Chapter 1: The Uninvited Guest
The kitchen noise grated on Sam. Metallic scraping. Cabinets slamming, spoons clattering in bowls. Teenage boys' voices—loud and pointless. Sam had stripped his life to the bare essentials—people included. He expected his environment to match: Orderly. Quiet. His.
It wasn’t Junior making the racket. Sam’s son was a quiet scavenger in the mornings, a shadow in his own home. Always had been. No, this was Jake.
Sam had noticed Jake’s scuffed sneakers by the front door when he got home the night before. The first sign the kid was back for another overnight. The first time, months ago, Junior had sounded casual about it: “He’s crashing here. Step-dad’s on a bender. It’s bad.”
Sam had only asked where Jake would sleep. Junior shrugged—“We can share my bed. It’s just one night.” Like it was no big deal.
Sam got up, ran a hand through his wild, blond cockscomb of hair, glanced at the mirror. Forty, still handsome. Strong jaw. Clear eyes. His chest was dusted in gold-and-wheat hair, his muscles earned. Built over years. Other men let themselves go. Not Sam. He lived with discipline, and it showed.
Because there was company, he pulled on pajama bottoms. Most mornings it was just boxers, unless it was cold. He passed the free weights, lined up by the window of what most would call a dining room. He lifted where he liked, decorated for no one but himself. No frills. No junk. No obligations.
The kitchen clatter rose again—boys' laughter, over nonsense. Junior hovered by the counter, all straight lines and shadows. He had his mother’s posture. His appeal was more elusive than Sam’s obvious good looks. But he did catch glimpses of himself—the nose, the eyebrows—but none of Sam’s practicality. The kid lived in his head—an artist, always off in some fantasy world.
Maybe that’s why he was so ill-equipped for the real one.
Jake perched on a stool, knees up, in a borrowed shirt and briefs, shoveling cereal. Not tall, but athletic—subtle curves of muscle in his arms, definition in his neck and jaw. Confidence in the way he moved. As a man who took care of his own body, Sam had to admire it, despite everything.
It wasn’t just age—Jake was a few months older than Junior, who’d just turned eighteen— a head start on adulthood.
The difference was in the DNA.
A strange match for Junior, so contrary to his tightly-wound nature. But that’s what he gravitated to. Sam saw it every time his son’s eyes softened at whatever detail Jake offered. The longing was plain: the way Junior watched Jake’s biceps flex, the way he leaned in, waiting for a glance back. Hoping to be noticed.
Sam, an avowed narcissist (and who could blame him?), sometimes wondered if Junior’s fixation was really about Jake— or about how Jake echoed Sam’s own blond good looks, his athleticism, the way he moved through the world.
Jake didn’t seem to notice. Ate cereal by the boxful, grunted answers, friendly but blind to Junior’s mooning.
Poor kid, Sam thought, watching his own son’s softness. Junior never did see what was right in front of him.
How would he ever make it?
Chapter 2: The Calculated Trade-Off
Sam poured himself a cup of black coffee—no sugar, no cream. Nothing unnecessary.
That was the beauty of this life: single father, no wife around to clutter the house. He hadn’t chosen it, not really, but he protected that freedom now that he had it. Staked a claim on every quiet inch.
Junior’s mother hadn’t lasted long. He remembered her standing at the ironing board, shaking her head over a crisp pair of underwear—“He wants these pressed. His underwear, can you believe it?” Her voice carried, tallying her grievances to Junior, even though he was just a toddler.
Sam never saw the big deal. Wasn’t that marriage? He worked the woodshop, she managed the house, mothered the kid.
She wasn’t even his type—reserved, dark, but of good stock, a safe bet for a wife, which meant likely to be a virgin. He confirmed that before the wedding. Held himself back—more or less—until they traded vows. Then he tamped down his old habits.
Maybe she was too young to know what she was signing up for, or was too eager to get out of her parents’ troubled home.
When she left, Sam didn’t crumble. He tossed her pillows, boxed up scented soaps he hated—smelled like sugar and lilies and made his skin itch. The house got lighter by the day. Dinner shrank to steak and greens; no desserts, no forced small talk at a family table—just a plate, your hands, something on TV. Sentiment faded out with the clutter.
And he had Junior out of it—his one real heir. He made damn sure of that, watched the timing, checked the blood type at birth, never trusted any woman fully. Too many saps raised another man’s child, carrying on with their heads in the sand. He’d be damned if he’d be one of them.
Junior was too tentative, too cautious for Sam’s taste. Always watching, waiting, running through options in his quiet head. But there was potential there, thanks to Sam’s DNA—a certain shrewdness, buried in his silences that Sam recognized as his own.
Life was cleaner, just the two of them. Days in parallel, not intersecting but not interfering, either.
The only thing missing was sex. Sam used to pull women like a magnet. Half the available women in town, and a few he’d had no business touching too. He liked them young and blonde, but he wasn’t picky when the need was bad.
When the local pool grew thin, he hit dive bars in the next county, for the low hanging fruit. The pattern was always the same—a few days or so of fucking like they were in heat. Then a few questions about his schedule, and then ideas about a dresser drawer, maybe something more. And they’d be done.
“This isn’t a life, it’s a bachelor pad,” one said as he showed her to the door, still half-dressed and threw the other half out after her.
Sometimes they’d pass Junior at the table, ask about his comic book drawings. Kid never looked up. He knew what was what.
Then it was just the two of them again. Sam would crack a joke, but Junior stewed, his thin shoulders hunched over his drawings. “Please, just wear a condom, Dad,” he said once, not even looking up. “I don’t need some bastard of yours turning up to share my bedroom.”
Sam had to laugh—he might have fathered a town of flax-haired bastards by then. How was he to know?
“Who pissed in your cornflakes?” he shot back, and Junior glared, like Sam was supposed to read his mind.
That was their rhythm. Short, sharp, and mostly silent. Just the bare essentials.
Chapter 3: The Unspoken Invitation
Sam found Junior’s crush on Jake a little pathetic—his son’s fawning over a boy who clearly would never look back in the same way. It promised nothing but heartbreak and more bad moods for Sam to navigate. An unnecessary complication in Sam’s carefully arranged life.
He couldn’t figure what Junior saw in Jake. A rough-and-tumble kid from a bad home. Everyone in their small town knew the story—a revolving door of step-dads, clothes that always looked slept in and smelled of cigarettes.
