An original erotic story by Roman Black
The glass doors slid open with a quiet hiss as Marcus DeLeon stepped into the marble-lined lobby of the Fontaine Executive Hotel. The chill of the Chicago air still clung to his skin, but the warmth of the gold-lit interior and the subtle scent of oak and spice wrapped around him like confidence. His boots echoed as he walked toward the concierge, suitcase trailing behind him, tailored black overcoat draped perfectly across his broad shoulders.
“Mr. DeLeon,” the receptionist greeted him, standing a little straighter. “Your suite is ready. Your butler, Nathaniel, will escort you upstairs.”
Marcus gave a small nod. “Appreciate it.”
As they ascended in the private glass elevator, Marcus said little. He rarely did. At 6’3”, 225 pounds, with a body carved from weight rooms and discipline, he never needed to speak loudly to be noticed. His skin was deep brown, smooth, and glowing beneath the elevator’s dim lights. A black turtleneck hugged the wide cut of his chest beneath a charcoal suit.
The suite was everything he expected—floor-to-ceiling city views, plush gray seating, a private bar, a balcony large enough for two, and a bedroom that smelled faintly of cologne and cedar. Nathaniel, his butler for the week, was sharp, mid-30s, with calm eyes and a tone that said he’d seen everything and kept most of it to himself.
“If you need anything—laundry, dining, even… discretion—press the black button.”
Marcus raised an eyebrow but said nothing. He gave a small nod and slipped the man a folded $100 before closing the door behind him.
Down on the seventh floor, Elliott Grant was unpacking a more modest—but still refined—room. His black travel bag rested on the bed while he stretched his arms behind his head. He wasn’t as tall as Marcus, but he carried presence—6’0”, solid build, with a thick, round ass and the kind of thighs that filled out dress pants in all the right ways. His hair was cut short, neat, with a little wave to it, and he rubbed the tension out of his neck as he walked to the window and looked out at the river slicing through the skyline.
The conference started tomorrow. But tonight? Tonight was his.
He slipped off his shirt, revealing tight abs and a defined chest dusted with hair. After showering, he poured two fingers of whiskey over ice and opened an app he only used when he traveled: Downline. Discreet. Masculine. No profile pics unless unlocked.
The moment he opened it, a profile pinged nearby. “11th Floor. Black. 6’3. Dominant. Clean. Local. Only here this week.”
Elliott’s eyes narrowed. He tapped the profile, curious. There was something about the tone—calm, direct, no emojis, just firm statements and a single gray-toned photo of a man’s thick wrist and watch.
He sent a message:
“You local?”
The reply came quick:
“Atlanta. You?”
Elliott froze. His fingers hovered over the keyboard.
“Same. Midtown.”
After a few seconds:
“So we’ve probably passed each other and didn’t even know it.”
They both paused. A beat passed.
“What brings you to Chicago?” Elliott asked.
“Finance conference. Fontaine Hotel. You?”
“Same.”
Another pause. Then a photo unlock request. Elliott hesitated—then accepted.
His breath caught in his throat. He knew that face. Sort of. He’d seen him once or twice in Midtown—maybe at a cigar bar, maybe a gala, maybe just walking through the city. But he’d never imagined…
“Fuck,” Elliott typed. “I’ve definitely seen you before.”
“Same. Never thought you were into men.”
“Only when I’m out of town.”
The reply came faster this time:
“Come upstairs. 1102. Whiskey on the bar.”
Elliott stared at the screen. His heart was thudding. He had never moved so fast to put on a black button-down and tailored slacks. He checked himself in the mirror—clean-shaven, tight build, eyes sharp. He looked like a businessman on his way to a networking mixer. No one would’ve known he was hard as a rock beneath his pants.
The hallway was quiet. He knocked once. The door opened.
Marcus stood there, shirtless now, whiskey glass in hand. His chest was thick, broad, lightly glistening from a fresh shower. His sweatpants hung low, and his eyes met Elliott’s with no hesitation.
“Didn’t think you’d come up this fast,” Marcus said, voice deep and smooth.
“I don’t waste time.”
They stood there for a beat, tension buzzing between them. Marcus raised his glass slightly. “Marcus.”
Elliott cracked a grin, stepping inside. “Elliott.”
“Good to meet you… officially.”
