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Coming Attractions — Chapter 04

← Start at Chpt 1

The taste of Matt Anderson was not what Ben Desmond expected. It was clean, neutral. It wasn’t the sharp, chemical bite of whiskey or the sterile mint from a breath strip that some of his other co-stars resorted to. For a dizzying moment, the sterile rehearsal room, the intimacy choreographer, the whole movie fell away, and there was only the surprising, simple fact of another man’s mouth moving against his own, hesitant and searching. Ben felt his own body respond not as Titus, but as himself, a low thrum of want that had nothing to do with marks on a script.

“Okay, stop right there. Perfect. Hold that.”

The voice was a scalpel, cutting cleanly through the fog. It came from the intimacy coordinator, who sat close by with a calm, clinical gaze. The spell broke. The fluorescent lights hummed back into focus. Ben pulled back, the air between them suddenly cool and empty. Matt’s eyes, which had been closed, fluttered open, a flicker of the same raw shock Ben felt mirrored there before his professional mask slammed down. They weren’t lovers in a cell. They were actors in a brightly lit box, and they had just been performing a piece of emotional truth.

Ben rolled his lips inward, tasting the residue of Matt’s lip balm, and let his gaze fall to the ground. The intimacy coordinator clicked her pen and made a note on her clipboard. Matt shifted off his mark, the bench creaking, his hand still resting awkwardly beside Ben’s knee.

From the corner, Marco Falco’s voice rang out. “That was…fine. Can I get you both to look at me for a sec?”

They did, as if summoned by an incantation. Marco, in a black t-shirt and jeans that fit like they’d been sewn onto his body, perched on the edge of a battered director’s chair, elbows on his knees, fingers steepled. He looked like a very expensive raptor studying the next meal.

“We’re verging on breaking new ground here, gentlemen,” Marco said, almost purring. “But I want more focus on what’s unsaid. Forget the script for a minute. Titus and Tariq have two years of history before this moment. All that tension—hunger, fear, guilt. Show me that weight.” He flicked his hand. “Matt, you’re holding back. I want you to want this so much it scares you.”

Matt nodded, jaw set, a line of sweat beading at his hairline. He flexed his hands, then shook them out, as if loosening a stubborn muscle.

Ben took a breath, steadying it, letting the oxygen burn a path down his throat. “You want a take with more…what exactly?” Ben asked, aiming for cool, but his voice came out a touch too sharp.

Marco grinned. “I want the moment you give in to desire. The loss of control. That’s the whole arc of this scene. Don’t act it—let it fucking wreck you.”

There was a pause. Ben glanced at Matt, who nodded again, eyes fixed on the floor. The intimacy coordinator made another note, her expression unreadable. “Reset to one,” she said. “Same lines, but try it with more physicality.”

Ben moved back to the start mark, feeling the world collapse inward. He hated improv. Give him a script, a blocking note, even a cruel rewrite—fine. But this open-ended, feelings-first shit always left him exposed in ways he could not control. He could hear his own pulse, a hot rush just under the base of his skull.

“Ready when you are,” Marco called.

Are you ready for more, Mister?

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Coming Attractions — Chapter 03

← Start at Chpt 1

Matt’s home gym was less a room than a shrine, carved out of half his basement like a secret cathedral for physical suffering. The floor was a puzzle of thick rubber tiles, and the walls were mirrored on two sides, the better to catch every angle of failure. Racks, benches, medicine balls, a climbing rope that hung from a beam as thick as his thigh—nothing soft or inviting, everything built for the work.

Leo, his personal trainer, had shown up five minutes early, as always, and was already stripping out of his hoodie by the time Matt slouched in, hair still wet from the shower he’d taken to wake himself up. Leo wore a tank that left his shoulders bare, his body marked by a geometry of muscle that looked ridiculous even in the forgiving light.

“Ready to get abused?” Leo grinned, already bouncing on the balls of his feet, like a golden retriever with biceps.

Matt rolled his eyes, then caught himself in the mirror, saw how the expression looked: automatic, not even a gesture but a spasm. He shrugged. “Let’s just get through it.”

Leo’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t comment. He guided Matt through their warm-ups, adjusted the bench and handed Matt a pair of dumbbells. “Four sets, twelve reps. Full extension.”

Matt followed, letting the rhythm of movement—push, breathe, lower, hold—force his mind into a meditative trance. His arms felt hollow, hands unmoored from the rest of him, but he’d built enough muscle memory to fake the effort for as long as needed.

Leo spotted him from behind, close enough that the heat from his chest radiated through Matt’s shirt. “You’re sandbagging,” Leo said, too low for it to sound like a joke.

Matt pressed harder, trying to find a burn that might override the brain static. “Maybe I’m tired.”

“You don’t get tired, Matt. You’re either all-in or you’re checked out. Something wrong? You feeling okay?”

Matt smiled, but there was nothing behind it. He let the weights drop and stood, sweat already slicking the back of his neck. “Let’s do circuits.”

“Hell yeah.” Leo’s voice snapped back to upbeat. “You call it.”

They ran the next hour as a gauntlet: box jumps, kettlebell swings, prowler sled up and down an exposed concrete path the length of the gym. Matt pushed, not for the PRs but to force out a feeling, any feeling, that wasn’t what had been eating him since the table read for Ultimus Spiritus.

Leo kept pace, but his eyes never left Matt. Every time Matt flagged, Leo was there: clapping his back, goading him, trash-talking until Matt found enough energy to bite back.

“What’s on your mind, sport?” Leo asked. “You’re sleepwalking through this, and it’s definitely not your form.”

“Fuck you.”

“Hey, you’re paying for the punishment,” quipped Leo without missing a beat.

Matt smirked, stripped off his t-shirt and tossed it against the wall as he walked towards the wrestling mats. Leo followed suit, silently taking his place opposite Matt. He lowered himself into the referee’s position and waited for Matt’s signal.

“Try and take me down,” Matt snapped before lunging forward.

Leo had the kind of pure, happy strength that made Matt want to break him. He lunged, trying to overpower him, but Leo was a solid wall of muscle. He absorbed the impact, then used Matt’s own momentum to grip his wrist and wrench him to the ground, landing on top, laughing as Matt tried to buck him off.

“You’re getting soft, superstar,” Leo teased, but there was something in the way he ground his hips down, the hard line of his cock pressing through the mesh shorts.

Are you ready for more, Mister?

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Coming Attractions — Chapter 02

← Start at Chpt I

Ben drove to Elias’ on autopilot, the city dissolving behind the windshield. When he pulled into the driveway, he left the engine running a full thirty seconds before killing it, letting the AC whine and settle, and the silence build until his pulse stopped trying to crawl up the back of his throat.

He tried to check his face in the rearview—shook, a little sunken at the cheekbones, the skin beneath his eyes gone the colour of a bruise—but the dusk had washed the glass into a murky, unhelpful portrait. He was still damp from the rain earlier, and looked less like the face on a billboard and more like the kind of guy who’d sleep in a car. Or go cruising in a public bathroom.

Elias opened the door and stepped aside, letting Ben in with a nod that somehow accounted for everything Ben had ever failed to say. The interior was warm and filtered, smelling faintly of Turkish tobacco, even though Elias never smoked inside. There was music—old Chet Baker—and the lights were just at the boundary of useful.

“You’re wet,” Elias observed.

Ben shrugged off his hoodie and let it fall onto the empty chair by the door. “Got caught in the rain,” he lied, or not exactly lied, but cut the story short before it got to the part that mattered.

Elias made a show of glancing at the clock. “I wasn’t expecting you.” He moved to the sideboard and poured two fingers of some ridiculous scotch into a glass, then another, and pushed one across the marble for Ben. “You look,” he considered, “unsettled.”

Ben took the glass and sank into the couch cushions. “I look tired.”

Elias sat at the far end, an elegant diagonal of distance, and sipped. “You don’t get tired. You go all out and then crash for a week.”

“I’m not crashing.”

Elias gave a small, perfect smile. “Not yet.”

The silence stretched, thick with unspoken questions, and Ben’s own heartbeat felt loud in the room. He broke first. “It was a shit day,” he said.

“Define shit.”

Ben stared at his glass, watching the light fracture in the liquid. “It just—” The words caught, then tumbled out faster than he’d meant. “I needed to not be me for a while.”

“Isn’t that what you do for a living?” Elias asked.

Ben didn’t reply.

Elias raised an eyebrow, then stood and wandered to the window. “We could talk about something else.”

“Like what?”

“Anything. Sports. The weather. You want to talk about your mother?”

A laugh escaped Ben, sharp and surprised.

Elias leaned against the glass, hands in his pockets. “You don’t have to do this.”

“Do what?”

“Perform. For me.” Elias turned, his movements easy. “You’re allowed to be a mess here.”

He said it with a certainty that made Ben’s skin tighten along his jaw, some dormant urge to resist even this small mercy. He finished the scotch and set the glass aside, then leaned back and let his head sink into the sofa’s worn velvet. “I’m fine,” he lied again, this time with the fluency of a native.

Elias walked over, moved the empty glass from Ben’s side, and sat beside him—not close, not touching, but near. He watched Ben with an unnerving stillness.

Ben closed his eyes. “I did something stupid.”

“Define stupid.”

In his mind, Ben saw the bathroom again, the stranger’s mouth, the cut of recognition. “I let someone—” he hesitated, unsure if he was protecting himself or the memory. “I went cruising. Looking for something anonymous.” He cleared his throat before proceeding. “But…maybe not so anonymous.”

Elias’ response was a slow exhalation, the kind that said he was neither surprised nor judgmental. “Did you want it?”

“I don’t know.” Ben’s voice had a raw edge, almost a tremor. “I just needed to be somewhere else. To not be myself for a while.”

“So you said. And did it work?”

Ben shook his head.

Elias nodded, as if this confirmed a diagnosis he’d been considering. “You don’t have to tell me any of it.”

Ben leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “He knew who I was. Not right away, but at the end, he called me Sergeant Graves. Like it was a fucking magic word.”

“Maybe it was, for him.”

“Not for me.” Ben bit the inside of his cheek. “It just made me feel more—” He searched for the word, then abandoned the effort. “I left. I drove here.”