But Jake had looks, Sam couldn’t deny it. Blond hair like Sam’s own, blue eyes framed by thick lashes. Good lips—plush, curved just so. And there was the way Jake moved: the slight swagger in his step, the casual flex of muscle when he yawned, the flash of creamy skin on his taut belly when his shirt rode up.
Carved, like fine woodwork, a youthful form at its peak.
It wasn’t his fawning teenage crush that was most shameful about Junior, but his blindness to Jake’s conduct around Sam. The boy moved with something beyond confidence; it bordered on provocative. More than once he’d step out of the shower, towel cinched low on his waist, seemingly oblivious but always crossing Sam’s line of sight. “Good morning, Mr. Griffin.”
“Just call me Sam,” was the usual reply.
Jake would sometimes squeeze past him in the kitchen, his hip brushing Sam’s, his backside subtly pressing against Sam’s crotch. Sometimes while Sam lifted weights, Jake sat on the floor nearby, ostensibly reading a comic book, but Sam could see his eyes were less on his page and more on Sam’s straining muscles. “You really keep yourself in shape, Mr. Griffin.”
Once, Jake opened the bathroom door while Sam was taking a leak. “Didn’t know you were in here, Mr. Griffin.” A half-smile, no real apology. No rush to shut the door. Sam grunted, shook his pecker off and finished up. But he knew Jake wasn’t as oblivious as he pretended. He was testing limits.
It was flirting, sure—but Sam chalked it up to teenage hormones and a kid from a bad home looking for a father figure. A jock kid with his lines crossed in a testosterone-addled head, nothing more.
Jake barely talked about his home, not when Sam was around anyway, except for the odd mention of a new “step-dad” or a brother who roughed him up—a kind of code for friction and chaos Sam recognized from his own youth.
Like other kids in those settings, Jake had learned to lean on others, playing to the kindness of strangers when he had to. Good looks and easy charm were his strongest currencies.
Sam often suspected Jake might be using Junior’s affection to secure a place outside his broken home. There was an opportunism Sam recognized—a kindred spirit, though younger and more desperate.
He resented it for his son and himself but couldn’t help admire Jake’s intuitive cleverness.
In this world, Sam knew, you did what you had to just to stay afloat. And Junior, for all his book smarts, was the most oblivious kid on earth.
Chapter 4: The Attempt to Control
Jake’s constant presence was like a mosquito buzzing in Sam’s ear—harmless but impossible to ignore, and—so far—out of Sam’s control. What started as “just once” had bled into weekly sleepovers, entire weekends, and then into weekdays. Jake ate Sam’s food, sprawled on his sofa, and—most maddening of all, in all honesty—shared Junior’s bed while Sam’s own lay empty.
Sam’s house, hammered into shape with the sweat off his back felt less and less his every day. And after all his diligence to be certain of Junior’s paternity, he wasn’t about to raise another man’s kid. Not starting with Jake.
One evening, Sam found Junior alone in the living room. Jake was gone. Taking a deep breath, Sam braced himself.
“Junior,” he said, voice firmer than intended, “Jake can’t be staying over so much anymore.”
Junior’s head snapped up, eyes wide with disbelief. “What? Why? He’s my best friend. What’s the problem?”
Sam swallowed his flare of irritation, keeping his tone steady. “Privacy. Our privacy. My privacy. This isn’t a boarding house.”
“Privacy?” Junior let out a sour laugh. “You’re kidding, right? You bring your... people over all the time. Like it’s a damn whorehouse. But I can’t have my only friend here?” His voice steadied, a quiet resolve: “Isn’t it my house too?”
Sam’s jaw clenched tighter at Junior’s pushback. “Look, you’re a kid. Not an adult.”
That “whorehouse” comment? Who the fuck did Junior think he was talking to? Who paid the bills? Sam’s voice sharpened. “And to be clear—I wouldn’t let you have a teenage girl in your bed either.” And then the hit. “If you were into girls.”
Junior froze. Sam saw it all play out on his face: the shock, the first painful awareness that Sam knew—had always known—the nature of his attractions. And of this one in particular—having his heartache over Jake laid bare.
The silence stretched, until Junior’s hurt and shame solidified into trembling rage. “Well, you don’t have anything to worry about. Jake's like you. He only likes girls, not me.”
He stormed out, door slamming behind him.
Left alone, Sam rubbed the flat of his palm across his forehead, irritation knotting tight in his gut. No guilt. Just the weight of a mess he’d let pile up by waiting too long to stop Jake’s overnights.
At least now Junior knew—Sam was nobody’s fool. But it was clear now there’d need to be at least one more confrontation.
Chapter 5: The Proposition
Sam could have gone back to the usual parental line—“It’s for your own good”—but they’d both know it was bullshit. What he really wanted was his freedom, his own damn house without someone watching him all the time. Maybe there was some resentment about a warm body sharing his bed again. So what?
In truth, Sam dreaded another confrontation with Junior. The sulky, stewing moods that were sure to follow. He’d have to talk to Jake directly.
A few days later, Sam sat in the living room with a book he wasn’t reading. His nerves were on edge—he’d done this before, sending women packing—but never with a kid, never Junior’s friend.
Jake padded out of the bedroom in borrowed pajamas and t-shirt too small for his more athletic frame. “Night, Mr. Griffin,” he mumbled, heading toward the bathroom.
“Jake,” Sam said, closing his book and catching the boy’s attention on the way back. “Let’s talk.” He motioned toward the couch, and Jake sat, curious, expectant.
“You’ve been around a lot lately. It’s... awkward. I like my privacy. Like walking around in my skivvies at home. Maybe less.”
Jake’s lips curved into a neutral smile. “I wouldn’t mind that at all, Mr. Griffin.”
Jesus, this kid. Sam leaned in, letting his broad shoulders fill the space between them. “Let’s be straight with each other. What’s going on here?”
Jake met his gaze steadily. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m... bisexual. But I want to be with you, Mr. Griffin.” His eyes dropped briefly, then flicked back up. “Can I suck you off?”
Sam blinked, surprised. Then a slow warmth spread over him. Sam had sculpted himself into an object of desire. Sometimes that desire spilled beyond the women it was meant for, to others who appreciated his raw masculinity—just like he recognized Jake’s own athletic proportions.
And then: a free blowjob. Sam’s libido was high and options few. Being the single dad of a weird, gay kid had cost him opportunities. If that kid’s friend was offering, maybe it was a fair exchange—a transactional solution to two pressing needs.