The door clicked shut. The lights were low. Miles Davis played softly through the sound system. Elliott walked toward the windows, heart racing, looking out over the skyline. He sipped the whiskey Marcus handed him.
“Nice view,” he muttered.
Marcus stepped behind him, voice close to his ear. “Better now.”
Elliott didn’t reply. He leaned into the tension. They stood like that for a long moment—two married men, successful, professional, living lives built on control—now toeing the line of something primal.
“You ever do this back home?” Marcus asked.
“No. You?”
Marcus took a slow sip of his drink. “Only when the city sleeps.”
Their lips met.
It started soft—testing. A tease. Then teeth. Hands. Elliott’s shirt was unbuttoned slowly, then tugged off. Marcus gripped him by the hips, feeling the roundness of that ass through the slacks.
“Fuck,” Marcus muttered. “You been hiding this in a suit?”
Elliott smirked, then reached for Marcus’s waistband. The fabric slid down to reveal his dick—thick, long, heavy. At least eleven inches, veiny, and pulsing with heat. Elliott exhaled and dropped to his knees.
“I’ve been waiting to taste this all damn day.”
Marcus’s hand slid behind Elliott’s head, guiding him. Elliott opened his mouth, lips stretching as he took in the thick length, slowly, inch by inch. He moaned around it, breathing deep, letting the weight rest against his tongue before sliding it deeper.
Marcus grunted. “Shit… you know what you’re doing.”
Elliott pulled off just long enough to whisper, “Turn me around.”
That was all Marcus needed.
He grabbed Elliott by the hips and walked him toward the floor-to-ceiling window. Elliott braced himself on the glass, heart pounding. Marcus unbuttoned his slacks, pulling them down to reveal the jockstrap he’d kept on—thick ass framed perfectly, arched and waiting.
Marcus leaned in and kissed the small of his back, then dropped to his knees and buried his face between his cheeks, tongue diving deep, licking until Elliott groaned and pressed back.
“Fuck, Marcus…”
“Yeah, say it again.”
“Marcus…”
The sound of his name, raw and broken from the lips of a married man bent over a hotel window, made him throb harder.
Marcus spit into his palm, slicked his length, and lined himself up—pressing in slow, inch by inch, until he was fully buried.
Elliott gasped, his forehead resting against the glass as Marcus gripped his waist and started to move. Long strokes. Deep pressure. Slow, then building.
The city twinkled beneath them.
“You ever been fucked like this?” Marcus whispered.
Elliott shook his head. “Not like this.”
“Say it.”
“Not like this. Never like this.”
Marcus reached around, stroking Elliott while pounding into him from behind, hips slapping, rhythm rough and deliberate.
“You gonna cum for me, pretty boy?”
“Yes… yes… f-fuck, yes—”
Elliott exploded with a growl, thick ropes painting the window. Seconds later, Marcus bit down on his shoulder and buried himself deep, releasing inside him with a guttural moan.
They stayed there, breathless, bodies slick and tangled, the city glowing beneath them.
Eventually, Marcus pulled out slowly, watching the way his cum dripped from Elliott’s hole. He sank to his knees and licked it clean, savoring every drop like he’d earned it.
Elliott turned and stared at him. “You nasty, bro.”
Marcus just smirked and wiped his mouth. “You’re welcome.”
Marcus stood in front of the mirror, steam curling from the shower behind him. He was freshly shaved, naked, and unbothered—toweling off his thighs as jazz hummed low from the smart speaker across the room. The morning sun lit up the skyline, casting gold across the suite’s clean lines and glass walls.
He hadn’t slept much.
His body still hummed from the night before—Elliott bent over the window, that perfect ass framed in a jockstrap, his name moaned like a confession. Marcus had taken his time, fucked him slow, then deep, then tasted every drop of himself from Elliott’s trembling body before sending him back to his own room just before dawn.
He rolled his neck, towel slung lazily across one shoulder, and walked to the bar to pour himself a drink before getting dressed.
The suite door opened with a quiet click.
“Nathaniel,” Marcus started, turning slightly, remembering only then that he was still naked. “Shit.”
The butler stepped inside mid-stride, tray in hand, and froze just a moment.
“I assumed you’d left for the conference, sir,” he said quickly, eyes flicking once over Marcus’s bare frame before shifting forward again with poise.