Elias’ hand slid down, slow, and his palm settled in the dip between Ben’s scapula and spine, pressing in small, measured circles. There was nothing sexual in it at first, just quiet, deliberate pressure. Ben let his breathing slow, let his chest open.

After a time, Elias said, “Do you want to stay over?”

Ben nodded. “If it’s okay.”

“It’s always okay,” Elias said, and stood, offering his hand.

In the bedroom, the light was lower, filtered by heavy curtains and the blue of the evening. Elias moved with deliberate calm, undressing Ben by degrees—t-shirt, the drawstring at the waistband—and Ben let it happen, his body loose and compliant, trusting the hands that knew where to go.

Elias insisted on kissing every inch of Ben’s neck, jaw, the skin behind his ears, each place where tension collected and refused to leave. When Ben tried to speed things up, Elias just held his wrists, not hard, just a patient pressure that said wait. He manoeuvred Ben onto his back and slid down his body, taking his cock in his mouth with a control that bordered on reverence, as his fingers grazed Ben’s ass.

Ben let his mind go blank, or tried to. Elias’ mouth was warm and steady; Ben felt the heat of the moment spreading upward through his gut. Elias’ tongue traced a line up Ben’s shaft as if he had all the time in the world. Ben had expected efficiency—Elias was nothing if not efficient in all things—but instead he drew it out, a kind of deliberate, aesthetic cruelty. Each flick and drag stripped away another layer of his composure, making his hips lift from the bed. Ben squeezed his eyes shut and let the sensation roll through him, the subtle grind of stubble against sensitive skin, the soft pop when his cockhead grazed the back of Elias’ throat. Elias was merciless, but not in the way Ben had braced for. He never gagged, never moved too quickly, just a steady pulse of pressure, then a smooth withdrawal, the cool air a counterpoint to the wet heat.

Ben’s hands drifted to Elias’ head, hovering. He wanted to hold him, wanted to clutch the skull and fuck the mouth until he shot his load deep down his oldest friend-with-benefits’s throat. But he didn’t. He let Elias hold the rhythm and dictate the terms—Ben didn’t want to steer tonight. Every gulp, every twist of the tongue, was the kind of gesture that only came from years of paying attention, of practicing not just the act but the act of making Ben feel seen.

He risked a look down. Elias peered up, gaze steady and meditative. The look made Ben’s cock twitch and ass pucker, involuntary movements he knew Elias would understand.

He knew instinctively what Ben wanted—what he needed—tonight. Elias pulled off, cock glistening, lips slick. “Turn around,” he said. Dry, but not without warmth. Ben did. He braced his forearms against the mattress, chest pressed into the sheets.

He felt Elias behind him, nudging his legs farther apart. Ben obeyed, pulse in his ears, the hum of the music still playing in the other room drifting through the open bedroom door. Elias’ hands were careful as they pulled Ben’s hips back. Ben could taste the difference: with strangers, it was always rushed, mechanical, a friction transaction. This was slow, almost ceremonial. Elias pressed in close, the bulge of his own erection hot through his trousers, pinning Ben in place.

A slick finger prodded gently at Ben’s asshole, circling, testing, then sliding in with patient care. Ben felt himself clench, then let go. His body wanted to race ahead, but he forced himself to follow the tempo Elias set. Another finger, a gentle scissoring. Ben’s knees threatened to buckle, so he locked them and focused on the sound of Elias’s shallow, even breath.

The desire to be emptied out was a physical need now, to be fucked so completely it erased the memory of the stranger in the public bathroom stall. He pushed back against Elias, seeking the oblivion he knew this pressure could bring.

Elias withdrew, and Ben heard the metallic click of a belt. The sound sent a hot shiver down his back. Elias spread Ben with two hands, letting the cool air hit his exposed skin. Ben felt himself blink at the sensation, the chill at odds with the heat blazing in his face and neck. The blunt head of Elias’ cock pressed at his entrance, making him tense, but Elias gentled him with a palm stroked up his spine, a wordless hush. Ben let go, let the push open him, and when the ring gave, the sudden fullness made his guts spasm from the pressure.

Elias was thick and long, not record-setting but enough to make Ben’s body work for it, enough to be all he could feel. He expected a few exploratory thrusts—a check-in, an easing—but Elias bottomed out in one smooth drive, pinning Ben to the mattress, a hand braced at the small of his back. Ben swallowed a groan. He tried to will his muscles to slacken, his mind to go empty. Instead, every vein and curve of Elias’ cock was a line of fire, a geography mapped into him. The ache was exquisite, a pressure that made his own cock leak onto the sheets beneath.

Elias stayed deep for a moment, one hand on Ben’s shoulder. Ben could hear the raggedness in Elias’ breathing. When he started to move, it was with slow, grinding pulls, each withdrawal creating a delicious suction, each thrust burying him to the hilt. Ben locked his knees and arched his back, the angle pushing Elias deeper than he would have thought possible.

Ben found himself pushing back, impaling himself, wanting to be used up. He pressed his forehead to the pillow, jaw slack, arms stretched useless in front of him. The friction was relentless, pure. The sound of skin meeting skin was a metronome, the only rhythm he could track. Elias reached under and curled a hand around Ben’s cock, jerking it in time with each thrust, not gentle, not urgent, just constant. Ben’s own moans, the ones he managed to keep caged with strangers, tumbled out, animal and unpretty.

He tried to hold off, but the pressure mounted fast. Elias sensed it, adjusted the tempo—slower, then brutal, then slow again—as if he could calibrate Ben’s pleasure by touch alone. It was fucked up, how much that trust mattered, how much Ben craved the certainty that he could be ruined and rebuilt in this room and nowhere else.

Elias was close. Ben could tell from the way his hands shook, the way he muttered curses under his breath, the way he drove deeper, harder, until the slap of flesh echoed off the bedroom walls. Ben wanted to ask for it, wanted to be filled, but what came out was a fragmented, “Yeah—fuck—yeah,” as Elias pushed in to the root and stilled, quivering, a broken groan twisting out of him as he flooded Ben’s insides with his load.

Elias stayed buried for a long moment, letting his dick slacken and slide out of Ben on its own. Ben felt the void left behind by Elias’ cock, felt the bedroom air hit the inner walls of his ass, and then he felt that space filled by something soft, something wet, something hot: Elias’ mouth.

Elias’s tongue pressed against the raw, gaping entrance, startling in its hunger. Ben gripped the sheets, fighting the urge to clench up, but the sensation was so unexpected he barked a wet, joyless laugh. The sound of it amused Elias, whose mouth seemed intent on delivering a thorough cleansing. It was obscene, how thorough he was—his tongue driving in, then flicking, then circling, each pass sloppier, wetter, more invasive than the last. Ben’s ass was still leaking, and that didn’t deter Elias; if anything, it pushed him deeper, the obscene, sucking sounds filling the room.

Ben’s cock was mashed into the mattress, hard again, smearing a new wet patch onto the old. Elias hooked a hand between Ben’s thighs and pulled his hips up, arching Ben’s body. When Ben tried to bury his face in the crook of his elbow, Elias’ free hand snaked up and grabbed a fistful of Ben’s hair, pulling his head back, forcing him to hear every lewd, animal lapping noise.

“This is what you needed?” Elias’s voice, hoarse and ruined, came from somewhere close to Ben’s tailbone.

Ben tried to reply, but it came out as a string of vowels and curses. Elias laughed, low and feral, and then shoved two fingers into Ben’s spit-slicked hole without warning. The burn was glorious, all the more so for how rough Elias let it be. Ben bucked, shameless, fucking back onto the fingers he craved. He didn’t care how it looked or sounded; nothing in his world existed beyond the scrape of Elias’s short nails inside him, the way the tongue and the fingers alternated, then worked in tandem, drilling him open.

He was on the edge, dangerously so, as Elias’s hand closed around his cock. They hadn’t bothered with lube, but Ben’s own mess was more than enough. Elias pumped him, all wrist and brute friction, the kind of grip that left marks the next day.

Ben heard Elias spit—a wet, practiced sound—and then his fingers were back, cranking him in time with the thrusts from behind. Ben’s knees gave out, and he collapsed, but Elias followed him down, crawling over his back, never letting go of the cock or the rhythm. It was the opposite of the bathroom encounter: there was no need to be quiet now, no shame in the noise.

Ben came with a violence that startled even himself, a choking shout torn from his throat. It was ugly and loud and left him shaking, flat on the mattress and utterly spent.

He felt the pulse of blood behind his ears, heard the soft, contented sigh as Elias traced invisible shapes on Ben’s chest. The smell of sweat and sex hung in the air, rawer and more insistent than the chemical bite of the poppers had been earlier tonight.

Ben heard the distinct wheeze of sleep coming from Elias beside him. He didn’t have to perform here. He didn’t have to guard anything. He just listened to the sound of Elias’s breathing, a rhythm he’d known for years, a silence that asked for nothing in return.

The thought of the coming work tried to intrude—the rehearsals, the interviews, the other version of himself he’d have to be tomorrow. He pushed it away. For now, there was only the quiet of the room, the weight of Elias’s arm draped over his ribs, and the certainty that, for a few hours, nobody was watching, nobody wanted anything from him.

Coming Attractions — Chapter 01

← Read the Inspiration

The only sound in the nondescript hotel conference room was the rustling of paper and the low hum of air conditioning. A dozen people sat around the long, polished table in a silence as thick and heavy as the dust described on the final page of the Ultimus Spiritus script. No one moved. No one seemed to breathe.

Ben, who would be playing the disgraced Roman soldier Titus, was the first to break the spell. He carefully, deliberately, closed the script in front of him. The soft thud of the cardstock cover on the tabletop sounded like a gunshot. Across the table, Matt Anderson—playing Tariq, the Arab slave—flinched, his eyes snapping up from the page he’d been staring at.

The final moments still echoed in Ben’s mind: the roar of the crowd, the two lovers in the arena, the desperate, shared vow to die together rather than live apart. “Take my breath.” The words were a phantom pressure against his own lips.

Their gazes met for a fraction of a second—a flicker of raw, unguarded shock—before Matt looked away, focusing on the director, Marco Falco, who sat at the head of the table with a predatory, satisfied grin.