And if that friend—Jake—had sandy blond hair and creamy skin. Was fit—firm, but not yet hard. Had those lips that curled up at the sides. Well, he was just Sam’s type, other than being a boy.
The offer hung between them.
Sam looked into those expectant blue eyes.
“Yeah. You can suck me off.”
It felt damn good to say it.
Chapter 6: The Unforeseen Release
Jake dropped to his knees with smooth, athletic grace. His hands gripped Sam’s thick thighs before tugging down the red plaid pajamas as Sam lifted his hips. Jake’s palms flattened against Sam’s lower belly, feeling the solid muscle beneath.
Sam’s cock stirred, already half-hard, ignited by the very thought of the proposition. Jake took it in hand, admiring the length and girth. His lips parted, and his tongue flicked and traced the crown, teasing with slow circles. Then his lips closed softly but firmly around Sam, the suction catching Sam off guard. The heat was overwhelming—like sinking into a hot bath.
Sam closed his eyes, trying to pull away, to imagine something else—a movie starlet, the blonde waitress at the diner. But those thoughts slipped away, powerless against the wet heat and relentless rhythm beneath him.
Jake was good. Too good to be a first timer. No awkward fumbling or hesitation. His head bobbed in steady, practiced strokes, lips sealed tight around Sam’s shaft, his spit slicking it. Between deep swallows, his fist pumped in rhythm, working in sync with his mouth, drawing Sam deeper.
Realizing Jake knew exactly what he was doing helped Sam relax. He wasn’t innocent, and judging by his own fist pumping beneath in his pajamas, he was getting off just as hard. Jake’s vigor and enthusiasm surpassed anything Sam had experienced with most women. Yet the boy’s thick hair and creamy skin brought a tender softness to the moment.
Sam felt the surge building—slow at first, then roaring. Again and again, Jake took him deeper, drawing out waves of unspeakable pleasure until the head slipped deep into his throat, hot breath rolling from Jake’s nostrils.
Sam’s own breath caught. His fingers clutched the armchair, biting his lip to stifle a groan as his climax caught him unprepared, shuddering as his guts tightened and his body pumped out a heavy load.
Jake choked at first, but swallowed, gulping; mouth and throat working fast. Over the lips, past the gums, look out stomach—here I cum. Jake took it all.
A soft last gulp, and Jake pulled back, resting on his haunches. His cheeks reddened, mirroring Sam’s own flush of pleasure, a stifled grunt escaping him as he pumped his own load onto the floor. Sweat beaded his brow, eyes glistening, tearing as he looked up at Sam with a breathless, triumphant gaze.
Sam’s body buzzed, pleasure lingering even as his cock slowly softened.
He’d expected a sloppy taste and a hurried release. But this was something else entirely: a deep, satisfying meeting between two willing players. That—and Jake licking his lips, his cum still pooling beneath him—told Sam this was a beginning, not the one-and-done he expected.
To Sam, the calculus was simple: they were two willing—eager—participants in a transaction. Jake had hunger to feed and wanted a place to be. Sam had a cock that liked to be sucked and an available home.
They were two opportunists, recognizing the value of the exchange, trading desires.
Chapter 7: The Terms of Deception
“Alright,” Sam said, voice rough, pulling his pajamas up over his wet semi. He motioned to the couch, and Jake sat, eyes fixed on him, the damp spot on briefs a reminder of his own arousal, even then. “We need to talk terms.”
Jake nodded, quiet and attentive.
“You can stay over three nights a week,” Sam laid it out, firm and pragmatic, “if Junior wants you to. But that’s it. And if you’re going to... do this,” he gestured vaguely downward, “it has to be when Junior’s not around. Not a word. No hints.”
He said if, not when—but the meaning was clear.
Jake’s brow furrowed just a moment before easing. “Okay,” he said softly. “I can do that.”
Sam already wondered if three nights a week, under those conditions, would be enough opportunity for his own satisfaction. His workshop flashed through his thoughts. His job was home, after all.
“And if you come over other times—when Junior’s not here—for this,” he gestured at his cock, again, “that’s fine too. Just so Junior doesn’t know.”
Jake nodded again.
“Any fool could see Junior’s in love with you,” Sam said, waving a hand dismissively. “And,” he added carefully, “you’re into me. No way that won’t end with Junior pissed at me for life over something I didn’t do—if he finds out.”
Laying the truth bare with Jake gave Sam a cool satisfaction he’d never known in his coded, wearying talks with Junior.
He’d tried, in his way, to protect his sensitive son. But he couldn’t be expected to take a pass on a willing mouth like that. He wouldn’t be the one paying for Junior’s weakness. All he needed was a promise of discretion.
Then came the soft creak of floorboards, sharp in the quiet room. Sam’s chest tightened.
Junior.
Sam fought the impulse to snap his head around. Junior stood in the doorway, thin, hair rumpled from sleep.
“Dad?” His voice was groggy but laced with suspicion. “What are you guys doing?”
Sam’s face hardened into a stern, paternal mask. “Go back to bed, Junior. Jake and I are having a little man to man.”
Junior’s eyes widened, then narrowed. “No way,” he muttered, digging in his heels.
God damn it. Of all the times for the boy to grow a spine.
Father and son locked eyes, a stalemate. It was Jake who glanced over his shoulder, a subtle shake of his head: Scram. I’ve got this.
Junior hesitated, grumbled, then shuffled back down the hall, defeated.
Sam watched him go, then turned back to Jake, warning in his eyes. “See? Go to bed. We’ll finish this later.”
“What do I tell Junior?”
“The truth. Three overnights a week. Just like we agreed.”
Jake rose and Sam added one last caution. “If Junior ever even suspects, you’re out. For good.”
He didn’t say they’d be done—only that it wouldn’t happen here anymore.
Sam’s resolve had already melted in the warmth he still felt from Jake’s mouth and throat.
But the boy had to understand the risks, the fragile balance they’d need to keep. They could do this without Junior ever knowing. That was the crucial part.
Chapter 8: Appetites and Almosts
The agreement with Jake played out faster than Sam expected. He’d anticipated a rare indulgence, but had underestimated Jake’s appetite for him—and their quickly evident shared zeal for the game.