Marcus grabbed the towel, too late to matter, and wrapped it around his waist. He stood there holding the glass, watching Nathaniel set the tray—cigars, whiskey, a crystal glass—on the bar like nothing had happened.
Then Nathaniel turned toward the window, pausing mid-step. He didn’t speak right away. Just moved closer, his gaze following something high on the glass.
“I’ll have someone take care of that… right away,” he said quietly. “No worries.”
Marcus blinked, then followed his gaze.
The streak.
He’d forgotten to wipe it.
A faint trail of Elliott’s release still marked the glass from where he’d painted it during his orgasm—head tilted back, knees shaking, body wrecked.
“Right,” Marcus muttered, clearing his throat. “Thanks.”
Nathaniel nodded once, already moving. No jokes. No judgment. Just a smooth pivot back toward the bar to adjust the ashtray.
Marcus sipped his whiskey in silence, eyeing the man across the room. Calm. Sharp. Handsome in a perfectly tailored way. And now he’d seen the view.
The top corner of Marcus’s mouth lifted—just a little.
He suddenly didn’t feel quite so rushed.
“Actually,” Marcus said, casually. “Can I have a late check-out arranged for Friday?”
Nathaniel paused at the door. “Certainly.”
Marcus met his eyes.
“Something closer to… evening.”
Nathaniel smiled faintly. “I’ll make sure it’s handled.”
The door closed behind him.
Marcus leaned back against the edge of the bar, sipping slow, already thinking ahead.
I’ll have him before I leave.
Elliott stirred slowly, still tangled in his sheets. His mouth was dry, his back sore, and his thighs ached from being spread wide against cold glass. The scent of Marcus lingered on his skin—spice, sweat, and something darker. He ran a hand down his chest, stopping just above his waistband, then rolled over with a groan.
The room was quiet.
He hadn’t stayed. And that was fine. It was exactly what he needed.
Still, the echo of Marcus’s voice—gravel low and thick with control—replayed in his head like a loop.
You ever been fucked like this?
Elliott closed his eyes and exhaled. “Not like this,” he whispered to himself.
After a long shower and a quiet stretch, he dressed deliberately. Slim dark slacks. Crisp white shirt. Gold watch. Everything about him said polished consultant. But underneath, he was still leaking a little, still loose, still wearing the memory of Marcus’s grip on his hips.
He checked his phone before heading out. A message from his wife.
“Hope the conference is productive today. Let me know if you need anything from home.”
He typed:
“It’s all good. Sessions start soon. Talk later.”
Then, just before he locked the screen, he saw it again—the last message from Marcus.
You’re a fuckin’ problem.
He smiled to himself and tucked the phone away.
The Fontaine conference floor buzzed with activity. Business cards. Tablets. Whiteboards being rolled into breakout rooms. Lanyards and strong cologne floated through the air like quiet competition.
Elliott stood at the edge of a conversation near the espresso bar, nodding at something he wasn’t really listening to. His eyes scanned the crowd and landed on him.
Marcus.
He moved like nothing had happened—charcoal suit, black tie, thick shoulders stretching the cut. His face calm, unreadable. But his eyes… they flicked toward Elliott with intention.
Elliott’s breath caught for a second.
No smile. No nod. Just a glance that dragged across his frame like fingertips over skin.
Marcus passed behind him—close enough that Elliott could feel the warmth of his body. As he leaned in to grab a black coffee from the bar, he murmured low enough for only Elliott to hear:
“I left a mark on your lower back. You might want to check that before you hit the stage.”
Elliott kept his gaze straight ahead, heart thudding.
“Too late,” he replied under his breath. “Some woman at my breakfast table asked why I was smiling.”
Marcus didn’t laugh. Just picked up his coffee and walked off without looking back.
Elliott’s pulse stayed elevated for a full minute after.
Marcus stepped into the breakout room and adjusted his cuff as the moderator nodded his way. The session hadn’t even started yet, but already three people were trying to catch his eye. He barely heard them.
His thoughts weren’t on market trends or Q2 forecasts.
They were on Elliott.
The way he walked into the ballroom like nothing happened. The way he stood perfectly still while Marcus whispered about the mark he left on him. The same man he’d stretched wide against that window, filled to the edge, then licked clean like it was the final course of a quiet feast.
He didn’t smile. But inside, he was already planning the rest of the week.
Late check-out was confirmed.
Clean sheets or not—he wasn’t done messing them up.