Marco let the silence hang a moment longer, savouring it. “Well?” he said, his voice cutting through the quiet. “What do we think?”

What the fuck was there to say? Ben’s mouth was dry. He could still feel the phantom press of a forehead against his own, the ghost of a desperate gasp. He risked another glance at Matt, who was now studiously examining his own fingernails, a faint blush creeping up his neck. The man was a goddamn movie star, the poster boy for American heroism, and he was blushing. Because of a few words on a page. Because of a story. Ben’s cock, traitorous and unprofessional, gave an interested twitch against his thigh. He shifted in his chair, the expensive fabric of his designer jeans suddenly feeling rough and abrasive.

“Bold,” a producer said, finally breaking the quiet. “It’s... very bold.”

Marco’s grin widened. “Bold is what makes history. And money. But I didn’t ask the money men. I asked my gladiators.” His eyes slid from Ben to Matt and back again. “Our Tariq and Titus. Gentlemen, what does it feel like to hold your own life in your hands? And his?”

Marco’s question hung in the air, loaded and obscene. It was the first of many provocations they’d face during filming. They both knew it.

Matt opened his mouth to say something—Ben watched it happen, watched the easy, practiced smile begin to assemble itself on that handsome, open face—and then Matt closed it again. Just like that. The smile didn’t land. Something behind his eyes flickered and went out.

“Feels like a lot,” Matt said. His voice was flat. “It feels like a lot to carry.”

Marco’s eyes glittered. He loved that answer. Ben could see it in the way the director’s chin lifted, the way his fingers laced together on the table. Marco had cast them both for a reason, and the reason was sitting right here in this silence, in the way Ben couldn’t stop noticing the exact shade of pink climbing up Matt’s throat.

Ben kept his own face still. He’d spent twenty years learning how. “It’s a heavy script,” he said, and his voice came out exactly the way he needed it to—measured, thoughtful, the kind of thing that sounded like craft talk in a trade magazine. “Thomas wrote something that doesn’t let you hide.”

“No,” Marco agreed. “He did not. Does that vulnerability—that exposure—scare you?”

“Fear is not in Titus’s vocabulary,” said Ben. “It isn’t in mine, either.”

Marco grinned at Ben mischievously. “Already getting into character, I see.” He turned his attention across the table to Matt. “And, you, Mr. Anderson? Are you finding connections with Tariq, as well?”

Matt chuckled. “On many levels.”

“Care to elaborate?”

Matt hesitated a moment, then ran his fingers through his goatee as he spoke. “Passion. Conviction. Stubbornness, you might say. It’s going to be a pleasure discovering exactly what makes Tariq tick.”

“Indeed it will,” said Marco, pushing against the table as he stood. “This cast and crew are about to embark on an incredible—and daunting—endeavour to breathe life into Ultimus Spiritus and bring our collective vision to a mass audience.” He paused dramatically, making eye contact with every person in the room. “I leave you today with our rally cry for this production, our call to arms: Ultimus spiritus nobis est! The last breath...is ours!”

The meeting dissolved after a rousing round of applause, which Marco seemed to enjoy more than he should have. Amidst the flurry of handshakes and production notes, Ben stood carefully, avoiding any direct eye contact. He gathered his script, tucked it under his arm and made for the door.

Matt was already there, holding it open with one broad shoulder. Their eyes met, briefly, and this time Ben saw something he hadn’t expected—a kind of startled recognition, like Matt was seeing his own reflection staring back at him from an unexpected angle.

“Good read,” Matt said.

“Likewise.” Ben’s voice was steady. He stepped through the door Matt was holding. He paused and waited for Matt so they could speak as they walked out together. “We should talk about the training schedule.”

Matt’s jaw tightened. “It’s going to be intense. Think we can get where we need to in six months?”

Ben gave Matt a once-over as they walked down the hotel corridor. This guy looks like he can step on set tomorrow, he thought to himself, eyeing the wonder boy, whose every muscle practically popped off the screen in his last two films. What is he worried about? “I think you have nothing to worry about. I’m the one who needs to catch up.”

Matt couldn’t help but laugh out loud at hearing the mighty Ben Desmond, star of countless action movies, and one of the industry’s leading heartthrobs, speak so disparagingly of a physique most men would give their mother for. “Please. You look like you can bench press a bus, man.”

They arrived at the elevators just as the doors opened, and Chloe stepped out.

“Perfect timing,” Matt said.

“Always,” Chloe replied, offering Ben her hand. “Chloe Barnes. I’m Matt’s assistant.”

Ben shook Chloe’s hand, and the contact was brief and professional, but he caught something in her eyes—a sharpness, an assessment happening behind the polite smile. She was reading him. He could feel it, as he did when a camera found its focus.

“Training starts Monday,” Ben said, turning to Matt. “Seven a.m. Don’t be late.”

Matt’s smile was back, or at least a version of it. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Ben nodded once, a clean punctuation mark on the conversation, and stepped into the waiting elevator car. The doors slid shut, and the fluorescent light hummed overhead, casting everything in that flat, merciless glow that made Ben’s blush look even worse than it felt. He pressed the lobby button and leaned against the back wall, letting his head tip back against the mirrored panel.

Out in the hallway, Chloe didn’t say anything for a moment. She just stood there with her arms crossed, hip cocked, studying Matt the way she studied everything—like she was already three steps ahead and just waiting for him to catch up.

“So,” she said. “How’d it go?”

Matt closed his eyes. The script was still in his hand, warm from his grip, and he could feel the paper clip marking the strangling scene pressing into his palm. He thought about the way Ben had looked at him across that table—not the practiced, camera-ready version of Ben Desmond, but something raw and startled behind the composure.

“It went,” Matt said.

Chloe waited. She was very good at waiting.

Matt opened his eyes and met her gaze. He could feel the flush of his cheeks, could feel the heat of it like a brand.

“It went,” he said again, slower this time, turning the words over in his mouth like he was tasting something dangerous. “You know that feeling when you read something and it just—” He stopped. Started again. “When you read something, and it gets under your skin before you even realize it’s happening?”

Chloe’s expression didn’t change, but something shifted behind her eyes. She knew him well enough to hear what he wasn’t saying.

“Marco’s going to eat us alive,” Matt said, and he almost laughed, but it came out wrong—too thin, too sharp at the edges. “He cast us for a reason, Chlo. He cast us because he knew exactly what would happen in that room.”

“What happened in that room?”

Matt looked down at the script in his hand. He couldn’t find any words.

“Fuck,” Chloe said, the elevator’s chime perfectly punctuating her expletive. “One table read, and you already got it this bad? You’re doomed.”

They rode the rest of the way down in silence.

Later that night, the rain outside came down in horizontal streaks, battering the concrete block of the public restroom. Ben waited in his car across the lot, the windshield wipers hopelessly flicking away the downpour. He knew the routine here well: the parks and rec police cruised by twice an hour, but tonight, nobody was going to bother. The fact that the city kept these fluorescent-lit, piss-smelling little bunkers open after sunset was a kind of tacit permission for what happened inside them. At least that’s what he told himself, flexing his fist against the steering wheel, watching the blue-white stutter of lightning spill across the sky.

He adjusted his ball cap lower over his face, pulled his hoodie up the cap and got out of the car. The rain soaked the fabric of his nondescript joggers clinging to his thighs as he darted towards the restroom building. The door opened without protest, the interior a gleaming tile hellscape under the naked light. Dim echoes of water plinking somewhere in the depths. Fucking nostalgic, in a way; the kind of place that, at sixteen, had been the only available outlet, the only haven where he dared to reveal who and what he was.

There was someone in the last stall. Ben could tell by the way the door wasn’t quite flush to the frame, the half-shadow of a sneaker visible beneath the partition. He took the urinal directly across, pulled the waistband of his joggers down and let his stream hit the porcelain with calculated indifference. The sound bounced, sharp and clean. He waited, counted the seconds, felt that familiar old hum under his skin. He’s watching, he’s waiting, he wants this.

Ben heard the lock slide open. The stall door didn’t swing, but paused, then eased out an inch or two. He clocked movement inside. A hand, pale and nervous, adjusting the waistband of athletic shorts. The man coughed, a dry, practiced warning. Ben tucked himself into his pants, turned without a word, and walked the row of sinks toward the back, his shoes leaving deliberate, heavy marks on the wet tile.

When he reached the stall, he paused. Lightning cracked, and the shudder of it travelled through the roof, making the man inside startle and mutter something under his breath. Ben waited, breath even, body on idle. The man finally looked up, the lines of his face cinched tight; older than Ben had expected, with a short beard, a wedding ring glinting on his left hand. Not a regular, not a profile he recognized. That was good. The anonymity was the whole fucking point.

The man said nothing, just shifted backward on the seat to allow access. Ben followed, stepping in, the two of them nearly chest to chest in the narrow stall. The air was thick with summer rain and disinfectant, a little tang of sweat and nervousness. Ben watched the man’s hands, saw how they trembled as they slid his shorts down to his ankles, freeing his swelling cock.

They didn’t need words. They both knew the drill. This wasn’t a courtship; it was a transaction. No need to negotiate. The man eased one foot out of his shorts and underwear, leaving him free to turn and face the toilet. He bent over, braced himself against the metal partition wall with one hand and the other on the wall above the toilet. Ben could see that this man had come to the toilets prepared, the crack of his ass already slick with pre-applied lube.

Ben slid his pants down to his knees, his cock already straining for release. This wasn’t time for finesse. He placed one hand on the small of the man’s back and used the other to grab hold of his throbbing member and guide it towards the stranger’s puckered asshole. Ben was about to push forward when the man reached back and tapped Ben’s thigh, waving his hand.

“Hang on,” the man said, fishing in his windbreaker pocket for a bottle of poppers. He quickly uncapped the bottle, held it up to his nostrils, and inhaled deeply twice. As he screwed the cap back on, Ben tapped his back and held out his hand, taking the bottle from him. The man resumed his position, and Ben proceeded to guide his dick into his waiting hole. The lube made it easy for Ben’s already hard cock to pry that ass open wide, and as he let the last inch slide in, he uncapped the poppers and took a hit.

