousal, or maybe from the way both men were quietly watching me. Slowly, I let my tongue swirl around his shaft again, then dipped down to cradle and lick his balls, feeling the weight of them against my chin. Charles’s breath grew deeper, his hands now stroking the sides of my head, guiding me.
Mike’s voice could be heard from behind me. “Keep going, Brad.”
I opened wider, pressing deeper this time. My throat relaxed, accepting more of the tailor’s thick length as I moved with slow, practiced rhythm. My jaw ached slightly, but I didn’t stop. I wanted to give him everything that I could.
Charles let out a deep breath, hand tightening in my hair. “You’re going to make me cum, boy.”
Therefore, with a final flick of my tongue, I let his cock pop from my mouth, saliva trailing. I looked up at him, lips parted. And I stopped.
Charles help lift me off my knees and moved me back to leaning onto Mike’s spread-out thighs. I then felt Charles big, thick, wet cock pressed against me.
Mike shifted closer and asked, “Are you ready to be fucked my gorgeous office boy?”
I slowly nodded my head.
Charles didn’t enter immediately. He paused, brushing his hand across my lower back and over my strong glutes again. “Brad,” he said, glancing at Mike, “he’s incredible. His thighs… his back… his strength—you can feel the years of training in every inch.”
Mike nodded, his voice steady. “He’s a product of dedication. Discipline. Wrestling made him into this.”
Both men continued to move their hands along my frame—Mike's hand tracing the contour of my biceps, Charles gripping my hips like they were sculpted for this moment. The two handsome men were admiring me.
“This is the kind of body men fantasize about,” Charles said quietly as he raised his little brown bottle up to my face to inhale from again. “Here, Golden Boy. Inhale some more of this.” He held the bottle for about 15 seconds under each of my nostrils. I became woozier.
Charles stepped back behind me. One hand placed on my waist, the other on my hip. Then, with a steady, deliberate push, the thick head of his black cock pressed against my hole as Mike reach around my ass cheeks and moved the back string out of the way.
I moaned softly.
“Breathe,” Mike whispered, his hands now gently massaging my pecs, circling my nipples.
I exhaled, relaxing, and Charles began to push in.
My knees trembled. He was big. The stretch was intense, but slow, careful. My hands gripped Mike’s thighs tighter as Charles filled me, inch by inch, until he bottomed out inside me.
"So damn tight," Charles said, voice hoarse. "Perfect."
He began to move—long, deep strokes that rocked my body with each thrust as he fucked me. Mike kept rubbing my nipples, circling them slowly, never looking away from my face.
The tailor’s pace was slow. There was no rush. His movements were purposeful, appreciative, like he was savoring every second. His hands roamed over my lower back, my hips, his fingers gripping the firm muscle of my thighs.
As Charles moved, I kept glancing at Mike’s handsome face—his attractive rugged jaw, salt-and-pepper hair, the elegant strength in the way he sat, controlling the scene without ever raising his voice. He looked like a man who could own a room—or an office boy like me—with just a look of lust.
Charles whispered behind me, “You have the kind of body I haven’t touched in years. A real athlete. Built. Beautiful.”
I gasped, gripping Mike’s thick thighs tighter, my fingers digging into the muscle for support as I leaned deeper into his lap, my legs continuing to tremble. Mike shifted beneath me, sliding closer to the edge of the sofa to let me settle more fully against him. He spread his legs wider, steadying me, giving me more room to stay open while Charles continued to fuck me from behind. Mike palmed the back of my head, firm but gentle. He pulled me forward until my facial cheek pressed against his upper chest, just beneath his collarbone. His skin was warm against my face, the scent of his body—a mix of clean cotton, sweat, and quiet authority—filling my senses. I breathed him in as his hand stayed there, holding me close.
Charles adjusted his angle—just slightly—but the effect was overwhelming. He struck something deep inside me, and my whole body reacted, clenching hard around his powerful cock. I held steady between both men—surrounded, filled, safe. I was nothing but an open, obedient boy toy.
Then Mike’s voice came low—steady, masculine, and sure, meant for Charles just as much as me.
“You feel that grip?” Mike murmured, his palm still at the back of my head. “That’s my boy. Don’t rush, Charles. Take your time with him. Just feel how perfect he is.”
Mike’s voice was low. “You were made for this, Brad. For us.”
At that moment, we heard the shop’s door jingle.
We didn’t stop.
A mail carrier stepped inside. His name tag read Blake.
He paused the moment he saw us—his sharp, dark eyes locking onto my bent, exposed body. I saw him clearly in the mirror, standing in the doorway, watching me being fucked. He looked to be in his early 30s, almost six feet tall, with a body sculpted from pure functional power—like a professional swimmer or beach lifeguard. His shoulders were broad and his chest filled out the front of his navy uniform shirt, firm and tight, packed with smooth, powerful muscle built for performance. Thick biceps stretched the sleeves, and the seams along his sides clung to the narrow taper of a powerful core.
His thighs bulged against the fitted pants, solid with the likely years of training in the water and gym. You could see it—he appeared to be the type that might live in speedos, the kind that left nothing hidden, surely turning heads every time he would step out of the water.