Jake first found Sam standing at the fridge, looking for a snack. Without a word, he dropped to his knees, barely concealed by the doorframe, his face brushing against Sam’s crotch. As the boy unzipped him and opened his mouth, Sam’s eyes flicked toward the hallway, searching for Junior, the shudders spreading from his cock impossible to ignore. Before Sam knew it, Jake’s mouth worked its magic, guiding him toward a standing climax—his skill sharpened by the thrilling risk of being caught.
It wasn’t the discretion Sam had intended, but Junior was always underfoot, always watchful. And Jake’s mouth felt so good.
Jake appeared in Sam’s workshop out of nowhere after school one day. Without a word, he reached for Sam’s zipper, and before Sam could think, Jake latched onto his cock, swallowing the thick length whole. Pumping into that sublime throat, Sam’s hands tangled in the boy’s blond hair, groaning—until a sudden clang shattered the moment.
The side door. Junior’s voice. “Dad? Is Jake out there?”
Sam froze, but Jake didn’t falter, mercilessly swallowing him deeper into the tightest crevice of his throat. The wet suctioning sound rang in Sam’s ears.
“What would he be doing in my shop?” Sam roared back, holding Jake’s head still.
As Junior’s footsteps retreated, Sam let go just enough for Jake’s lips to tighten at the base. Sam’s load erupted—hot, heavy, unstoppable.
“Fuck, fuck, fuuuck!”
Jake swallowed it all. When he rose to his feet, Sam kissed him for the first time, the intensity of his orgasm melting his resistance. The boy’s spit was thick with his own taste.
Junior mooned tirelessly over Jake. Sam wanted to tell him to wake up, get over it, move on. But underneath it all, a perverse satisfaction crept in. Every time Junior invited his friend to watch a movie, or stay the night, he unknowingly set up Sam’s next load down Jake’s gullet.
Sam’s plan was a masterstroke, beyond what he imagined. He shouldn’t have taken such glee in beating Junior at a game he didn’t even know he was playing. But, damn it, the boy was oblivious and ungrateful. So easily manipulated.
Some near-misses were closer than others. Like the time Jake slipped into the bathroom while Sam was taking a leak. No words—what needed to be said?—just hands grabbing and pulling Sam close, taking the last beads of acrid piss as he swallowed Sam’s swiftly growing erection.
By then, Sam’s cock was trained to go hard whenever Jake showed up, craving the tight warmth of that eager throat. He leaned back against the cold tiles, eyes squeezed shut against the impossible pleasure.
Then the knob rattled.
Junior’s voice: “Dad? I gotta go.”
Sam’s eyes flickered open, panic flashing as he tried to push Jake’s head back. But Jake was locked on, devoted, unstoppable. Sam’s mind grasped for words as Jake sent tremors through his body.
“Taking a shit, Junior! Use the one in the workshop!” Sam called out, voice strained, biting back the rising wave.
Jake swallowed Sam’s heavy load—the one he’d been saving for the boy—and Sam hastily stuffed his wet cock into his jeans, heart hammering. He bent down and kissed Jake full on the mouth, the boy’s eyes tearing up.
“Be more careful,” Sam said, patting his peachy cheek, already craving the next round.
Chapter 9: Hidden Places
Summer brought new edges to Jake. Out of school, he’d picked up work at the feed store. The physical labor did him good, Sam noticed. Coupled with casual sessions with Sam’s weights, his muscles curved and cuts subtly sharpened—abs chiseling, the slope of his lower back deepening into the twin mounds of his ass.
The sun glazed his peaches-and-cream skin to tawny gold. Tiny blond hairs on his forearms and the nape of his neck turning nearly white when they caught the light. Only the secret places stayed pale: the hollows of his armpits, the soft nexus between beltline and thigh. Places known only to him and Sam.
He showed the potential of becoming a formidable physical specimen—more of a match for Sam’s own honed body.
At the same time, a rift grew between Junior and Jake. Still blind to the real reason behind Jake’s visits, Junior sensed something had shifted, ever since the night he found Sam talking with his friend. Jake’s answers grew vague, his attention split. When Junior blamed Sam’s rules—the three nights a week limit—and again leveled accusations about turning their home into a whorehouse, Sam met his son’s indignant glare with a shrug. You don’t know the half of it, kid.
Junior’s looming departure for college widened the silent chasm. Junior’s focus sharpened on his future, the possibilities. Jake—did not. Junior took long, complicated bus rides into the city to visit museums and watch art films. He tried to coax his friend along, but boys like Jake didn’t get summers off for idle interests.
On one of those days, Sam made his way to the feed store—not for actual needs, but for a glimpse of Jake’s sun-kissed skin, and the prospect of pleasure, uninhibited by Junior’s absence. He asked if the boy could help unload his purchases—as if Sam Griffin, the fittest man in town, couldn’t lift the hundred-pound bags with ease.
Back at the shop, Sam laid Jake out on the worktable, stripping him down to explore the changes carved into his body. The air hung thick with sawdust and oil, vibrating with anticipation. And with no need to watch for Junior, Sam took his time.
One hand held Jake’s fists above his head. The other ran over warm, taut flesh, fingers rough against still tender skin, sending soft tremors through Jake. Their mouths met at those plush, talented lips. Sam’s jaw scruff grazed down Jake’s throat like sandpaper, tracing to the boy’s firm tit, where Sam suckled at the cherry-blossom nipple. His hand wrapped around the boy’s hard cock.
Jake moaned, hips pressing deeper into Sam’s fist. Sam slow-stroked him, listening to soft gasps flutter from parted lips. “Fuckkk,” Jake gasped as Sam licked pale armpits dusted with faint blond hairs. The young, muscular response to his touch gave Sam a strange rush no woman had yet inspired.
Sam’s hands slid lower, tracing sturdy young thighs, feeling their smooth power. When Jake spread his legs—inviting—Sam’s fingers pressed between the firm mounds of his ass, probing lightly near that tightly coiled entry.
He leaned down, plunging his tongue deep into Jake’s mouth, tasting him fully. Jake’s hand caught Sam’s thick wrist, guiding his fingers, pressing them at the opening.
It hadn’t been planned.
Jake whispered first, breathless: “Fuck me, Sam.”
Chapter 10: The First Fuck
Sam wasn’t a saint. After the miracle of Jake’s mouth, he’d wondered what other pleasures his body might hold. His rough fingertips pressed to the boy’s tight hole, feeling it tense reflexively before yielding. There was no way this wasn’t going to happen—he should have seen it coming.