Ben’s senses tunnelled to the heat of this stranger’s ass as the poppers flooded his senses with feel-good fumes. The man reached back with both hands and pulled his cheeks apart to get Ben’s cock even deeper into his chasm.

Ben started pounding, deliberate and slow at first, like he wanted to feel every constriction, every greedy suck of the man’s hole around his cock. The poppers turned his skull into a helium balloon, all colour and buzz, and every thrust felt like the only thing that mattered in the whole wet, echoing world. The man moaned, deep and low, and his ass went slack enough that Ben could fuck into him with real force, pelvis slapping against the meat of his ass, the noise ricocheting off the tile. It was loud, but the storm outside was louder—a rolling, thunderous symphony that made Ben feel as invisible as he’d ever been.

He handed the bottle back over the stranger’s shoulder without breaking rhythm, and the man snatched it, greedily sniffing while Ben’s cock punched in and out of him, balls tightening with every pulse of pressure. The man started getting loud, too, making these whimpers and hoarse fucks that sounded like they belonged in another decade, another life. Ben let it drive him, picked up the tempo, used both hands to haul the man’s hips back onto his every stroke.

He couldn’t see the stranger’s face, but the man’s cock was thick and twitching, sticking out over the toilet bowl, so hard it was leaking a glassy, endless string of precum onto the seat. Fuck, that was hot. Ben reached around, pressed two fingers against the slit, and smeared the translucent bead around the head before bringing his hand to his mouth. The taste was bitter and tinny and familiar, and he licked it clean, then reached again, gathering more, this time feeding it to the man himself, rubbing it into his open lips. The man sucked Ben’s fingers into his mouth like he’d been starving.

The poppers made everything easier, looser, louder. Ben savoured it with each ragged inhale, each time he bottomed out, the stranger’s hole spasming, milking his cock for all it was worth. The man kept meeting him in time, bracing with his arms, pushing back hard, taking the full length. As Ben felt his orgasm start to wind up—the burning in his thighs, the numb bright edge at the tip of his cock—the man started talking, almost pleading.

“Harder,” he said, voice shredded. “Breed me, you fucker. Give it to me. Fuck me—fuck me good.”

Ben’s brain went static. The words were nothing new; he’d heard them in every variation from every anonymous mouth and ass he’d ever encountered. They kept passing the poppers, the bottle trading hands without ceremony, the cap going on and off with frantic economy. He slammed into the man, hard enough that the partition rattled, and the man howled into his forearm, open and ugly and beautiful.

The man started slurring words as he fell deeper into the moment. “Fucking do it,” he repeated. Then, softer, he muttered, “Come on, John Connor, you know you want to.”

Ben’s brain stuttered as he heard the stranger call him by his most famous character’s name. Ben’s cock lurched, hips pistoning, and he shot his load deep inside the man’s loosened, twitching hole. The wave of pleasure was so strong it blacked out his vision for a moment; he sagged, head swimming, both hands locked on his hips.

The man wrapped his meaty palm around his dick, jerked once, twice, as his own cock spat a string of cum across the front of the toilet tank, the rest soaking his own hand. He made a strangled yelp and then another, like he was crying, or laughing, or both. He slid himself off Ben’s rapidly softening penis and turned to face him.

“Don’t worry,” the stranger whispered, holding up his left hand and pointing at his wedding ring. “I have a wife and four kids at home, and a congregation that would run me out of town if they ever found out. I’m not the kind to kiss and tell.”

He pulled his clothing back on, flicked the last string of semen off his hand into the toilet bowl, and left Ben standing in the toilet stall with a silent head nod. Ben stayed in the stall, listening to the stranger’s exit. He wiped himself with a wad of tissue, checked the mirror for anything that might stain him guilty, fixed his hat lower. His reflection was no comfort, so he didn’t linger.

The rain had let up, but the air outside was so thick with its humid, mossy aroma it felt like stepping into a greenhouse. He got into his car, hands shaking so hard he dropped his phone between the seats. He sat there with the engine running, breathing through his nose, letting the chemical aftertaste of the poppers ferment in his skull, feeling the ache in his thighs and the sticky root of his cock. He gripped the wheel and let his head fall against the headrest. This wasn’t the first time. It was just the clearest, the closest to being found out. One day he’d slip, and there’d be a photo, a TMZ headline, or worse.

He put the car into drive, letting the slow crawl out of the parking lot lull him back into his body. At the exit, he rolled down the window and let the evening air in, ugly and honest. He pulled into traffic, the city’s evening pulse starting up around him. These clandestine encounters filled a need but rarely left him satisfied or content.

This one was no different, but there was something out of the ordinary now gnawing intrusively at his thoughts. He didn’t care that he’d been recognized by the stranger, wasn’t worried about any repercussions from this anonymous rendezvous. Instead, he felt a sharp embarrassment, an adolescent disgust that he’d not experienced in ages. It felt like a betrayal, an apology, though he couldn’t say to whom, or why.

Open 24hrs

53 | Open Relationship | 6’1”, 185 lbs, Athletic Build

🟢 Online Now | 📍 0 km away

#Submission #PitPig #VerTop #Cucking #DontCallMeDaddy

WHO I AM

Intelligent, introspective guy in his prime who has spent a lifetime building a life of comfort and stability. Now, I’m tearing it all down to discover the parts of myself I never knew existed. I’ve always been the anchor in the storm, but I’m finding that I like giving up control more than I expected. Looking for a connection that’s as deep as it is demanding, and that respects the boundaries I have with my partner.

WHO I’M INTO

Men who know what they want and aren’t afraid to take it. Confidence is the ultimate aphrodisiac. I’m drawn to a sharp, commanding presence. Men who can read between the lines and understand the difference between fucking and owning. Someone who can challenge my mind before they touch my body.

WHAT I’M INTO

I’m done with the predictable. I need intensity, someone who isn’t afraid to take charge and push me to my limits. I have a deep-seated need to submit, to be used, to be filled with the kind of raw, uncomplicated pleasure that silences the noise in my head. I’m a pit pig who appreciates a man who isn’t afraid to get messy, to leave his mark, and to demand total surrender in return.

Ready for FULL EXPOSURE?

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Open House — Epilogue

← Start at Chpt 1

The casket was ostentatious to the point of ridiculousness. Tim couldn’t stop thinking about how much Dan’s father would rather have been sealed in an old burlap potato sack than that coffin.

He stood beside Dan in the receiving line, shoulder pressed close enough to feel the heat radiating through his suit jacket. The funeral home smelled of lilies and furniture polish, the air thick with murmured condolences. He’d been standing in the same spot for forty-five minutes, and his back had developed a low ache that he suspected would be with him for the rest of the afternoon.

“Thank you for coming,” Dan said to a woman in a navy dress, his voice steady and warm. “He always spoke so highly of you.”

Tim had lost track of the faces. A cousin from Dan’s mother’s side. The old man from the hardware store. He repeated the same phrases in a loop: Thank you for coming. He’d have been so touched. Yes, it was peaceful at the end. The words came out automatically, and he wasn’t sure any of them were true. Dan’s father had not gone peacefully. He’d gone the way most people went: confused, angry, and then, mercifully, unconscious.

“He was a good man,” the woman before him said, her eyes red-rimmed behind thick glasses. “Always so kind to everyone.” Tim nodded, the words a meaningless hum against his ears.

“That’s so kind of you to say,” Dan said beside him, his voice even despite the dark circles under his eyes. He’d been stoic throughout the service, channeling his grief into perfect composure. Only Tim could see the tension in his jaw, the slight tremor in his hands when he thought no one was looking.

Dan’s hand found the small of Tim’s back, a brief press of warmth through the fabric of his shirt. Tim straightened his spine and tried to look engaged in this act of public mourning.

“Dan. Tim.”

He looked up. Neil was standing in front of them. He wore a charcoal suit, slightly rumpled at the elbows, and a tie that was either dark blue or black—Tim couldn’t tell in the muted funeral home light. He looked tired. He looked like he hadn’t slept. He looked, Tim thought with a small, guilty lurch in his stomach, exactly like someone who had driven three hours to attend the funeral of a man he’d never met.

Are you ready for more, Mister?

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Open House — Chapter 07

← Start at Chpt 1

“Do you have a plan?” Tim asked, breaking the silence Dan had maintained since coming downstairs.

“A plan? Does this feel like a game to you, Tim? Some reality show where you pit us against each other to see who wins?”

“Are you planning on confronting him? Do you want to humiliate me in front of him? What’s the endgame here?”

“There is no endgame,” Dan said, his eyes never leaving Tim’s. “I’m not the one playing games.”

“It wasn’t a game,” Tim whispered, looking away, unable to meet Dan’s penetrating gaze.

“But it was something,” Dan spat. “You told me it was a feeling. Like something was missing before. What was missing? What am I missing?”

“I’m not in love with him, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Well, that’s a relief,” scoffed Dan. “For a minute there I—” He paused mid-sentence as they both saw headlights in front of the house and the sound of a car idling to a stop in the street. “It looks like Master Neil is here.”

“Dan. Don’t,” whined Tim.

“You don’t have to worry about me,” Dan mocked back. “I’ll be a gracious host.”

Tim watched as Dan rose and went to the kitchen window, peering through the translucent sheers. From somewhere inside the house, he heard the incessant tick of a wall clock beat in time with the sound of Dan’s voice echoing in his head: I’m not the one playing games.

Tim had no clue what was about to happen. He rose and stood just behind Dan, watching as Neil got out of the car. A wave of regret washed over him; he should have pushed back, held his ground, kept this mess between the two of them. He could only imagine what Neil was thinking as he walked toward the front door.

Are you ready for more, Mister?

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Open House — Chapter 06

← Start at Chpt 1

For a full ten seconds, the only sound in the kitchen was the low, steady hum of the refrigerator. Tim kept his eyes on the worn wood grain of the table, his jaw tight, saliva pooling at the back of his throat the way it did before he was sick. He didn’t look up. He couldn’t.

Then Dan’s voice, quiet and dangerously level, cut through the silence. “Who is he?”

The questions came one after another, each one a careful, clinical incision. Tim’s answers were flat, automated. He spoke of the “harmless” hookup in the hospital bathroom, the night Neil stayed over, the feeling of being seen. The last word came out as a ragged whisper. “Submission.” He laid the ugly, liberating word on the table between them, and finally dared to look up.