Rooks & Bone didn’t do table tents or birthday songs. The menu came printed on black cardstock with wax-sealed corners, and the waiters wore dark aprons over tailored shirts. In the back corner booth, behind a flickering wall sconce and a half-poured bottle of Blanton’s, Marcus sat across from Elliott, both men already three sips into comfort.
Elliott cut into his filet, knife gliding through the marbled wagyu like butter. “This place is ridiculous,” he said, glancing around. “Can’t believe I’ve walked past it a dozen times and never stepped in.”
Marcus leaned back, swirling his glass. “That’s ‘cause it ain’t loud about itself. Just knows what it is.”
Elliott smirked. “Kinda like you.”
Marcus didn’t answer that, just sipped and let the silence stretch—but not too long.
“You got kids?” Elliott asked, changing the rhythm.
“Three,” Marcus said. “Two boys, one girl. All under twelve. You?”
“Two. Both girls. One just turned ten. Smart as hell. I swear she knows how to hack my phone.”
Marcus chuckled. “That’s the new generation. My youngest asked me last week why I don’t work from home if I love them so much.”
“Damn,” Elliott laughed. “Mine told me I should stop working so much so I don’t go bald.”
“You already bald,” Marcus grinned.
“And that’s what makes it worse,” Elliott said, shaking his head. “These little girls got no filter.”
They both laughed, and for a while the food became background. The conversation rolled easy—kids, school choices, wives they cared about but didn’t always connect with anymore, college days, side hustles.
“You ever think about doing something else?” Elliott asked. “Outside corporate.”
Marcus nodded slowly. “Thought about opening a nonprofit. Something for kids in underserved neighborhoods. Financial literacy. Trade skills. Real estate basics. Get ‘em set early.”
Elliott leaned in. “You’re speaking my language. I’ve been mentoring young professionals on the side—college seniors, grad students. Especially first-gen kids. Help ‘em build portfolios and talk like they belong in boardrooms.”
Marcus studied him, nodding. “That’s solid.”
The check came, but Marcus had already handled it. The server didn’t even ask.
“You didn’t have to do that,” Elliott said, grabbing his jacket.
“I did,” Marcus replied simply. “You let me break you open against a window last night. Least I can do is buy you dinner.”
Elliott shook his head with a grin. “You’re wild.”
“Not yet,” Marcus said. “But I got plans.”
The record store looked closed. A dim neon OPEN flickered in one of the dusty front windows, but inside it was quiet. Shelves of jazz vinyl lined the walls, and an old man sat near the back counter reading a book on Miles Davis.
Marcus didn’t say a word as he led Elliott past the aisles and toward what looked like a janitor’s closet door.
He tapped a rhythm on the panel—four soft knocks, then two hard ones.
The door popped.
Behind it: a narrow, cinder-block hallway glowing amber. At the end, a velvet rope. And past that—The Hollow Room.
The room opened wide with heat and color. Velvet booths hugged the walls, thick with cigar smoke and deep conversation. Edison bulbs hung low over black-polished floors. In the corner, the band played slow and live—upright bass thumping while Anise leaned into the mic, singing “You Can’t Keep a Good Man Down” like she’d lived it twice.
At the bar, a man in a dark vest and whiskey-colored tie greeted Marcus with a grin.
“Mr. DeLeon. Haven’t seen you in a few months.”
“Brennan,” Marcus nodded. “Still holding down the best room in the city.”
“You know it. You want your usual?”
“Two of them.”
Brennan glanced over at Elliott, gave a warm nod, then slid a hand signal to the bartender. “You got it. Booth or bar?”
“Booth.”
They took the corner near the back—curved leather seats, low table, high privacy. Two glasses of barrel-proof rye arrived with a long cut of orange peel and a cigar tray beside it.
“Didn’t think you were into jazz,” Elliott said, relaxing into the seat.
“I’m into good rooms. And people who don’t talk too much.”
Elliott smirked. “Ironic, coming from the guy who just told me his whole life over steak.”
Marcus nodded once, eyes locked on him. “That was different.”
They sipped, watched the band, let the music soak into their bones. The cigar smoke curled soft, and Marcus cut and lit one slowly. He didn’t rush it.
“You said something earlier,” Elliott said, rolling the rim of his glass. “About not being done.”