He slicked his fingers with spit, easing in slow and sure, breaking Jake in gently. The boy was tough—but only five-seven, five-eight—and Sam knew his thick cock would stretch him. Jake’s breath caught; his legs spread wide, hips grinding back against Sam’s hand. “Fuck me, Sam,” he whispered again, more insistent, fingers sliding in deeper.
Sam spread a heavy blanket across the workbench and laid Jake on his belly. One leg raised, an unspoken offering. Sam grabbed lubricant from his workspace and straddled him, marveling—how had he not done this before? Now that it was happening, it felt obvious. Inevitable.
He positioned himself over Jakes, pressed into the tight ring, moving inch by inch, holding back, letting Jake adjust. The boy gasped, fingers clutching Sam’s thick wrists on either side of him. When Sam’s rigid length was nearly all the way in, he pulled back teasingly.
“Goddamnit, fuck me.”
“Hold still,” Sam said, voice rough with his own rising heat. He slid back in, steady, full. “That’s it. You got this.”
Tremors rippled through Jake’s lean, athletic body as Sam moved slowly at first—savoring the tightness, watching muscles clench and release with each thrust. Sam had expected discomfort for the boy—something Jake would tolerate, a sacrifice for Sam’s pleasure.
But this was something he hadn’t foreseen.
Jake met him, pushing back with eager hips, chasing depth and friction. Sam’s pace increased, his cock stirring soft moans from parted lips, eyes half-lidded in pleasure, sweat beading on summer-gold skin. Jake’s grip on Sam’s wrsy tightened—not with resistance, but hunger for more of him.
Flush with the knowledge of Jake’s pleasure, Sam found a rhythm—powerful thrusts that made Jake gasp and arch his back. He drove deeper into the heat, muscles clenching tight around him where their bodies met. One hand slid under the boy to cup his sweet tit, kneading firmly as he pounded harder, in sync with Jake’s mounting groans.
A coil twisted tight in Sam’s gut. His climax built—a swelling rush. He gripped Jake harder, thrusts faster, his cockhead pushing deeper.
And in the midst of that raw force, he saw it.
Jake’s face blooming. Softening. Opening.
Breath catching on a fragile flutter.
At that sight, Sam shattered—pouring hot, thick waves inside him. His hips drove hard, trying desperately to get even deeper inside the well of pleasure. He stayed buried as Jake rode his still-stiff cock to his own release, muscles clenching hard, arms wrapped tight around the shuddering boy.
The waves subsided.
Sam kissed Jake—soft, lingering. Not what he’d ever expected. But Jake made it easy. So damn easy.
It was a slice. Like cake.
Chapter 11: Things Spiral
That first time had been, just as Sam thought, a slice. But it was only the beginning. Fucking Jake quickly became an unspoken expectation between them. Sam found himself drawn into the physical pull of it—the tightness of Jake’s body yielding beneath him, the fierce satisfaction of filling him completely.
The game grew riskier. A quick blowjob, easy to start and almost as easy to stop, was one thing. But a full rut—deep, unrestrained sex with Junior just rooms away—was something else entirely.
A new desire took root, often just out of reach. It confounded Sam. When Jake was there but untouchable—or even when he wasn’t—Sam wandered in a daze, craving the comfort of being buried in that ass, always wondering when the next chance would come.
Sam’s trips to the feed store multiplied, Jake’s help growing more essential. In the humid heat of the toolshed, Sam fucked Jake standing, the younger man braced against the workbench, hips pushing back with determination. Sam’s hands grew familiar with Jake’s hips—knowing how and when to tilt them to drive deeper, Sam’s hard erection slamming into Jake’s gut with every fierce thrust.
Jake’s grunts punctuated the rhythm—rough, hungry, urging Sam onward. As Sam’s climax built, Jake’s hand stretched up instinctively, fingers curving to span Sam’s bicep or the blond fur on his pec, tracing the hard muscle beneath.
Sam found new ways to fuck the boy—straddled in his lap, thrusting hard upward; or with Jake on his side, one leg hooked tight around Sam’s waist, slick bodies slamming together.
Sam’s hand cupped Jake’s firm tit, thumb teasing the tender pink nipple as he fucked him hard. Jake’s parted lips, the bobbing of his head—proof of his raw pleasure—never failed to push Sam over the edge as much as the exquisite heat wrapped around his cock.
Jake’s capacity was a revelation. Sam throat-fucked him as Jake lay back, taking every fierce thrust, choking and gagging—but always pulling Sam deeper inside. The limits Sam had known with earlier partners vanished.
As Jake swallowed Sam’s load, Sam’s hand stayed firm on the boy’s throat, feeling the tight muscles ripple beneath it, awed by Jake’s unashamed desire to consume him.
Sam realized he could be rougher—push harder, lean into the strength he’d held back with women. Jake’s youth and resilience soaked it all up; his body a willing canvas for Sam’s full power. He left finger-shaped bruises on Jake’s sides—the boy still aching for more, matching Sam’s drive like few women ever had.
Most of these moments were stolen—after Junior was asleep or distracted. Sam marveled that Junior never noticed his breathlessness, Jake’s teary eyes, or their mirrored flushed faces.
Chapter 12: Taking the Prize
Their growing comfort in each other’s bodies only made the inability to live out their desire feel like torture.
One late August morning, Jake emerged from Junior’s bedroom wearing only faded jeans and a snug, ribbed tank top that clung to his torso. Sam’s breath caught sharply. The urge to drag him onto the kitchen table, right there in front of Junior, surged hot and—a reckless thrill fueled by months of silence and denial. Fuck, why did it all have to be such a secret?
Sam wondered if this was how Junior had felt all those months—stealing furtive, forbidden looks at his friend, sharing a bed but never crossing the line. Never tracing those lips. Junior was made of sterner stuff than Sam, in that way, enduring the proximity to Jake without breaking. Or was he the weaker of them, trapped by his own hesitation and fear, too afraid to cut through and claim what he wanted? Sam didn’t know. But he didn’t suffer the soft hesitation. He acted.
He sent Junior off to the store for eggs, saying he needed Jake’s help moving some lumber. The lie was simple, but effective. The door clicked shut behind Junior, and suddenly the house was theirs alone.
Sam led Jake back into Junior’s bedroom. The air still held the faint scent of his son and his bedmate—a mix of deodorant and teenage sweat. Pulling Jake close, Sam’s fingers traced over smooth skin, feeling the itch to drag the moment out, but time was thin—even Junior’s slow, plodding steps could only take so long.
