The single knock echoed through the quiet suburban street, a sound far too loud for the hesitant tap of Gary’s knuckles. The door swung open before the echo had even faded, as if the man on the other side had been waiting, poised. And there he was. Andy.
The man from the grainy profile picture, but so much more in the flesh. Tall, yes, with a lean, almost wiry frame. His hair was a shock of elegant silver, swept back from a forehead lined with experience. But it was his eyes that held Gary captive—a clear, piercing blue that seemed to see straight through the cheap fabric of his shirt and the pounding anxiety in his chest.
“Gary.” Andy’s voice was a low rumble, a warm baritone that vibrated in the small space between them. It wasn’t a question.
He stepped back, a silent invitation into a house that smelled of clean linen and something faintly musky, masculine. The living room was dim, lit by a single lamp that cast long shadows. A single glass of amber liquid sat on the coffee table, waiting. Andy didn’t offer him a tour. This wasn’t that kind of visit.
“Drink?” Andy asked, already pouring a second glass from a decanter without waiting for an answer. His movements were economical, precise.
Gary took the glass, his fingers brushing Andy’s. A simple, electric contact. Fuck. He downed half the whisky in one go, the burn doing little to calm the riot in his gut. He’d never done this. He’d typed the words a dozen times in their chat, but saying them aloud, here, now, was different.
“I should… I told you. I haven’t…”
Andy’s smile was a small, knowing curve of his lips. He took a slow sip of his own drink, his eyes never leaving Gary’s. “I know what you told me. It doesn’t matter what you haven’t done. Only what you want to do.”
The directness was a punch to Gary’s diaphragm, stealing his breath. He’d spent twenty years in the polite, often silent negotiations of a dying marriage. This was something else entirely. This was a language of pure, unfiltered want.
Andy set his glass down. The finality of the click on the tabletop seemed to signal the end of the preamble. He closed the distance between them in one smooth stride. He didn’t grab, didn’t push. He simply cupped Gary’s jaw, his thumb stroking the rough stubble on his cheek. His touch was surprisingly gentle.
“You think too much,” Andy murmured, his face so close Gary could smell the whisky on his breath, see the faint tracing of veins in those startling blue eyes. “Stop thinking.”
Then his lips were on Gary’s.
It started tenderly, a soft, exploring pressure. A testing. Gary’s brain, a frantic mess of what-ifs and oh-gods, short-circuited. The warmth of Andy’s mouth, the faint taste of fine scotch, the scent of his skin—it all fused into a single, overwhelming sensation. His own lips parted on a shaky exhale, and Andy deepened the kiss immediately.
This was not the hurried, perfunctory kissing of his past. This was a languid, thorough conquest. Andy’s tongue slid against his, not aggressively, but with a devastating surety, mapping the inside of his mouth with a slow, sensual purpose. Gary felt himself leaning into it, his own hands coming up to clutch at Andy’s shoulders, the wool of his sweater soft under his desperate fingers. He was losing himself in it, the world narrowing to the slick, hot connection of their mouths. A low, involuntary sound escaped his throat, a groan of surrender.
Andy broke the kiss, his breathing slightly ragged. A dark, hungry satisfaction glittered in his eyes. “There he is,” he whispered, his voice rough now. “I knew he was in there.”
His hands went to the buckle of Gary’s belt. The rasp of the leather sliding free was obscenely loud. The button of his jeans popped open, the zipper hissed down. Gary stood frozen, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird, as Andy pushed his jeans and briefs down to his thighs in one firm motion.
His cock, already half-hard from the kiss, sprang free into the cool air of the room. It thickened rapidly under Andy’s unwavering gaze, rising to its full, aching length. Gary felt a flush of heat spread across his chest, a mixture of profound vulnerability and raw, dizzying excitement.
Andy didn’t just look. He studied it. He reached out and took Gary’s shaft in his hand, not to stroke, but to hold. To feel its weight. Gary’s cock was a solid, veined piece of flesh, a thick, heavy length of him that tapered to a broad, flushed head, already glistening with a bead of moisture at the slit.
“Fucking beautiful,” Andy breathed, his thumb smearing the pre-come over the sensitive crown, making Gary jerk. “A real man’s cock. Thick. Perfect.”
Then he dropped to his knees.
The sight was nearly enough to make Gary come right there. This confident, silver-haired man on his knees before him, his blue eyes looking up, locking with Gary’s as he leaned forward. He didn’t plunge. He extended his tongue, flat and pink, and gave one long, slow, filthy lick from the very base of Gary’s shaft all the way to the tip. It was a deliberate, savouring action. A tasting.