It was over in less than five minutes.

When it was done, Dan stood up. He didn’t look at Tim. He walked out of the kitchen, his footsteps heavy on the old linoleum. A moment later, Tim heard the click of the front door opening, then the soft thud of it closing.

Tim sat there in the deafening silence, the kitchen feeling colder and larger than it had moments before. He didn’t move. He just listened to the hum of the refrigerator and the frantic, useless beating of his own heart. Minutes passed. Or maybe hours. He had no idea.

The sound of the front door opening again made him flinch. Dan came back into the kitchen, his face pale, his eyes red-rimmed but dry. He went to the sink, his movements stiff and robotic, and started washing the single coffee mug in the basin. His back was to Tim.

“Dad’s infection is back,” Dan said, his voice flat, distant. “Another round of antibiotics, but the prognosis is good. He’ll be in the hospital until at least the weekend.”

The shift in topic was so jarring, so brutally normal, that Tim didn’t know how to respond.

Dan turned off the water, dried his hands on a dish towel, and finally turned around. He looked at Tim, his expression not angry, but something far worse: decisive.

“I need to understand,” Dan said, his voice low and steady. “I need to see him.”

Tim blinked in confusion. He didn’t know what to respond to first. “Your dad—”

“Dad will be fine,” Dan snapped, crossing his arms over his chest. He seemed unnaturally calm, the kind of calm that Tim had learned over thirty years meant Dan had already decided something. “I want to see Neil. The one you’ve been texting. The one you were with tonight.”

Tim’s mouth went dry. He’d been prepared for anger, for Dan to explode, but this cold, calculated response sent ice through his veins.

“Why would you want that?” Tim asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Because I need to understand what this is.” Dan’s gaze didn’t waver. “Is he just a body? Just sex? Or is there something else going on? Because if you’re falling for someone else, Tim, I need to know that now.”

Tim’s hands trembled as he gripped the edge of the kitchen table. He pressed his fingertips into the wood until he could feel the grain, the small ridge where two planks met, the faint stickiness of an old spill someone had missed.

“I don’t know what this is,” he admitted, the truth spilling out before he could stop it. “It started as just... physical. But now—”

“Now what?” Dan pressed, taking a step closer.

Tim looked up at the man he’d built a life with. Dan’s face was a mask of control, but Tim could see the pain lurking behind his eyes, the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth that always betrayed his distress.

“I don’t know,” Tim said again, hating how inadequate the words sounded. “There’s something about all this, something I wasn’t expecting. A feeling like something was missing before—”

“And now you’ve found it? This missing thing?” Dan nodded slowly, absorbing the information as if he were receiving a difficult medical diagnosis. “Then I want to meet him,” Dan said. “Face to face. The three of us.”

“Dan, I don’t think—”

“I’m not asking, Tim.” Dan’s voice hardened, the first real crack in his composure. “If there’s any chance of salvaging what we have, this is non-negotiable.”

Are you ready for more, Mister?

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Open House — Chapter 05

← Start at Chpt 1

The silence followed him out of town and down the highway to Waterstown, settling into Dan’s father’s house like it had always lived there. It had a scent—damp soil and old paper—and it pressed against him from every corner, every closed door, every surface he was afraid to touch. He was here because Dan’s dad had taken a turn for the worse, a sudden infection that landed the old man back in the hospital. Now Dan lived at that hospital, sleeping in a chair by his father’s bed, while Tim was exiled to Waterstown, keeping house in a home that wasn’t fully his, filled with memories that predated him. Every footstep he took was an intrusion, every breath exhaled a violation of this space’s desire for emptiness and stillness. He felt like a cancer that the house’s immune system was actively fighting to kill off.

Are you ready for more, Mister?

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Open House — Chapter 04

← Start at Chpt 1

The phone buzzed on the glass coffee table, the vibration rattling the TV remote and a half-empty, abandoned glass of water. Tim’s heart stuttered when he sat up and saw the screen. It was Dan.

He stared at the name, the letters blurring. Just minutes ago, the condo had been a sanctuary of sweat and sex; now it was a crime scene. Neil’s scent clung to the air, to his skin. He felt caught, exposed. The phone buzzed again, a raw nerve against the glass. He snatched it up, his thumb swiping to answer before he could think.

“Hey, you,” he said, his voice rough. He hoped Dan wouldn’t notice.

“Hey, you,” Dan’s voice came through the speaker, warm and familiar. “Did I catch you at a bad time? Are you still working?”

“No, it’s been a slow day,” Tim said, squeezing his eyes shut and pinching the bridge of his nose. “How are things there?”

“Just got Dad settled for a nap. He had a rough night. We could both use a nap, actually.”

“I’m sorry,” Tim said, guilt rose like a hot, sour bile in his gut. He was naked, sticky, sitting on the couch where he’d just been fucked senseless a few hours ago, talking to his partner, who had been playing nursemaid to his ailing father. “Is he okay?”

“Yeah, he’ll be fine. Just tired. You know.” Dan sighed, a sound Tim knew all too well. “So, what’d you do today? Anything exciting?”

Dan’s question hung in the air, innocent, yet sharp as a needle. Tim’s mind raced, a blur of images: Neil’s tongue in his armpit, the look on Neil’s face as Tim pissed on his chest in the shower, the feeling of Neil’s cock splitting him open, over and over again. He swallowed hard.

“Not much,” Tim lied, the words thick and artificial in his mouth. “Just chilled out.” He closed his eyes, but the memory of the shower flared behind his lids: the hot water, Neil kneeling with his mouth open, looking up at him with an expression of pure, unadulterated worship. Dan would never do this with me. The thought was a sudden, sharp betrayal.

“That’s good,” Dan said, his voice softening. “I wish I were there just chilling with you. I miss being lazy.”

The guilt was now a physical weight, pressing down on the top of his head, and Tim had to fight the urge to lie down. “I miss you too,” he whispered, the realization of just how much he meant it made his eyes water.

“You sound tired,” Dan said. “Have you been having trouble sleeping, too?”

“Something like that,” Tim managed. He could feel his cock stirring against his thigh, a traitorous response to the memory of Neil and the sound of Dan’s voice, a collision of his two worlds that made him dizzy. It wasn’t one or the other - Dan’s familiar warmth and Neil’s dangerous edge both lived in him now, twin currents pulling him apart.

“I was thinking about you last night,” Dan’s voice dropped, taking on that low, familiar rumble that meant one thing. “Was lying here in bed and all I could think about was your mouth.”

Tim’s breath hitched. His hand moved to his lap, massaging his growing erection. “Yeah?”

“Mmmhmm. Thinking about how long it’s been since we’ve had any fun.” Dan’s breathing was getting heavier on the other end of the line. “Are you in bed?”

Are you ready for more, Mister?

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Open House — Chapter 03

← Start at Chpt 1

“Fucking take it all, goddamnit.” Neil’s voice was a guttural rasp as his fingers dug into Tim’s hips hard enough to bruise, slamming into him from behind.

Tim’s face pressed into the pillow, muffling his desperate groans as his body rocked forward with each brutal thrust. He’d awakened just moments ago to Neil’s hardness pressed against his ass, their bodies spooned together in the gray morning light. They didn’t exchange any words; Tim just arched his back in silent invitation as Neil reached for the lube they’d left uncapped on the nightstand. Now Tim’s thighs trembled as Neil pounded into him with an intensity that bordered on violence, each stroke thumping his prostate, making his vision blur.

Are you ready for more, Mister?

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Open House — Chapter 02

← Start at Chpt I

The button-down joined the rejected pile on his bed. Too formal. He tore off another—too casual. He stood bare-chested, the closet a blur of inadequate choices, his frustration mounting. When had a simple drink become this complicated?

Tim had exchanged a dozen more messages with Neil after that first tentative text two days ago. Their conversation had flowed with surprising ease, circling through casual updates to deeper discussions about life’s unexpected turns. Tim filled him in on the situation with Dan’s dad. Neil brought him up to speed on his mother’s prognosis, which was not good; she’d been moved into an extended care facility and wasn’t expected to be able to return home and live independently anymore. Neil and his sister were now in the process of selling her house and figuring out their next steps.

Tim had surprised himself by suggesting they meet up—“at my place, if that’s not weird”—the second-guessing starting in his head even as he typed it. Their exchange when they first met at the hospital had been intense and hot, but after Neil accepted the invitation, Tim repeatedly assured himself that he wasn’t looking for sex. “It’s just drinks,” he repeated in his head, “It’s just talk.”

He just needed company, a counterweight to the oppressive silence that had taken residence in the condo since Dan left to care for his father. The separation was meant to be temporary, but Tim, usually content in solitude, now found himself adrift. His routines were disrupted, his sense of self untethered. So he’d showered (thoroughly, unlike his perfunctory preparation for the twink he’d hooked up with a few days earlier) and trimmed his beard, and now stood in front of his open closet longer than he had in years, pulling things out and putting them back. He finally settled on a soft polo, one of the shirts in his closet that he could put on and never think about again.

The doorbell rang, sending a jolt through Tim’s chest. He glanced at his watch; Neil was precisely on time. Tim took a steadying breath, surveyed his reflection one last time, and headed for the door, ignoring the voice in his head that kept asking what the hell he thought he was doing.

Neil stood on the front step, hands in his pockets, a tentative smile softening his features. He looked exactly as Tim remembered: intelligent eyes, the light stubble that framed his jawline, that air of quiet melancholy that had drawn Tim to him in the first place. But there was something else now, a nervous energy that mirrored Tim’s own.

“Hi,” Neil said, his voice low and warm. “I wasn’t sure I had the right place.”

Something loosened in Tim’s chest, a tightness he hadn’t even been aware of carrying. “It’s good to see you, come in,” he said, waving Neil in and closing the door behind them.

Neil looked around as if taking in the condo’s architecture, studying the millwork and paint finishes. When his eyes landed on Tim, watching him, he shrugged, “Here I am.”

“Here you are,” Tim echoed, the tension in his own shoulders easing slightly. “Come on in, make yourself comfortable,” he said, leading Neil into the living room. “Can I get you that drink? Beer, wine, whiskey?”