And the thrill of fucking Jake in Junior’s own bed made the risk all the sweeter.
He mounted Jake on his back, face to face in sheets that weren’t theirs—the way Junior no doubt would want to do it, if he had the balls—more intimate and earnest—but Sam backed it up with raw strength, Jake meeting him with limitless capacity. Sam’s abs curled with every deep thrust, his back bowing, driving hard into Jake’s yielding body.
“Give it to me,” he rasped, voice rough with want.
Jake obeyed, one hand stroking his own cock as Sam’s pace settled into a fierce rhythm. His load spattered—warm, slick—pooling in the gutters of his subtly sculpted abs. Each thrust sent shudders rippling through Jake’s frame, his insides loosening, opening for Sam’s claim.
There was a twisted satisfaction in defiling Junior’s bed. Every slam into Jake—the secret crush Junior couldn’t touch—was a silent sneer at the boy’s own impotent longing. Every gasp from Jake was a rebuke of the months of suffocating silence they’d endured for the sake of Junior’s weakness.
Sam tried to draw it out, counting Junior’s footsteps in the back of his mind, half hoping to be caught, undone in this reckless moment. But when their mouths met, tasting Jake’s sweet tongue, Sam stumbled.
His climax hit like a sudden high tide, surging into Jake’s tight heat in a frantic burst of desperate thrusts. “Fuck, Fuck, FUCK!”
When Junior returned, Sam and Jake sat in separate rooms, the facade intact—two actors taking up their parts again. But in those stolen moments, while Junior bought eggs, Sam had taken his prize.
Chapter 13: The New Game
Junior left for college. Sam’s home became truly his own. Jake started spending hours at the grocery store.
The first time Sam saw him bagging groceries, a familiar warmth spread through him. Amid the cool hum of the store, Jake looked cool and smooth as vanilla ice cream. Beneath that calm surface, though, Sam felt a private heat stirring as he remembered those lips, the full-body pleasure of shooting into Jake’s throat just hours before, and the steady rhythm of gulping that followed.
Watching Jake work, Sam noticed the muscles flex in the boy’s forearms, the way the required store uniform hugged his chest and pants hung low on his waist. He knew his load still rested deep inside Jake’s belly—a secret shared between them.
The new blond checkout girl handed Sam his receipt, her hand lingering a beat too long. “Thanks, miss,” he said in a honeyed tone—an old, ingrained habit, the easy seduction of new flesh.
But the moment fractured as he felt a gaze on him and looked up.
Jake was standing at attention, his hands on Sam’s groceries. A shiver raced down Sam’s spine. Their secret game, Sam sensed, had expanded. With Junior gone, the deception in plain sight had grown to include the whole town. The unexpected thrill hardened his cock at once.
“Hey, Jake,” Sam called, voice carrying just enough to be heard over the supermarket hum. “Can you give me a hand with these bags? Back’s acting up.” A lie—Sam Griffin had the finest back in town.
“Sure thing, Mr. Griffin.”
Together, they slipped around back to the unlit alley behind the dumpsters. The air was thick with stale garbage and exhaust fumes. As the door swung shut behind them, cutting off the fluorescent glare of the store, Sam spun Jake around and pinned him, face and chest against the rough brick wall. The risk—the possibility of being caught—sharpened the moment into a hard edge.
“You like watching me, don’t you?” Sam growled, fingers fisting at Jake’s jeans—snapping the button, sliding down the zipper. Jake gasped, arching into him, hands fumbling behind himself at Sam’s belt.
Sam didn’t wait for an answer. He tugged Jake’s jeans just enough to slip fingers between the pale mounds, slicking them with spit before pushing in, taking him hard and fast right there in the alley.
Jake’s muffled gasps caught under Sam’s palm as the boy bucked to match the cracking thrusts. Sam gripped Jake’s hips with one hand, drawing him impossibly close, burying himself in that exquisite, familiar tightness. The smell of garbage and sweat mingled with the sharp tang of their arousal.
Sam’s climax built in a furious rush—even though he’d just released inside Jake that morning, in the safety of his bed. He drove harder, faster, then surrendered his load deep inside Jake. The force left Jake trembling and gasping. His own release followed with a silent shudder, streaking the brick alley wall.
There was nothing the new checkout girl had that could compare with this.
Sam had always been sure he was straight. Men didn’t register on his radar. Yet something about Jake shifted the rules—defied the lines Sam thought he understood. There was nothing effeminate or tentative. Jake was toughened by a rough life. And yet beneath it all, there was something there not yet gone hard.
The give and response of his youthful muscles unsettled Sam, calling to him differently than any woman ever had.
Sam loved the way his hard, sculpted form pressed deep into the more subtle strength of Jake. The way Jake’s muscles flexed and yielded in perfect rhythm to Sam’s driving fuck—as if their bodies had been made not just to fit, but to push each other higher with every thrust.
Their connection was singular, inexplicable—a private path carved just between them. Jake wasn’t only his type. He was a younger echo of Sam himself.
Chapter 14: The Unsettling Reflection
As they settled into their newfound freedom, something unexpected unfolded. Their once predictable ruts slowed, giving way to something softer, more exploratory. A gentler intimacy crept in, hinting at something beyond mere release.
Jake started spending more nights—not in Junior’s bed, but in Sam’s. The boy became more than a physical outlet; he became a presence that fit effortlessly, without expectation, in a way Sam had long stopped hoping for—especially with his own son and their fraught coexistence. Sometimes after a rut they’d just sit, wrapped in companionable silence, listening to the peaceful stillness of the house—a companionship Sam never thought he’d crave.
One morning, Jake stepped out of a hot shower, his skin flushed raw from the scrub, while Sam finished shaving weeks-old scruff from his jaw. He swiped the fog from the mirror and caught his own reflection. Clean-shaven, he looked suddenly younger. And there was something else—a flicker of recognition he hadn’t seen before.
Jake moved closer, and Sam grabbed him by the arm, pulling him into the tight space between himself and the porcelain sink. Their bodies pressed close—Sam’s blond chest hair grazing Jake’s warm back, faces inching nearer. Sam’s hand gripped Jake’s jaw, forcing the boy’s eyes to meet his in the mirror.
