 |
By *ordlad OP Man
3 weeks ago
Wrexham |
I never thought losing my job would lead me here.
After the redundancy hit last year, the days stretched empty and grey. Bills stacked up. Pride took a beating. Then a neighbour mentioned the older couple at the end of the lane needed help with their garden—nothing formal, just someone reliable a few times a week. Cash in hand. I took it.
They were both in their late sixties. Soft-spoken, silver-haired, the kind of men who still held doors open and remembered to ask how your week had been. One tall and lean with kind eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses; the other broader, quieter, with a warm laugh that settled into the bones. They lived together, clearly devoted, and treated the garden like a shared sanctuary—roses, a small orchard, a greenhouse that smelled of damp earth and tomato leaves.
I was in my forties. Fit enough from the work, but not young. And under my old work trousers, every single day, I wore women’s lace knickers. Soft black or deep red, sometimes pale pink with delicate edges. It was my private secret, something I’d started years ago when loneliness got too sharp. The lace against my skin made me feel held, feminine in a way I never spoke about. No one had ever noticed. I made sure of that.
Until the afternoon the taller one—call him James—brought me a cold drink after I’d been clearing the far beds. I was crouched, stretching for a stubborn root, trousers riding low. The waistband of the lace must have shown. Just a flash of black against my skin.
He didn’t say anything at first. Just stood there a moment longer than needed, eyes lingering. When I straightened, our gazes met. No judgement. Only a quiet, steady curiosity.
That evening, as I was packing up, the broader one—David—joined us by the shed. James spoke gently.
“We noticed,” he said. “The lace. Under your clothes.”
Heat flooded my face. I started to apologise, to fumble for an excuse, but David rested a hand lightly on my arm.
“It’s all right,” he said, voice low and warm. “We’re not shocked. We’ve been together a long time. We notice things. And… if you ever wanted to share that part of yourself more openly here, with us… we’d treat it carefully. Kindly. You’re inexperienced with men, aren’t you?”
I nodded, throat tight. I’d never been with a man. Never even come close. The admission felt enormous.
They didn’t push. They simply invited me inside for tea the next time I came. Then again. Conversations lengthened. Touches stayed respectful—a hand on my shoulder, a guiding palm at my lower back—but the air between us grew warmer, thicker with unspoken permission.
The afternoon it finally happened, the garden was quiet. Late sun through the greenhouse glass. I’d been pruning, and the lace I wore that day was soft ivory, almost translucent where it clung. James found me first. He stepped close, close enough that I could smell the clean scent of his skin, and asked, very softly, if he could see.
I nodded.
He unfastened my trousers with slow, deliberate care. The fabric slid down. The lace was revealed—delicate against the darker hair at the base of my cock, the soft pouch of my balls cradled in the thin material. His breath caught.
“Beautiful,” he murmured.
David came in a moment later. They looked at each other, then at me, and something wordless passed between them. Permission given and received.
They undressed me gently. Shirt first, then the rest, until I stood in only the lace knickers, heart hammering. James knelt. His hands were warm as he traced the edges of the fabric, fingertips skimming the sensitive skin beneath. He pressed a kiss to the front of the lace, right over the head of my cock where it had begun to thicken. The heat of his mouth through the thin material made my knees weaken.
David moved behind me. Strong arms wrapped around my waist, holding me steady. His chest was solid against my back. He kissed the side of my neck, slow and lingering, while James eased the lace down just enough to free my cock. The cool air, then the wet heat of James’s mouth closing over me—
I gasped. My hands found James’s silver hair. He took me carefully, never rushing, tongue tracing the underside, lips soft and patient. Every time I tensed, David’s hands stroked my hips, my stomach, murmuring quiet reassurance.
“You’re safe. Just feel it.”
When James drew back, glistening, David turned me gently. They guided me to the low wooden bench inside the greenhouse, the one they’d covered earlier with a soft blanket. I lay back. They undressed fully—bodies older, softer in places, but strong, confident, unhurried. David’s cock was thick, already hard; James’s longer, elegant. Both of them looked at me with open affection.
They took turns tasting me. James between my thighs, licking slowly along the shaft, sucking the head with wet, loving pulls. David kissing my mouth, deep and unhurried, while his hand stroked my chest, pinched a nipple lightly, then lower again to cup my balls through the lace that still hung around one thigh.
When they wanted more, they asked.
“May we?” James’s voice was soft. “Both of us. Gently. We’ll go as slow as you need.”
I whispered yes.
James slicked his fingers with care—lube from a small bottle they’d brought, warmed between his palms. One finger first, circling, pressing, sliding in only when I relaxed. The stretch burned at first, foreign and intense, but he waited, kissed the inside of my knee, whispered praise. A second finger, scissoring carefully, finding the place inside that made my back arch and a broken sound leave my throat.
David watched, stroking himself slowly, eyes dark with want but patient. When James judged me ready, he guided the head of his cock to my entrance. The pressure built. I breathed through it. He entered in tiny increments, stopping the moment I tensed, waiting until I nodded again. Inch by inch, until he was fully inside, buried deep, holding still so I could adjust to the fullness.
It felt overwhelming—hot, thick, stretching me open in a way nothing ever had. But his hands never left me, stroking my sides, my cock, murmuring how good I felt, how proud he was of me for taking him.
Then David moved closer. He offered his cock to my mouth. I opened for him, uncertain, and he guided himself past my lips with the same careful patience. The taste was clean, skin and salt. I learned the shape of him with my tongue while James began to move—slow, deep rolls of his hips that lit every nerve.
They used me together, but never roughly. James fucked me in long, loving strokes, angling to brush that sensitive place inside until pleasure coiled tight and white-hot in my gut. David fed me his cock gently, letting me set the pace, one hand cradling the back of my head. When James grew close, he pulled out, and they switched places with quiet coordination. David entered me next—thicker, the stretch sharper at first—while James kissed me, shared the taste of himself still on my tongue, and stroked my cock in time with David’s thrusts.
I came first, untouched at the end, spilling across my stomach in thick pulses while David was buried deep and James whispered filthy, tender praise against my ear. The clench of my body pulled David over; he groaned, low and grateful, and filled me with heat. James finished in my mouth a moment later, careful not to thrust too hard, letting me swallow what I could.
Afterwards they cleaned me with soft cloths and warm water. James pulled the lace knickers back up over my spent cock, smoothing the fabric into place like a gift. David wrapped a blanket around my shoulders and held me while the aftershocks faded. They kissed my temples, my cheeks, the corners of my mouth.
No one rushed me to leave. We sat together in the cooling greenhouse as the light turned gold, their hands resting on me—possessive in the gentlest way, protective.
I was still inexperienced. Still learning. But under their careful hands, the secret I’d kept under my work clothes had become something shared, something cherished.
And for the first time in a long while, I didn’t feel alone. |