“Whiskey sounds good. Thanks.” He watched Tim go to the bar and pull two glasses from a cupboard, the silence broken by the clink of glass on glass. Neil’s eyes followed Tim’s hand as it measured the liquor. “So... How are things?”

“Still complicated,” said Tim, looking over his shoulder, hearing a nervousness in Neil’s voice that was a perfect echo of his own. “And you? How was your conference?”

“Boring, unproductive. A waste of money, really. Happy that the company is picking up the tab.”

“Conferences are just an expensive excuse to get out of the office for a few days and call it ‘professional development,’” said Tim. He handed Neil his glass and raised his own. Neil mirrored the gesture, their eyes meeting over the rims.

“To shirking responsibilities,” said Neil, bringing his glass to his lips and sipping the whiskey as they settled onto the couch.

“So,” Tim ventured, swirling the amber liquid in his glass, “how’s your mom handling the transition to the care facility?”

Neil’s shoulders tensed slightly. “As well as can be expected. She has good days and bad days. Yesterday, she knew who I was. The day before...” He trailed off, taking another sip. “The doctors say that’s how it’ll be from now on. A gradual fading. It’s just hard watching someone you know and love disappear like that.”

Tim nodded, understanding the weight of those words. “Dan’s dad is similar. Physically, he’s deteriorating, but his mind is still sharp. Almost cruelly so. He knows exactly what’s happening to him.”

“That might be worse,” Neil said softly.

“Sometimes I think so.” Tim’s finger traced the rim of his glass. “Dan calls when he can, but he’s exhausted. Taking care of someone is...”

“All-consuming,” Neil finished. “My sister and I were taking shifts before she got into the home, but it’s still overwhelming.”

They fell into a silence that felt less like a void and more like a shared breath, the kind of quiet that usually took years to develop. Tim found himself studying Neil’s profile—the way his brow furrowed slightly as he stared into his drink, the soft curve of his bottom lip. Something about Neil’s presence felt both calming and electric, like the warmth of a hand on your shoulder that somehow raised every hair on your neck at once.

As they worked through their second drinks, the conversation shifted from the heaviness of their caregiving responsibilities to lighter territory they’d not yet explored. Neil was an avid reader; Tim used books almost exclusively to help him fall asleep each night. They both loved music, but Neil was more of a classical fan (as was Dan), while Tim loved contemporary. Neither was particularly keen on travelling, but hoped to do more in their retirement years. Tim found himself laughing genuinely for the first time in ages, the sound almost startling him.

“You know,” Neil said, leaning back into the couch, “I wasn’t sure about coming tonight. I thought it might be awkward.”

“Because of what happened at the hospital?” Tim asked, feeling a flush creep up his neck that wasn’t entirely from the whiskey. He recalled the rush he felt when the two of them snuck into that private bathroom for a highly charged and emotional exchange.

“That, and...” Neil hesitated, his eyes meeting Tim’s. “I’ve thought about you.”

Tim raised his eyebrows.

“Not in that way, exactly,” said Neil with a slight laugh. “More like… I don’t know. I feel like I could talk to you. And I haven’t felt that way in a long time.” Neil studied his drink, keeping his eyes averted. “And I guess I hoped maybe you felt the same.”

The air between them shifted, thickening. It wasn’t just desire, though that was a current just beneath the surface. It was the startling, unnerving feeling of being truly seen. He felt his shoulder blades settle against his back, a weight he must have been holding upright for hours finally giving way, and he was surprised by the sudden burn behind his eyes.

“I’ve thought about you too,” Tim admitted, surprised by his own honesty. “I’m glad you reached out.”

Neil set his glass down carefully on the coffee table. “Tim, I’m not looking to complicate things for you. My life is complicated enough right now. But...”

Tim felt something inside him unravel. “Yeah, I know,” he said, reaching out to touch Neil’s hand. The contact sent a current through him, warm and insistent.

Neil’s eyes darkened as he interlaced their fingers. “Maybe I should go?” he asked, his voice low like he’d hoped Tim wouldn’t hear it.

“Eventually,” Tim said, “but not right now.” He saw teardrops forming in the corner of Neil’s eyes. Tim moved without thinking, sliding off the couch and kneeling in front of Neil. He wrapped his arms around Neil’s waist, pulling him close, bracing himself for the breakdown he’d witnessed in that hospital bathroom. He expected tears, shuddering breaths, the release of pent-up grief.

Instead, Tim felt something hard pressing against his chest. Neil’s legs had parted, straddling Tim’s torso, the hard ridge of his erection pressing insistently through his pants. The realization was a current that shot straight to his groin. He was instantly, achingly hard, the suddenness of it making his head spin.

Tim’s mouth went dry, then wet again with sudden need. He looked up to find Neil’s gaze fixed on him, pupils dilated, lips parted. There was no hesitation, no awkward negotiation of angles or intentions. They moved toward each other with an instinctive certainty, mouths finding each other as if they’d done this a thousand times before.

The kiss was deep and consuming. Their breathing had gone ragged and uneven, punctuated by the wet slide of lips breaking apart and finding each other again. Neil’s tongue slid against his, insistent and exploratory, while fingernails hooked into Tim’s shoulders, bunching the fabric of his shirt into tight fists.

Neil’s hands found their way to Tim’s hair, his fingers gripping at the roots to hold him closer. Tim’s hands slid up Neil’s back, feeling the play of muscles beneath his shirt, warm and solid and real.

When they finally broke apart, both gasping slightly, Tim rested his forehead against Neil’s. “I didn’t invite you here for this,” he said, his voice rough with desire.

Neil’s laugh was soft and warm against Tim’s lips. “I know. I didn’t come here for this either.” His hands framed Tim’s face, thumbs tracing along his cheekbones. “But I’m glad it’s happening.”

Tim stood, pulling Neil up with him. They kissed again, deeper this time. Tim felt Neil’s hands at his waist, slipping beneath his polo shirt to touch bare skin. The contact was electric, sending sparks through his nervous system.

“Bedroom?” Tim asked, his voice rough with desire.

They disentangled themselves with reluctance, Tim leading the way down the hallway to the bedroom. He hesitated at the threshold, suddenly aware of what they were about to do.

Neil sensed his hesitation, pausing beside him. “We don’t have to—“

Tim silenced him with another kiss, his fingers fumbling with Neil’s belt buckle. They collapsed onto the bedroom door frame, half in, half out. The hallway light cast a razor-thin outline around their joined silhouettes. Tim breathed in the warmth rising from Neil’s skin, that particular human scent of want and exertion as he finally freed the belt buckle, letting Neil’s pants drop to his ankles, leaving him standing in his boxer briefs, his penis tenting the taut fabric in front of him.

Neil grasped the hem of Tim’s polo and pulled it in one motion up over his head. They stumbled into the bedroom, a tangle of limbs and half-removed clothing. Tim’s hands slid beneath the waistband of Neil’s boxer briefs, fingers pressing into the soft flesh of his ass, pulling him closer. Their mouths never separated as they shed the remaining clothes, both too impatient to bother with socks.

Tim pulled Neil onto the bed, their bodies colliding with delicious friction. Without discussion, they shifted, rearranging themselves until Neil was on his back and Tim was above him, reversed, his mouth tantalizingly close to Neil’s erection. The position felt right, intimate in a way that went beyond the physical.

Tim took Neil into his mouth, savouring the weight and heat of him. Almost simultaneously, he felt the wet heat of Neil’s mouth envelop him, sending a jolt of pleasure up his spine. They found a rhythm together, an intuitive push-and-pull that felt like they’d been lovers for years rather than strangers reconnecting.

Neil moaned beneath him, the sound low and restrained, vibrating against Tim’s cock. Tim responded by moaning louder, deliberately. An invitation. An answer to the shame that had followed him out of that twink’s apartment. Here, there was only this.

Tim felt Neil’s hands grip his thighs, fingers digging into muscle as his moans grew louder, more abandoned. The sound of their shared pleasure filled the room, drowning out the silence that had haunted Tim for days. He lost himself in the taste, the texture, the scent of Neil, in the exquisite sensation of giving and receiving pleasure simultaneously.

Neil’s hips began to buck upward, his rhythm faltering as he approached the edge. Tim doubled his efforts, taking him deeper, wanting to feel Neil come apart beneath him. When Neil released him from his mouth with a gasp, Tim knew he was close.

“I’m going to—“Neil’s warning cut off in a groan as his body tensed. Tim pulled away. He wanted this, wanted to taste Neil’s release, but he wanted this—all of this—to last much longer than a quickie 69. Tim felt Neil’s thumb brush his jawline. Let me take care of you,” Neil whispered, his voice husky but softened with a gentleness Tim hadn’t expected. “We’ve got all night.”

Neil guided him onto his back, the mattress dipping beneath their combined weight. The bedroom, which had felt so empty for days, now seemed to contract around them, becoming intimate rather than lonely. Neil hovered above him, his body casting shadows in the dim light filtering through the half-drawn blinds.

“Tell me what you want,” Neil said, his fingertips tracing the lines of Tim’s chest with deliberate slowness. “Tell me what you need.”

The question struck Tim as profound in its simplicity. What did he want? Not just in bed, but in life? “I want to feel something real,” Tim finally answered, surprising himself with his honesty. “Just... make me forget everything else for a while.”

Neil’s expression softened. He leaned down, pressing his lips to Tim’s collarbone, then his chest, then lower. Each kiss felt like a promise, unhurried and attentive. Tim closed his eyes, surrendering to the sensation. Neil’s mouth was warm and sure, his hands steady as they explored Tim’s body with an almost reverent curiosity.

Neil’s mouth trailed down Tim’s body, leaving a path of tingling warmth. His kisses grew more deliberate as he moved lower, hands spreading Tim’s thighs with gentle pressure. When Neil’s breath ghosted over his most intimate place, Tim’s entire body tensed with anticipation.

“Is this okay?” Neil murmured, his voice vibrating against the sensitive skin of Tim’s inner thigh.

“Yes,” Tim breathed, the word barely audible. “Please.”

“Turn over,” Neil whispered, his breath warm against Tim’s inner thigh.