Side by side, their reflections stared back with uncanny similarity—their same blond hair wet, plastered to their heads. The same narrow blue eyes, the stubborn set of the jaw, even the faint lines at the corner of the eyes when they smiled. It was a younger version of Sam, looking back at him from Jake’s face.
He tried to conjure Junior’s sullen appearance, his thin, dark angles, the elegance inherited from his mother. He was Sam’s, to be sure. There were signs. But with Jake it was different. The resemblance was sharp, undeniable. How had he never seen it before?
A sudden weight settled in Sam’s chest. No. No. No.
“Sam?” Jake’s hesitant voice broke through the silence.
Sam swallowed down the questions and uneasy realization. His breath came heavier, laboring under the frantic need to push away the intrusive thoughts, to override them.
Sliding lotion over his hardness, Sam pressed into Jake, quickly and without words, driving into the warmth he now needed. He pressed the boy against the cool sink. Jake’s breath hitched in response, pushing back to take Sam completely.
Sam fucked Jake fast and hard, one hand wrapped round his waist, the other holding Jake’s face steady, watching every flicker of pleasure twist across their shared features. Each thrust was a denial of what now seemed plain.
“You’re mine,” Sam grunted.
Jake came suddenly, unexpectedly, fist pumping his cock. His climax tightened around Sam, pulling him off balance. Sam barely had time to react before he was spilling inside Jake, hot and uncontrollable. The contractions of Jake’s body milked him, drawing out his load.
The reflection faded beneath the heat of his climax. All that mattered was the feel of Jake’s body folding and yielding beneath his own, housing him.
“You’re mine,” he grunted again. Resolved.
With his DNA in the boy, sealing their connection, Sam turned his face to kiss him, claiming him—but not before he glanced down, to see the stark streak of Jake’s cum tracing the cool porcelain of the sink, slowly washing away down the drain.
Chapter 15: The Weight of Home
Then came Junior’s text: Home for Thanksgiving.
A sudden weight settled on Sam’s chest. The old, oppressive inconvenience of Junior’s presence, and the reckless freedom he’d carved out with Jake had to be locked away again, the door slammed shut.
Jake retreated to his messy home—maybe for the best. Sam wasn’t sure he could keep the charade alive with Jake around. They’d gone too far—their habits were too familiar, too intertwine—to convincingly pretend Jake was just visiting for Junior.
Sam chafed against the self-denial. It wasn’t just losing Jake. It was the loss of choice itself. His irritation simmered beneath the surface, snapping at Junior over small things, jaw clenched tight with tension.
He bought a Thanksgiving dinner from the diner—turkey, mashed potatoes, the works. Junior ate quietly, resisting Sam’s questions about school with thin shouldered shrugs and silence. Nothing new, but the tension was almost unbearable.
What’s the point of this, Sam wondered, chewing the flavorless turkey. Here was his son, distant and withdrawn, barely a word between them. Ungrateful. Meanwhile, across town, Jake waited—honey-tongued, ready to give himself freely. A hunger that mirrored Sam’s own.
He pictured Jake there—fucking Jake hard and fast against the kitchen counter, bodies colliding with such force it would send plates crashing to the floor, shattering the quiet. His cock stiffened, pressing painfully against his jeans, demanding attention.
And beyond that—just eating a meal together. With Jake. Not speaking because there was no need for words anymore, so much easier than Junior’s burdened quiet.
The difference cut Sam deep: one relationship was a chain on them both, the other a flame, warm and glowing.
He ached—wanted to bury himself in Jake’s body, to feel those tight muscles—the raw heat he found there—an almost painful craving
Chapter 16: Winter
The morning after Junior left, Jake biked past the house while Sam raked leaves. He passed once, then again—each time slowing just enough for Sam’s eyes to drink him in, stoking an appetite nearly unbearable. On the third pass, Jake rolled up, dropped his bike carelessly on the lawn and walked inside. Sam, cock already straining aganst his jeans, followed.
But on the porch next door, Violet Davis sat with her sharp eyes fixed on them. Without Junior, there was no good reason to explain Jake lingering like this. The facade was cracking. Sam’s pride flared, a quiet defiance burning. Let Jake be a testament to his own audacity—living exactly as he pleased, with no one’s approval requested or needed
Inside, Sam followed Jake’s trail—shirt, jeans, shoes, socks—until he found the white cotton briefs tossed on the floor. He picked them up, buried his face in them, the musky scent of the boy’s sex pulling at him. Jake appeared—his athletic frame, summer tan faded to the peaches and cream complexion Sam first tasted. His mouth watered.
They met at the bed’s center. Sam opened Jake’s legs to drive his tongue in, savoring the taste, feeling his own prick slick with anticipation. When he let Jake’s legs drop, their eyes locked—Jake’s leg hooking around Sam’s solid waist, drawing him close.
Sliding in slow and sure, it felt like coming home. Not a place, but the tender spot in Jake where he belonged, even if only temporarily. The release that had built during Junior’s stay shuddered free inside Sam, spilling deep.
Sam’s blond hair, damp witty sweat, clung to his muscled belly and chest as Jake rested his head close. Sam’s kisses softened—a rare tenderness blooming in quiet moments. After his fingers coaxed out Jake’s release, the hazy after-time settled in
Jake spoke about his Thanksgiving at home—the daily dramas and fraying tempers. He made no plea for rescue, just an ear. The harder life had made him tougher before Sam knew him. Tougher still, now. Left there too long, Sam knew the tenderness would wear thin, replaced by callous survival.
Sam felt a sudden impulse—could Jake stay there? Not just now and then, but always? It would simplify things. The next logical step in whatever this was. Jake could escape that shitty family home. Sam would have real company. Not Junior’s skulking shadow, but a true companion.
His rough hand traced Jake’s skin—catching the tiny, nearly invisible blond hairs, the taut but soft belly, knowing his seed was still within the boy. His breathy laugh.
These weren’t just an accumulation of physical details—they were comforts, pulling Sam into a softness he’d long fought. Drawing him in. A trap, tightening quietly.
And somewhere deep inside, something inside Sam rebelled fiercely.
Chapter 17: Severance
December’s chill seeped into the workshop, biting through Sam’s shirt and sinking into his bones—a reminder of the cool control that would be needed. He was there when Jake arrived, the faint scent of sawdust mingling with something heavier.
Jake wasted no words. He yanked Sam’s pants down and turned, rolling onto the worn workbench. His lean, athletic frame landed with a thud against the rough wood. Sam bent him over, fingers running over firm curves.