Marcus leaned forward, elbows on the table. “I’ve had you once. But I want to see you come undone again. Different setting.”
Elliott’s eyes darkened. “You’re talking round two.”
“I’m talking about more than that.”
Marcus’s voice lowered, darker now—wrapped in cigar heat and quiet confidence.
“You ever been in a room where it wasn’t just two?”
Elliott sat back, processing. “You mean… watched?”
“Watched. Touched. Helped. All of it.”
Elliott looked away, then back. “Not yet.”
Marcus tapped ash into the tray. “But you’ve thought about it.”
Elliott paused. Then nodded. “Yeah.”
Marcus studied him. “I don’t just fuck anybody. I choose.”
Elliott’s voice dropped. “So choose carefully.”
Marcus smirked. “I already did.”
Elliott licked his lips. “And who else you got in mind?”
“I know a guy or two. Local. Clean. Hungry. Young, but they play their position.”
Elliott leaned back, heat in his gut now. “You really built for that?”
Marcus nodded. “I’m built for control. And you—”
He looked him over, slow.
“—you’re built to take it.”
Elliott’s breath hitched, but he didn’t flinch.
Then he lifted his glass and toasted low.
“To the ones who know.”
Marcus clinked his glass softly against his.
“And the ones who will.”
The Fontaine’s 24-hour gym sat tucked behind smoked glass on the mezzanine level—minimalist, dimly lit, and mostly empty after 11 p.m.Except tonight.
Marcus pushed open the glass door, towel around his neck, sleeveless black tee hugging his chest. He didn’t need the workout. He needed the discipline. A way to burn off the low growl still sitting in his chest from the way Elliott licked his lips when they talked orgies over bourbon.
He moved straight to the weight rack, silent, slipping plates onto a bar like he’d done it a thousand times. But before he dropped into his set, he saw movement near the incline bench.
Jace.
Younger. Sharp. 5’10” with that cut, athletic frame that carried no softness. Shirtless, in charcoal compression shorts and sneakers, his back glistened under the gym lights. Tattoos laced across one shoulder, veins bold down his arms. His fade was fresh, jaw clean. But his smirk?
That was familiar.
Jace glanced up from his set and froze just half a second.
“Well shit,” he said, wiping his forehead with a towel. “Didn’t know you were in town.”
Marcus gave a nod, setting his bar. “Conference.”
“Of course you are,” Jace said, dropping the weights and standing up. “Still working that finance game like it owes you something?”
Marcus smirked. “Still playing with your food?”
Jace laughed quietly, deep in his chest. “Only when it’s worth tasting twice.”
They didn’t say anything else for a beat—just stared. Two men who’d already crossed the line more than once. No shame, no hesitation. Just memory.
“You staying upstairs?” Jace asked.
Marcus nodded once. “Executive level.”
“Figures.”
Jace grabbed his shaker and took a sip. “You working out… or working something out?”
Marcus stepped forward, slow and deliberate. “Little bit of both.”
Jace raised an eyebrow. “You alone?”
Marcus paused—just a beat.
“Not this time.”
Jace’s eyes narrowed slightly. “New guy?”
“Older than you,” Marcus said. “Different vibe.”
“What’s he like?”
Marcus didn’t answer right away. He just picked up a dumbbell and started his set—each curl slow, deliberate, arms flexing. Jace stood there watching, towel hanging loose from his shoulder, half-hard now and not hiding it.
Marcus set the weight down and looked up.
“You still discreet?”
Jace stepped closer. “Always.”
“Clean?”
Jace lifted his chin. “Last test two weeks ago. Negative across the board. I keep shit tight.”
Marcus’s tone dropped.
“What about obedient?”
That hit.
Jace stepped in close, just shy of touching.
“Only when the one giving orders knows how to make me shut the fuck up.”
Marcus smirked, jaw clenching. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out a sleek black card—his suite key—slid it into Jace’s gym bag.
“Be ready Thursday night. Don’t touch anyone else between now and then.”
Jace looked down at the card. Then back at Marcus.
“You gonna share what I’m walking into?”
Marcus grabbed his towel, threw it over his shoulder, and headed for the door.
“I’ll send you a pic when I’m done with round two.”
The door closed behind him with a soft hiss, leaving Jace standing there—thick, hard, and grinning like a man already halfway gone.
Marcus was back in his suite by 1:15 a.m.
