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By *ordlad OP Man
3 weeks ago
Wrexham |
I stood outside the door of the flat in Wrexham, heart hammering so hard I could feel it in my throat. Thirty-two years old and I’d never done this—never even kissed a man properly, never touched another cock that wasn’t my own. The messages had been careful, patient. He’d asked questions, never pushed. Now I was here, knuckles raised, about to knock.
The door opened before I could. He was taller than I’d expected from the photos, broad-shouldered, silver hair cropped short, a soft grey jumper stretched over a solid chest. Sixty-eight looked good on him—lived-in, confident, eyes that had seen everything and still looked hungry.
“Come in,” he said, voice low and warm. “You’re shaking.”
I stepped inside. The flat smelled of coffee and clean laundry. He closed the door quietly behind me, then just looked at me for a long moment, taking me in—the way I stood too straight, the way my hands kept curling into fists.
“First time with a man,” he said. Not a question. “We’re going to go slow. You tell me to stop, we stop. Clear?”
I nodded. My mouth was dry.
He guided me into the living room, sat me on the sofa, and poured two glasses of water. Then he sat close—close enough that I could feel the heat of his thigh against mine—and simply talked. About what he liked. About what I might like. About how nothing had to happen tonight if I changed my mind. His hand rested lightly on my knee the whole time, thumb stroking in slow circles, never higher, never demanding.
When I finally leaned in, it was me who closed the distance. His mouth was soft at first, almost careful, then firmer when I made a small sound against his lips. He tasted of mint. His hand slid up my thigh, still slow, still giving me every chance to pull away. I didn’t.
He undressed me like he was unwrapping something fragile. Shirt first, then jeans, then the briefs I’d chosen carefully that morning. When I was naked he just looked, eyes dark with approval, and said, “Beautiful.” Then he stood and stripped without hurry—thick chest hair gone mostly white, a soft belly, heavy cock already half-hard and thickening further under my stare. The sight of it made my own twitch hard against my stomach.
He took me to the bedroom. Laid me on the bed. Kissed my throat, my nipples, the inside of my thighs, never rushing. When his mouth finally closed around the head of my cock I nearly came off the mattress. He hummed, pleased, and sucked me slow and deep, one hand gently rolling my balls, the other resting on my hip so I could feel the steady pressure of his control. Every time I got close he eased off, kissed the wet tip, waited until I was panting and desperate again.
“Not yet,” he murmured. “I want you to feel everything.”
He taught me how to touch him. Guided my hand down his shaft, showed me the pressure he liked, the way to twist my wrist on the upstroke. When I leaned in and took him into my mouth for the first time he groaned low and long, fingers threading gently through my hair but never pushing. “Just like that… breathe through your nose… use your tongue under the head… good boy.” The praise went straight to my cock. I sucked him until my jaw ached, until spit ran down my chin, until he pulled me off with a soft curse and kissed the taste of himself from my lips.
He opened me with patience that felt almost cruel. Lube-slick fingers, one at a time, curling and stroking until I was rocking back onto them, moaning into the pillow. He talked the whole time—quiet, filthy encouragement mixed with instructions. “Push out for me… there… feel that? That’s your prostate. I’m going to make you come from that alone one day.” When three fingers moved freely he slicked his cock, thick and dark with blood, and pressed the blunt head against me.
“Look at me,” he said.
I did. He pushed in slow, so slow the stretch burned and then melted into something deeper, fuller. When he bottomed out he stayed still, kissing me, letting me adjust, whispering how tight I was, how perfect, how proud he was of me for taking him. Only when I nodded did he begin to move—long, rolling thrusts that rubbed that spot inside me every time. One hand stayed on my cock, stroking in time, the other braced beside my head so he could watch my face.
He fucked me like he had all night and meant to use every minute. Changed angles. Made me ride him so I could control the depth. Turned me onto my side and spooned me, cock buried deep while his hand worked my shaft. When I finally came it was with a broken sound, spilling over his fingers while my body clenched around him in helpless pulses. He followed soon after, burying himself to the hilt and filling me with a low, satisfied groan that vibrated against my back.
We stayed locked together while our breathing slowed. His hand stroked my chest, my stomach, the softening cock still sticky between my legs. He kissed the back of my neck.
“That’s only the beginning,” he murmured. “Next time I’ll teach you how to take it harder. How to open wider. How to make a man lose his mind with your mouth. How to come without anyone touching your cock at all. There’s a lot more to learn.”
I turned in his arms, still trembling, still full of him, and kissed him again—hungry, grateful, already wanting more.
Outside, Wrexham was quiet. Inside the flat, the night was only just starting. |