There was no kiss. No softness. Sam stripped away the indulgence, severing the tenderness he’d allowed to creep in.
He plunged into Jake—hard and fast. The tightness was exquisite, but edged in his mind with finality. Jake’s hips bucked to meet Sam’s hard thrusts. Sam’s hands groped at Jake’s body, a beautiful, luscious thing offered for his pleasure. This was their original transaction: Sam’s release, Jake’s surrender.
Sam worked to memorize every nuance—the clench of Jake’s muscles, the way his body took and gave. It was brutal proof of the rightness of their pairing—and of the necessity of Sam’s choice to end it.
Building toward climax, Sam drove one last punishing thrust, savoring every pulse. Then he spilled deep, emptying himself inside Jake.
Jake’s cum spilled out too, dripping onto the wood shavings—the final something he’d leave behind, though he couldn’t know that. Jake collapsed against the workbench, body still trembling.
These moments would make a perfect, brutal collection for Sam to revisit in the solitude to come: the intense pleasure, sacrificed for freedom. The loss would leave a raw wound on his soul, but the pain would remind him of the price of losing control.
“This isn’t working anymore.” Sam’s voice was flat now, stripped bare of any warmth.
He zipped his fly, erection slowly subsiding, the pleasure already receding. Then the final test: He looked down at Jake, the spent husk of their last shared moment.
His chest quaked once, then stilled. No lingering glances as he turned and walked away.
The choice was final.
Chapter 18: River
Life settled back into its familiar, obligation-free rhythm. The weights still anchored the living room—a testament to Sam’s solitude—his body lean and powerful. The brief, intense indulgence with Jake was cleanly excised, the boy sliding slowly into Sam’s past.
A hand was a poor substitute for a hungry mouth, Sam mused, but a manageable trade-off. “Easy come, easy go,” he told himself—a shield against deeper reflection. Jake was just another temporary entanglement, like the women before him, easily dismissed when his purpose was served.
But when Sam lifted the barbell, muscles straining, his breath caught sharply—not from exertion but something tighter inside. He swallowed the sudden ache, a reminder that some closeness, some hunger, still lingered beneath the surface.
At the grocery store, Sam first caught wind of the rumor that Jake had left town. He didn’t get specifics but started to probe. His careful inquiry led him to a vague story at the bar from a man Sam knew of—Jake had gone to Alaska, “probably sucked off every lumberjack from here to the North Pole,” the man sneered. He revealed nothing else, but the words landed like a blow.
Later that night, Sam waited outside the dimly lit bar for the man who’d uttered the slur—one of the “stepfathers” who’d cycled through Jake’s dumpster fire of a home. A few quick, brutal punches in the alley, the scent of stale beer and piss in the cold air, and the man lay sprawling. Not because Sam cared about Jake’s sexual life—he could blow who he wanted, Sam told himself as he wiped his bloodied knuckles—but because of the casual, derogatory cruelty. Uncalled for. Jake wasn’t meant to be fodder for a drunk’s crude joke.
Breaking with tradition, Sam brought in a pine tree for Junior’s homecoming, cut by his own hand, draped roughly with multicolored lights bought on impulse and strung by him. He found himself surprisingly looking forward to his son’s old, familiar company.
When Junior arrived, he looked thinner, sharper, and carried himself differently. College had done him some good—he was more assertive, his stance more grounded. The tightly wound boy was loosening, revealing a young man coming into his own.
Sam’s heart swelled to see him.
But the old surliness remained. Grudging answers to Sam’s inquiries about school, eyes cast away. Unlike Jake’s authentic quiet, Junior’s was defensive—a shield for unspoken things.
They sat together on the living room sofa, plates in hand. Junior put on some music—a woman’s melancholy voice filling the room with a song about a river and skating away from painful Christmases.
The song grated on Sam—its vulnerable sentimentality clashing with the efficiency of his life. He wanted to tell him to turn it off but held his tongue.
“You know,” Junior said, not meeting Sam’s eyes, voice quiet but firm, “when Jake stopped coming around so much after you talked to him…” He looked up, jaw set like Sam’s own. “He was my best friend. He could have been my boyfriend. And you… you messed that up, Dad. How am I supposed to get past that?”
Over the years, that accusation would return—like a wound refusing to heal. Maybe because Junior never truly knew what happened, even if he understood the damage.
Later, Sam would hear snippets of Junior’s life: art school, new friends, making his own comic books. And after college, about the loving relationships Junior forged—a genuine “found family,” as he called it, that anchored him in a world Sam had stripped bare. Junior was always soft that way.
Years later, Junior would bring his future husband, Boon, for a reluctant visit. The boy who once couldn’t navigate a simple crush blossomed into a man capable of deep, sustained love. Watching them together, their shared burdens and joys, Sam allowed himself no pang of envy—the vice of a lesser man.
But over time, the walls between Sam and Junior would weaken, in slow, shaky increments—careful visits, tentative conversations, shared silences that no longer felt like battlegrounds. They would navigate fragile new maps of their relationship—Sam learning to listen more patiently, Junior cautiously offering trust where before there was only distance.
And many years later, a grandchild—Junior’s son with Boon, cradled in Sam’s arms, his breath as light as a feather.
But in the moment, Junior’s words hung heavy. Sam’s irritation surged—his defiance flaring as in his head he defended his choices, his territory. He could have denied it, spun some excuse about young men naturally moving on. He could have told the truth—that Jake never wanted Junior anyway. He was always after Sam.
He could have told Junior the yet more true thing—that he was lucky. In Junior’s imagination, Jake would always be the perfect love of his life. Never brutally parting, never missing the touch of his lips, never becoming the necessary evil Sam knew himself to be.
Instead, Sam looked at the soft glow of Christmas lights reflected in Junior’s dark eyes—too naive to grasp desire’s brutal realities, or the compromises men like Sam made.
A flicker of something warmer stirred in Sam. Quietly, he slid a small package across the coffee table—a sketchbook and a set of colored pencils. “Maybe start here,” he said, voice quieter than before.
Junior’s surprise softened the tension for a moment—a fragile truce, a blend of old hurts and new beginnings.
Sam didn’t say more. Maybe someday, but not yet. For now, he would let there be some innocence left on Earth.
END
Author’s note: This story began as two flashbacks in the story Go Home, which is about Junior and his boyfriend Boon’s return visit, years after the events told here.
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