He showered again—slow, methodical, letting the water rinse off the gym sweat but not the grin still sitting on his face from seeing Jace half-hard and waiting. Jace would be easy. Already eager. Already trained.
But Marcus didn’t want chaos.
He wanted chemistry.
He stepped out of the shower, towel low on his waist, city lights stretching behind him. He picked up his phone and tapped open a name he hadn’t touched in a while.
Rico 🥃
He typed:
Still in the city?
Or you tapped out after the last time I folded you up?
A minute passed. Then three dots.
Rico:
Still here. You back?
Marcus:
Executive level. One night left.
I need you Thursday. Late.
You still smooth, still tight, still know how to shut the fuck up when I say don’t speak?
Rico’s reply came quick.
Always. What’s the setup?
Marcus:
Not just me this time. Two others. One you’re gonna want to ride until your legs go dumb.
Another pause. Then:
I trust you. If you’re in, I’m in.
Marcus smirked. Took a sip of water. Typed slowly:
Marcus:
No prep. No play. No one else between now and Thursday.
When I say kneel, you kneel. When I say wait, you watch.
And when I say take it… you take it. Clear?
Rico:
Crystal.
Marcus set the phone down, still shirtless, abs flexing as he reached for his whiskey glass. The suite was dark except for the city outside—and the hunger brewing inside.
Two in position.
Now all that was left… was showing Elliott the full picture.
Marcus didn’t sleep much. Again.
By 6:42 a.m., the sun had started to sneak between the curtains, casting a soft gold across the suite floor. He lay on his back, still in bed, sheets pushed low, one leg spread wide. The thick ring around the base of his dick kept him hard, full, and heavy—pulsing with anticipation for what was coming that night.
His hand moved slow over the length of it, thumb grazing the slickness at the tip, jaw tight as he stared at the ceiling. Images of Elliott bent over the window replayed behind his eyes. Jace’s sweat-slicked abs flexing in the gym mirror. Rico’s throat when he swallowed him whole last time.
Tonight was already living in his bloodstream.
His other hand slid over his chest, flexed abs rising with every breath.
Then—
click.
The suite door opened.
Marcus didn’t stop.
He turned his head slowly, gaze sharp and unbothered.
Nathaniel stood just inside the door, holding a fresh tray with pressed clothes and a sealed envelope.
He froze.
Marcus didn’t cover up. Didn’t flinch. His hand kept stroking, slow and heavy.
“Morning,” Marcus said calmly. “You always come in without knocking?”
Nathaniel’s eyes lingered—just a second too long—before he cleared his throat. “I was told you requested your Thursday garments to be delivered early.”
Marcus’s voice dropped, darker now, dripping dominance.
“You like what the fuck you see?”
Nathaniel swallowed. His composure didn’t crack, but his throat twitched.
Marcus gripped the base of his shaft and sat up slightly, still working his length with calm precision. “You walked in on it. Might as well take the view.”
Nathaniel stepped forward—quiet, careful—placing the tray on the table without turning his back.
“I apologize,” he said smoothly. “Didn’t realize you were… entertaining yourself.”
Marcus looked him over. Bare chest. Inked forearms. Neatly fitted uniform that didn’t hide much.
“No apology needed,” Marcus said. “I ain’t ashamed of the shit that makes me feel good.”
Nathaniel gave the faintest curve of a smile. “Clearly.”
Marcus paused his hand, still throbbing under his palm. “You ever wonder what it’d feel like to be used the way I use these other boys?”
Nathaniel didn’t answer. But he didn’t look away either.
Marcus licked his lips.
“I’ll show you before I leave.”
He let that sit in the air like smoke.
Nathaniel adjusted his jacket. “Shall I schedule a courtesy call for your check-out?”
Marcus nodded once. “Do that.”
The butler walked out in silence, but his posture—straighter, tighter—carried the tension of a man who’d just been chosen.
By 7:35 a.m., Marcus was showered, suited, and in the elevator heading down to the conference level. His phone buzzed—Elliott.
Elliott:
Still sore. Still thinking about Tuesday.
Marcus didn’t reply. The elevator pinged.
Doors opened. Elliott stepped in, clean-cut, charcoal suit, gold tie. His cologne hit first—earthy and fresh.
They stood side by side, silent at first. Then Marcus handed him the phone.