The mail carrier’s tanned skin caught the warm light in the doorway, glowing golden. A clean beard hugged his strong jaw, and his dark hair was trimmed close—neat, low-maintenance, masculine. His eyes moved slowly over my body, taking in the scene—me, split wide open, panting, sweating, dripping with Charles inside me.
Then his slow grin formed. Confident. A little amused.
“Well, damn,” he said, voice deep and relaxed. “Now this is a delivery I didn’t expect.”
Charles didn’t stop. His hips kept rolling into me with calm, determined power.
Blake stepped forward with the ease of a man who knew he belonged. “You are absolutely stunning, young man. That ass… those legs… unreal.”
Then he turned to Mike. “Is he an athlete?” Blake asked, running his hand slowly over my thigh. “These legs are something else.”
Mike gave a knowing smile, his voice low and proud. “College wrestler. That’s definitely a jock’s body—tight, powerful, perfectly trained.”
Blake let out a soft whistle. “Well, fuck. That explains the grip. And that bubble butt.”
Then he looked to Charles. “Is he yours?”
Charles grunted behind me. “He’s Mike’s,” he said with pride. “Office boy from the States.”
Blake’s eyebrows lifted. “Damn.”
He moved in closer, nudging Mike just slightly to the side on the sofa. Mike shifted without protest, his hand still warm on my ribs. I was breathing hard, my whole body alive with heat and exposure.
Blake leaned forward beside me, voice casual but amused. “Damn. You’re really letting them go to work on you.”
I turned my head slightly, unsure if he was teasing or impressed. “Everything’s kind of a blur right now,” I murmured, my voice shaky.
Blake smiled—calm, certain.
“Just keep doing what you’re doing,” he said, eyes on my body. “You’re putting on quite a show.”
He traced his fingers along the line of my back, down to the curve of my glutes, then paused.
I nodded, my breath catching.
“Yeah, you are,” he said, his voice low and smooth.
“An all-American golden boy. Wrestling toy. All muscle, all manners… made to be used.”
Then his voice dropped again, teasing. “Mind if I capture this?”
Charles grunted behind me. “Just stay out of the way.”
Blake pulled out his phone and began filming. I heard the soft tap of the screen as the camera opened. The lens angled directly toward me—my stretched hole swallowing Charles, my trembling thighs, the sweat on my back, my face flushed.
I shivered. Not sure if I wanted Blake to see me and to be captured like this. Completely theirs.
Then I felt Blake’s hand slip beneath me—warm fingers wrapping around my cock that barely was contained in the tiny loose pouch of the G-string, fully soaked in precum. He milked me slowly downward, deliberately, fingertips teasing my sensitive cock’s head, fabric easily being pushed to the side.
“You are leaking like a broken faucet,” he murmured, still filming. “Guess I am better at stroking than delivering.”
I whimpered into Mike’s chest, arching helplessly as Blake’s expert strokes worked my cock and Charles’s thrusts grew more intense. The pressure was unbearable.
Blake grabbed the little brown bottle that was sitting on the platform behind Charles.
“Inhale,” he said.
I did.
Charles was panting now. Watching Blake milk me, I believed Blake’s stroking made him fuck me harder—deeper. “You like being filmed, don’t you?” Blake muttered. “Like being the little show pony?”
I could barely answer. My hips jerked forward, trapped between Mike’s chest and Blake’s hand. Then it happened—my whole body seized as my hard cock shot my white cum hard across Mike’s lap, muscles locking, spurting over Blake’s fingers and Mike’s trousers.
“Fuck,” Blake groaned, still milking me through it. “You came like a pro.”
Quickly after, the mail carrier stood, tucking his phone into his pocket, licking the slick off his fingers. “Now that’s a five-star delivery,” he said with a wink. “Catch you around, golden boy.” He gave my bubble butt a final appreciative squeeze. "Told the lawyer I’d get this package to him this morning," he said with a wink. Then, just as abruptly as he’d entered, Blake turned and left, the door jingling behind him.
I was still gasping, my body spent—but Charles wasn’t finished.
He groaned low, gripping my hips tighter as he drove forward hard, fucking me deep through the aftershocks. “Fucking hell, you’re perfect,” he murmured roughly.
His thrusts lost their rhythm—grew more urgent. One final plunge, and he buried himself completely, letting out a deep moan as he filled me, thick, deep and hot. I shuddered, overwhelmed by the fullness.
We stayed there like that—me bent, dripping, breathing hard—Charles still inside me.
When he pulled out, he ran his hand gently up my back, brushing away the sweat that had fallen from my hair onto my neck.
From the front, Mike wrapped both arms around my waist, pulling me completely into his lap. I collapsed against him. His hand moved over my chest, fingers stroking softly across my nipple.
“You did well, Brad," he softly said. "So damn well.”
I nodded weakly. My chest rose and fell in shallow breaths.
He didn’t have to say another word. The way he held me said it all—tight, possessive, proud.
I was his Chosen Jock.
My email address is [email protected]
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I also love making men horny whether watching me workout in my skin tight gear at the gym, showing off on line, dancing on a stage or reading my erotic stories.
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