Tim complied, rolling onto his stomach, his heart hammering against the mattress. He felt Neil’s hands on his ass, kneading the flesh, spreading him open to the cool air of the bedroom. A shiver ran up his spine—anticipation, vulnerability, desire all tangled together until he couldn’t tell one from another, his cock throbbing against the sheets.

The first touch of Neil’s tongue was electric. Tim gasped, burying his face in the pillow as Neil licked a slow, deliberate stripe from his perineum to the small of his back. Neil’s stubble scraped against sensitive skin, the contrast between the soft wetness of his tongue and the rough scratch of facial hair sending sparks of pleasure through Tim’s body.

“Fuck,” Tim gasped, the word muffled by the pillow.

Neil hummed in response, the vibration travelling through Tim’s body like a current. His tongue circled Tim’s hole, teasing at first, then growing more insistent. Tim felt himself opening, relaxing into the sensation as Neil’s tongue pressed inside him. The stubble on Neil’s chin added a delicious friction as he worked, the slight burn only enhancing the pleasure.

Neil pulled back slightly, his breath hot and heavy against Tim’s now slick skin. “I want you,” Neil said, his voice roughened with want. “I want to feel you from the inside.”

Tim’s fingers clutched at the sheets, his breathing ragged and uneven. Neil’s hands gripped his ass harder, spreading him wider, his tongue delving deeper. The wet sounds of Neil’s mouth working against him filled the room, obscene and thrilling.

“Please,” Tim heard himself say, though he wasn’t sure what exactly he was begging for. More. Everything. All of it.

Neil responded by pressing a finger alongside his tongue, the dual sensation making Tim arch his back and push against the intrusion. The finger slid in easily, Tim’s body welcoming it, hungry for more.

“You taste amazing,” Neil murmured against his skin, his voice rough with desire. “I could do this all night.”

Tim felt another finger join the first, stretching him open as Neil’s tongue continued its relentless assault. The pleasure was almost too much, too intense. Pre-cum leaked from his cock, creating a wet spot on the sheets beneath him. He was painfully hard, desperate for release but unwilling to let this sharp, exquisite pleasure end.

Neil’s fingers curled inside him, finding that spot that made Tim’s thighs clench and his breath catch mid-inhale. “Lube. In the drawer,” Tim stuttered between gasps, his hand pointing in the general direction of his bedside table.

Neil’s weight shifted on the mattress as he reached for the drawer. Tim heard it slide open, followed by rustling as Neil found what he was looking for. The cap clicked open, and Tim tensed slightly at the sound, anticipation coiling tight in his belly.

“Hey,” Neil said softly, his hand coming to rest on the small of Tim’s back. “You okay with this?”

Tim nodded into the pillow, then realized Neil might not see the gesture. “Yes,” he said, his voice hoarse with need. “Very okay.”

Neil leaned down, pressing a kiss between Tim’s shoulder blades. “I don’t usually... I mean, I’ve never moved this fast with anyone before,” he murmured, his lips brushing against Tim’s skin. “But…with you, it feels…like a given. Like you already know me.”

Tim turned his head to the side, catching Neil’s eye. “I know exactly what you mean,” he said. “It’s like we’re picking up where we left off a long time ago.”

Neil’s smile was soft in the dim light. His hand stroked down Tim’s spine, a gentle caress that made Tim shiver. “Chemistry like this doesn’t come along very often.”

The cool slickness of lube touched Tim’s entrance, making him gasp. Neil’s fingers worked him open with careful precision, stretching him slowly, methodically. Tim pushed back against the intrusion, his body hungry for more.

“You’re so responsive,” Neil murmured, adding another finger. “So beautiful like this.”

Tim closed his eyes, losing himself in the sensation. Neil’s fingers found that spot inside him again, and Tim couldn’t hold back a moan that seemed to come from somewhere deep in his chest.

“Please,” he said, the word more breath than sound. “I’m ready.”

He felt the blunt pressure of Neil’s cock against his entrance, pushing slowly, insistently. Tim exhaled, willing his body to relax, to open. There was the familiar burn, the stretch that bordered on too much, and then Neil was inside, a solid, grounding pressure.

They both stilled for a moment, adjusting to the sensation. Neil’s hands gripped Tim’s hips, his breathing ragged above him. “God, you feel incredible,” Neil said, his voice strained with the effort of holding back.

Tim rocked back experimentally, taking Neil deeper. “Move,” he urged. “Please, just move.”

Neil began slowly at first, then started thrusting with increased urgency. Each stroke sent waves of pleasure through Tim’s body, building toward something that felt bigger than a mere physical act. Tim’s body. The room filled with the sounds of their shared pleasure—skin against skin, ragged breaths, low moans that neither tried to suppress.

“Harder,” Tim urged, his fingernails digging into the mattress. “I won’t break.”

Neil complied, his hips snapping forward with increasing force. Tim lost himself in the sensation, in the perfect friction of Neil’s cock hitting that spot inside him with each thrust.

“I’m close,” Neil warned, his rhythm faltering slightly. “So close.”

Tim reached between their bodies, taking himself in hand. “Me too,” he gasped. “Come with me.”

Their release was almost simultaneous, Tim’s body clenching around Neil as waves of pleasure crashed through him. Neil drove in deep one final time, his whole body shuddering as he came with a loud, exhausted moan.

They collapsed onto the bed, Neil rolling off to lie beside Tim, both of them panting and slick with sweat. Tim stared at the ceiling, his heart hammering against his ribs, his body still humming with the aftershocks of pleasure. He felt boneless, every muscle humming with a deep satisfaction he hadn’t realized he’d been missing.

“Holy shit,” Neil breathed, his arm thrown across his eyes. “That was...”

“Yeah,” Tim agreed, unable to find more eloquent words. His mind felt pleasantly empty, scoured clean of everything but the here and now.

But the emptiness didn’t last. As his breathing slowed and his pulse settled, Tim became aware of a growing restlessness. Despite having just experienced an intense orgasm, his body was already stirring again. He turned his head to look at Neil, studying his profile in the dim light—the curve of his throat, the rise and fall of his chest, the light sheen of sweat that made his skin glow.

Without thinking, Tim reached out and trailed his fingers down Neil’s chest. Neil’s breathing hitched, and he turned to face Tim, eyes dark with renewed desire.

“Again?” Neil asked, his voice a mixture of surprise and eagerness.

Tim leaned in to capture Neil’s mouth in a kiss that was slower than before but no less intense. He felt Neil’s hand slide down his back, cupping his ass, pulling him closer until their bodies were flush against each other. Both of them were already half-hard again, as if that first round had merely been a warm-up.

This time, Tim took control, pushing Neil onto his back and straddling his hips. He reached for the lube still lying on the bed and slicked his fingers, reaching behind himself to prepare his own body. Neil watched him with hooded eyes, his hands running up and down Tim’s thighs, his gaze never leaving Tim’s face.

When Tim sank onto Neil’s cock, taking him in one slow, deliberate motion, Neil’s breath punched out of him, and Tim heard his own voice drop into a low sound he barely recognised. Tim braced his hands on Neil’s chest and began to move, setting a rhythm that was unhurried but deep. He wanted to savour this, to memorize the feeling of Neil inside him, the way Neil’s hands gripped his hips hard enough to bruise, the way Neil’s eyes darkened when Tim clenched around him.

They moved together until the dim light from the window had shifted across the entire room, the pace gradually increasing as their need grew more urgent. Tim felt himself building toward another climax, this one slower but no less intense than the first. When it finally washed over him, he threw his head back, a guttural sound escaping his throat as he spilled over Neil’s stomach and chest.

Neil followed seconds later, his hips jerking upward as he came deep inside Tim, his fingers digging into Tim’s thighs. Tim collapsed forward onto Neil’s chest, heedless of the mess between them.

Tim’s muscles ached pleasantly, his body humming with satisfaction. He rolled off the top of Neil, watching his chest rise and fall.

“That was...” Neil murmured, his voice thick with exhaustion. “God, Tim. I should probably get going soon, though. Let you get some rest.”

Tim felt a sudden, unexpected panic at the thought of Neil leaving, of the silence returning to the condo. “Stay,” he said.

“Ah, you don’t have to—”

“No, really. It’s late. There’s plenty of room here. Stay.”

Neil rolled over onto his stomach and propped himself up on his elbows. He ran his hand over the curve of Tim’s shoulder. “You sure?”

Tim nodded. He couldn’t articulate it to Neil, but in that moment, he knew two things beyond a shadow of a doubt: that he needed to see Neil beside him when he woke up in the morning, and that this sudden, ravenous need for another person scared Tim to death.

“Hey daddy. Looking for now?”

24 | single | 5’ 9”, 120 lbs, twink

🟢 Online Now | 📍 3 km away

#bottom #boy #intodaddies

WHO I AM

24 yrs old bottom boy. Student by day, cum dump by night.

WHO I’M INTO

Looking for a daddy to show him what a real man is like. Older, hairy, and confident is my weakness. Think you can make a man out of me?

WHAT I’M INTO

Being ass up on the bed waiting for my DILF to come knocking at my back door. Also into verbal praise, body contact, and making out.

Ready for FULL EXPOSURE?

Read more

Open House — Chapter 1

← Read the Prologue

The silence was a physical presence. It was in the unnerving stillness of the air when he walked into a room, in the reflection that stared back from his phone’s dark screen. For two days, he’d fought it with noise—abrasive punk records from his youth that now sounded pathetic in their well-appointed condo. He’d left the TV on for its chattering voices, a flimsy shield against the quiet.

It was no use. The silence always won.

The problem wasn’t the absence of sound. It was the absence of presence. Dan had been a physical fact in his life for over a decade, and his absence was now a tangible void. It was a vacuum pulling at Tim from the inside out.

He stood at the kitchen counter, naked, staring at the dregs of his morning coffee. The digital clock on the microwave read 10:17 AM. On a normal day, he’d have been at work for three hours already, morning emails sorted and prioritized, meetings scheduled, to-do lists well on their way to becoming done lists. But he’d taken the week off, a misguided attempt to “process” this new reality. He was a man with too much time and nothing productive to do with it.