Two photos. One of Jace, shirtless in compression shorts, glistening from the gym mirror. The second—a close-up of Rico’s lips wrapped around Marcus’s length from a past night.
Elliott stared at the screen.
“Thursday night,” Marcus said quietly. “You ready?”
Elliott didn’t speak. Just handed the phone back, his chest rising slightly.
The elevator pinged again.
This time, it wasn’t just tension.
It was hunger.
Thursday – 2:17 p.m.
The conference had officially wrapped by noon. Marcus was back in his suite, glass of bourbon in hand, a calm smirk playing on his lips. The city stretched behind him, and tonight’s plans were already clear in his mind.
He pulled out his phone and typed, one message at a time:
To Jace:
Black jockstrap. Wear it under your pants. Shaved. No nut today.
When you arrive, don’t speak. You’ll follow the room’s energy until I tell you otherwise.
You kneel when I open the door. No shirt.
To Rico:
Red lace briefs. Nothing else. No socks. Clean hole. Mouth ready.
Don’t look Elliott in the eye unless I tell you to.
Touch yourself only when I say. Cum only when I say.
To Elliott:
Suit up like it’s a board meeting. Nothing underneath.
You’ll be the only one fully dressed when they arrive.
Stand by the window. Do not move until I touch you.
He set the phone down, finished his drink, and walked toward the bed. He had hours to prepare.
And he would make them count.
8:44 p.m.
The knock came—three soft taps.
Marcus opened the door.
Jace knelt already—shirtless, black jeans hugging thick thighs, his jockstrap waistband visible and tight beneath. Head bowed. Chest flexed.
Marcus let him in without a word. Jace crawled into position near the foot of the bed, still silent.
A second knock.
Rico.
Red lace briefs clung to his hips, bare and smooth everywhere else. He stepped in, silent, kneeling behind Jace without instruction.
Elliott stood by the window, fully suited as instructed. Black tailored jacket, no shirt beneath. His chest rose and fell with a growing tension, but he stayed still—watching.
Marcus walked between them slowly. One gloved hand brushed over Elliott’s shoulder. “Good.”
He grabbed Jace by the jaw, lifting his head. “You remember what I said?”
“Yes, sir.”
Marcus spit in his mouth. “Swallow it.”
Jace did. No flinch.
Then Marcus circled behind Rico and palmed the lace-covered cheek of his ass.
“This all for me?”
“Yes,” Rico whispered.
Marcus leaned close and spit into his mouth next. “Keep that flavor in your throat.”
“Elliott—take your jacket off. Leave the rest.”
“Jace, strip down to the jock. Rico—keep the lace on until I say.”
As the tension filled the air, Marcus pointed to the floor in front of the bed.
“All of you. Knees. Hands behind your backs. Mouths open.”
They obeyed.
Marcus walked past them like he was inspecting art.
He stopped in front of Rico and pushed his cock deep into his mouth, slow and deliberate. The sounds were immediate—sloppy, needful, raw.
Then he yanked it out, dragged it across Rico’s tongue, and moved to Elliott.
“You want it again?”
Elliott nodded. “Yes.”
“Say it louder.”
“I want it.”
Marcus shoved himself in, deeper this time, groaning low while gripping Elliott’s hair. Jace watched, hard, stroking slow in his jock, the ring tight and pulsing.
“Jace—take off your jeans. Edge in the corner. Keep your eyes on what’s yours tonight.”
Jace obeyed, standing tall, cock thick and heavy in the jock, hands working his shaft while he breathed through his nose, struggling not to explode.
Marcus bent Rico over the bed.
“You still hold it like I remember?”
“Yes.”
He pushed in, one long, nasty stroke that made Rico gasp, moan, then clench.
Behind them, Elliott dropped to his knees again, Marcus ordering him to lick what he left behind, tongue sliding over Rico’s used hole as he shook under him.
“Jace—get over here. Let Elliott ride you. Rico, get back to my dick.”
Positions shifted. Elliott moaned on top of Jace while Rico worked Marcus’s shaft with his mouth again.
The room turned wet, loud, messy. Slaps, groans, spit.
Marcus gave orders like a general:
• “Spit on him again.”
• “Hold his throat.”
• “Let that lace rip.”
• “Don’t you fucking nut yet.”
Only when they were trembling did Marcus lean back and nod.
“Now.”