Gary’s head fell back, a broken gasp tearing from his lips. Jesus Christ. The heat of that tongue, the rough-soft texture, the sheer deviance of the act—it unleashed something feral in him.
Andy took him into his mouth.
It wasn’t a tentative Acceptance. It was a deep, hungry engulfment. His mouth was a furnace of wet, sucking heat. He took Gary deep, his lips stretching around the girth, meeting his fist where he held the base. Gary could feel the back of Andy’s throat, a tight, muscular ring that fluttered against the head of his cock.
“Oh, god… Andy…” Gary cried out, his fingers tangling in that silver hair, not pushing, just holding on for dear life.
Andy began to move, establishing a rhythm that was both expert and ravenous. He sucked him down, his head bobbing, his mouth creating a perfect, tight vacuum on each upward pull. The sounds were lewd, wet, and utterly intoxicating. Guttural sucks, slick slides, Gary’s own ragged panting.
Just as Gary felt the first tremors of an approaching climax, Andy pulled off with a wet pop. His cock, slick with saliva, stood rigid and throbbing in the air.
“Look at you,” Andy growled, his voice wrecked. “My greedy little virgin. You were about to spill yourself down my throat like a desperate boy.” The words were crude, degrading, but the look in his eyes was one of pure, heated praise. “But you’re not a boy, are you? You’re a man. You can take more.”
The emotional whiplash was dizzying. The crudity made him flush with shame, but the approval, the raw hunger, made his cock twitch, aching for more.
“Now,” Andy commanded, his hand stroking Gary’s length slowly, firmly. “Your turn. Get on your knees and taste what you’ve done.”
He didn’t give Gary time to think, to hesitate. He guided him down, a firm pressure on his shoulder until Gary’s knees hit the plush rug. Andy stood over him, unbuckling his own trousers. They fell, and his cock sprang out.
It was different from Gary’s. Longer, perhaps, and slightly less thick, but elegant and straight as an arrow, a prominent vein running along its underside. The head was a smooth, plum-coloured dome, large and perfectly formed, beading with moisture. It was a beautiful, intimidating piece of anatomy, and it was inches from Gary’s face. The scent was musky, deeply masculine, the scent of Andy’s arousal.
“Open,” Andy said, his tone leaving no room for debate.
Gary obeyed. He leaned forward, his own heart pounding in his ears, and tentatively licked the broad head. The taste was salty, musky, uniquely Andy. He felt a shudder go through the man above him.
“That’s it,” Andy groaned, his hand back in Gary’s hair, not forcing, just guiding. “Use that tongue. Get it nice and wet for me, you gorgeous cocksucker.”
The filthy praise ignited something in Gary. He opened wider and took the head into his mouth. It was a stretch, an unfamiliar fullness on his tongue. He mimicked what Andy had done, swirling his tongue around the sensitive ridge, sucking gently. Andy’s hips gave a tiny, involuntary thrust.
“Deeper,” he urged, his voice thick. “Take it. Show me you were born for this.”
Gary relaxed his jaw and let Andy slide further in. He focused on the sensation—the smooth, hot skin, the weight on his tongue, the way Andy’s breathing hitched when he found a particular spot. He began to move, finding a rhythm, one hand wrapping around the base of Andy’s cock as he worked the length with his mouth. He was doing it. He was really doing it, and the power of it, the sheer depraved thrill, was making his own neglected cock ache with need.
Andy’s moans grew louder, less controlled. His grip in Gary’s hair tightened. “Yeah… just like that… fucking natural… such a good mouth… my perfect, filthy fucking mouth…”
He was panting, his abdominal muscles clenching. “I’m close… so close… going to pump this deep down your throat… going to fill you up…”
He thrust forward, once, twice, a shallow, desperate pumping against Gary’s tongue. Gary felt the first hot, bitter jet hit the back of his throat. He swallowed instinctively, again and again, as Andy emptied himself with a guttural, almost pained cry, his body rigid, his fingers pressing desperately into Gary’s scalp.
When it was over, Andy slowly, gently, pulled his softening cock from Gary’s lips. He looked down, his chest heaving, his face a mask of spent ecstasy. He hauled Gary up to his feet, his strength surprising, and kissed him hard, deep, tasting himself on Gary’s tongue.
“Now,” Andy breathed against his mouth, his hands already roaming down Gary’s back, pulling their bodies flush. He palmed Gary’s achingly hard cock, squeezing it. “My turn to return the favour. I’m not letting that magnificent load go to waste. I want to feel it. All of it.” His voice dropped to a possessive, heated whisper. “I want you to breed my throat.”
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