Jace blew first—back arched, mouth open. Rico stroked himself fast and spilled across Elliott’s chest. Elliott, untouched, moaned into Marcus’s mouth as he came all over the edge of the bed.
Marcus wiped his mouth with his thumb. Calm. Still in control.
He looked at all three.
“Good boys.”
Friday – 7:26 a.m.
Legacy Tower Suites, Penthouse Level
The soft shuffle of hotel slippers and a discreet knock preceded the quiet click of the suite door.
Nathaniel stepped in smoothly, balancing a small tray—neatly folded towels, Marcus’s printed receipt, and a short black box containing a hand-wrapped cigar. Professional. Unassuming.
He paused just inside the room.
Marcus stood near the window, naked, thick and heavy with a black cock ring clinging tight. One hand stroked slow. He didn’t stop.
Nathaniel cleared his throat softly. “Apologies, sir. Just bringing the final receipt… and that cigar you requested. Also brought fresh linens in case you need them before late checkout.”
Marcus didn’t say anything at first. He kept stroking, calm and unbothered, eyes locked on Nathaniel.
“I assume you’re staying until noon?” Nathaniel asked, voice cool.
Marcus finally spoke. “Yeah… you already knew that.”
Nathaniel nodded. “Yes, sir. Just wanted to check if you needed anything else before I head off shift.”
Marcus tilted his head, motioned toward the tray. “You always this polite?”
Nathaniel held his composure. “It’s my job, sir.”
Marcus stepped closer, hand still wrapped around his thick shaft, body radiating heat and control. “Drop the ‘sir’ for a second.”
Nathaniel’s jaw clenched—but he didn’t look away.
Marcus smirked. “You’ve seen what I do to the ones I let touch me.”
Nathaniel stayed silent.
“Now tell me something,” Marcus said, voice dropping low as he stepped within inches. “What’s under that uniform?”
Nathaniel hesitated.
Marcus lifted one eyebrow.
Slowly, Nathaniel slipped off his blazer. Then his vest. Unbuttoned the crisp white shirt beneath.
He was built—broad chest, light dusting of hair, masculine frame. But when the pants fell, what he wore underneath drew a thick grin from Marcus.
Black lace jockstrap. High-cut, panty-style.
Marcus’s tongue clicked. “You came in here like a man, but you wear that shit like you know who owns you.”
Nathaniel looked away, cheeks flushing. “I don’t usually—”
“Don’t care.” Marcus grabbed the waistband, yanked him forward. “You put this on hoping I’d see it.”
Nathaniel didn’t deny it.
Marcus gripped the lace-covered ass, rough and certain. “Get on the couch. On your knees.”
He didn’t need to say it twice.
Nathaniel climbed onto the velvet cushions, face flushed, his thick thighs spreading as Marcus knelt behind him and tore the lace wider.
“You won’t forget this,” Marcus growled, grabbing a handful of hair and yanking his head back.
The suite filled again with the same rhythm, grunts, and nasty dominance from the night before. But this time, there were no observers—just Marcus taking what he wanted.
Afterward, he pulled out slow, smacked Nathaniel’s ass once, and whispered, “Next time… don’t knock.”
Friday – 10:32 a.m.
Marcus stood at the suite window, fully dressed now—tailored black suit, fresh shirt, quiet luxury. The cigar Nathaniel brought rested on the marble bar, untouched.
His phone buzzed.
Elliott:
Last night was unreal.
Marcus stared at the screen for a moment.
Typed back:
We’re not done.
A soft knock came—three short taps.
This time, Marcus opened the door himself.
Elliott stood there, casual now. Hoodie. Clean sweats. Eyes holding everything unsaid.
“You good?” Marcus asked.
Elliott nodded. “Better than good.”
Marcus pulled him in, slow and deliberate, for one final kiss—thick with weight, with promise, with everything they weren’t calling what it was.
When they parted, Elliott exhaled. “So when will I see you again?”
Marcus leaned against the frame. “When I say.”
11:58 a.m.
Marcus passed the front desk on his way out, luggage rolled silently behind him.
Nathaniel stood nearby. Composed. Suit back on. But his gaze dropped briefly as Marcus walked by.
Marcus didn’t stop.
But he did whisper low as he passed:
“That lace still on under there?”
Nathaniel didn’t answer.
He didn’t have to.
The end
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