Tim’s phone buzzed on the granite, its jarring, artificial sound rattling around the quiet kitchen. He flinched, covering it with his palm. He turned it over screen side up to see what all the fuss was about. A notification from one of the apps. His finger tapped the screen before he’d consciously decided to act. The app opened on a faceless torso with a stats line: 6’2”, 185, Vers. Looking now. Can host. Tim’s thumb hovered over the screen. The offer was so simple, so direct. A solution. A temporary disruption from the monotony. He could be out the door in ten minutes. He could be on his knees in twenty. He could forget his own name for an hour.

He deleted the notification and poured the rest of his coffee down the sink.

He watched the dark liquid spiral down the drain, a fitting end to a morning already wasted.

Tim grabbed his phone again and navigated to his messages with Dan. Their last exchange sat there, unchanged from yesterday:

Tim: Miss you. House is too quiet.

Dan: Miss you too. Dad had a rough night. Will call when I can.

No follow-up call had come. Tim understood—of course, he understood—but understanding didn’t make it any easier. And the worst part—the thing that made his chest ache with a guilt he couldn’t quite swallow back down—was the tiny, traitorous side of him that was thrilled. The part of him that had been wondering what the hell he was going to do with all this fucking freedom.

He padded into the bedroom, the hardwood cool beneath his bare feet. The closet door hung open, Dan’s side noticeably depleted. He’d taken enough clothes for at least a month, maybe more. “Just until Dad stabilizes,” he’d said, but they both knew that could mean weeks, months, maybe longer.

His phone buzzed again. Another notification, different app this time. Younger guy, according to the thumbnail. Tim opened the message.

“Hey daddy. Looking for now?”

Tim snorted. Daddy? Christ. When had that happened? When had he crossed that invisible line from “hot guy” to “hot older guy” to “daddy”? He was only fifty-three, for fuck’s sake.

But the hunger in the message was clear. Uncomplicated. Tim studied the profile. Twenty-four. Twink. Bottom. Three miles away. The guy’s photos showed a messy apartment in the background—posters tacked directly to the walls, empty beer cans arranged like trophies on a bookshelf.

“Sure,” Tim typed back, surprising himself. “Address?”

The reply came instantly, with a pin drop to a location in the university district. Tim knew he should reconsider. He should call his sister. Or his friend Darren. Have a real conversation with someone who knew him, who could tell him he was being an idiot.

Instead, he dressed quickly in jeans that Darren once said made his ass look “criminal,” and a dark t-shirt. He didn’t bother showering.

Twenty minutes later, he parked on a street lined with sagging Victorian homes carved into student apartments. The address led him to a first-floor unit with Christmas lights still hanging in the window despite it being April.

The door opened before he could knock. The kid—and he was young, really, barely out of his teens despite what his profile claimed—grinned up at him.

“Hey,” he said, voice higher than Tim expected.

Tim just nodded, stepping past him into the foyer and pulling the door shut too quickly behind him. He didn’t want to be seen. The air hit him immediately—a thick, chemical soup of stale beer, cheap air freshener, and the faint, sweet smell of weed.

“Sorry about the mess,” he said, his voice still carrying that jarring, high-pitched enthusiasm. “Roommates had a party.”

Tim’s eyes swept the room. It was worse than he’d imagined from the photos. A sagging couch, mapped with stains he didn’t want to know the origins of, faced a television balanced on a set of milk crates. On a makeshift coffee table, three bongs stood lined up like bowling pins, each with a different-coloured liquid in the base. It was a monument to arrested development, a cliché so hackneyed it could have been a stage set.

“Nice,” Tim managed, the word tasting like sand in his mouth. He felt profoundly out of place, a man in his fifties standing in a time capsule of his own twenties, a version of himself he barely recognized and certainly didn’t miss.

The kid, oblivious, closed the distance between them. He was shorter than Tim, his head barely reaching Tim’s chin. He placed a hand on Tim’s chest, his fingers splayed over the fabric of the t-shirt. His touch was tentative, almost reverent. “You’re even hotter in person,” he said, his eyes wide. “I love your shirt.”

Tim looked down. It was a plain, black V-neck. There was nothing to love. The kid wasn’t complimenting the shirt; he was complimenting the body beneath it, the chest hair peeking out at the collar. He was complimenting the idea Tim represented. He was pining for “The Daddy” standing in his vestibule.

This was the reason Tim was here. A simple, uncomplicated exchange of need for need. He should just get on with it. He should put his hands on the kid’s slim hips, pull him close, and start the process of forgetting for an hour.

Instead, he found himself saying, “How old are you, really?”

The kid’s grin faltered for a fraction of a second. “Twenty-two,” he said, a little too quickly.

Tim stared at him.

“Okay, fine,” the kid sighed, deflating slightly. “I turn twenty-one next month. But I’m legal. And I know what I’m doing.”

“I’m sure you do,” Tim said, his voice flat. He felt a strange, paternal pity mixed with a growing irritation. He wasn’t here to be a guidance counsellor. He was here to get his dick wet. He reached out, his movements feeling stiff and robotic, and cupped the kid’s jaw. “Let’s not talk anymore.”

He leaned in and kissed him. It was a mistake. The kid’s mouth was soft, but it was all teeth and frantic energy. He tasted like strawberry lip balm and a cheap energy drink. It was the kiss of someone who had learned everything he knew about sex from pornography, all performance and no soul. Tim pulled back, the thrill he’d been chasing curdling into a sharp, unmistakable sense of disgust. But his body was already moving, hands finding the kid’s waist, the transaction carrying them both forward with a grim inevitability that felt larger than either of them.

He was here. The transaction was already underway. The kid led him down a hallway that smelled like dirty socks to a small bedroom that barely fit a twin mattress on the floor. Tim followed mechanically, his mind already disengaged from what his body was about to do.

“So, um, what do you like?” he asked, standing awkwardly by the mattress.

Tim shrugged, not bothering to answer. He pulled off his shirt in one fluid motion, revealing the body he maintained with religious dedication—his last vanity, the one thing he claimed for himself after years of being the pudgy, awkward gay kid. The twink’s eyes widened appreciatively, which should have been gratifying. It wasn’t.

“Holy shit,” the kid exclaimed. “You’re like, in really good shape.”

Tim’s throat tightened. He thought of how Dan traced the lines of his abdomen with reverent fingers, pressed his lips to the hollow of Tim’s collarbone, whispered things that made Tim feel both seen and desired. This exchange felt like a crude parody of intimacy.

The kid stripped quickly, his movements eager and uncoordinated. His body was slim, unmarked by time, with that youthful elasticity that Tim had long since lost. He looked exactly like what he was, a college student who hadn’t yet learned that his body wouldn’t always look this way. He had a tapered waist that accentuated that swimmer’s V, a sharp, dramatic line that dove from the narrow bones of his hips toward his groin. It was a perfect, arrogant arrow pointing to the promise of his cock.

The sight of him—so textbook twenty-one, and so oblivious to how temporary this body would be—would normally have made Tim laugh. Instead, a dark, predatory part of Tim’s brain, the part that didn’t give a fuck about sentimentality, lit up with a pure, animalistic urge. He wanted to ruin it. He wanted to grab that perfect V with both hands and fuck the kid until his whole body trembled. Until that youthful arrogance was hammered right out of him.

Tim tried to shut his thoughts down, but the kid made it impossible. Every touch was a performance, every moan an echo from a porn scene. He pushed into him, his body moving on autopilot as his mind drifted back to the condo, to the silence. There was no connection here, just friction. The kid’s hole was easy, at least—no work required. A small, bleak mercy in a transaction that was already costing him more than he’d realized. At least he didn’t have to break in a new bottom on top of it all.

“You’re so fucking hot,” the kid panted, his voice breaking the mechanical rhythm Tim had established as he worked himself into the eager, compliant body beneath him. “God, I love older guys.”

Tim winced at the words. They landed like small blows, reminders of what this was—what he had become, and no longer was. He decided to fake an orgasm and get out of this place as quickly as he could. Taking him from behind, Tim grabbed hold of the twink’s hips and gave one last thrust, burying his cock as deep into that horny little ass as he could. He grunted long and low, shook his body in approximation of what he thought this kid would expect of someone cumming in his ass, and then pulled out as his cock already started softening.

When it was over, the kid collapsed below him on the mattress, a satisfied smile spreading across his face. “That was amazing,” he said, face buried in the tangle of sheets on the bed, oblivious. “We should definitely do this again sometime.”

Tim was already reaching for his discarded clothes. “Sure,” he lied, pulling his shirt over his head. His skin felt clammy, unpleasantly tacky with cooling sweat. He needed a shower. He needed to be anywhere but here.

“You don’t have to rush off,” the kid said, propping himself up on one elbow. “My roommates won’t be back for hours.”

“I’ve got to get home,” Tim said, fastening his jeans. “Work stuff.”

“Oh.” The disappointment in the kid’s voice was genuine, which made Tim feel worse. “Well, hit me up anytime. Seriously.”

Tim gave a short nod, his focus already on the door as he finished doing up his pants. “Maybe,” he said, knowing he wouldn’t.

He left without another word, the apartment door clicking shut behind him with a finality that echoed in his head just like the silence of his condo had been doing for days. Outside, the afternoon sun was painfully bright, illuminating the shabby street in harsh detail.

His phone vibrated in his pocket. For a wild moment, he thought it might be Dan, finally calling. But it was just another notification from one of the apps. He dismissed it without looking and walked to his car.

The drive home was a blur. Tim’s mind kept replaying the encounter, not out of pleasure but with a gnawing, familiar regret he hadn’t felt in years. It had happened often after anonymous hookups in his early days with Dan. He’d get so caught up in the thrill of the chase, the cruiser’s high, and then the comedown would take him out with a self-deprecating heaviness that it would take hours, sometimes days, to recover.

He let himself back into the condo and instantly felt dirty in a way that made his skin crawl. He stripped off his clothes in the entryway and walked straight to the bathroom, standing under water so hot it bordered on punishment, scrubbing the same patches of skin over and over long after there was any practical reason to keep going—the inside of his wrists, the back of his neck, his chest—while the kid’s fake moans and that cloying strawberry scent cycled through his head on a loop he couldn’t interrupt. It was no use.

He walked out of the bathroom and, without even bothering with the blinds, stood before the floor-to-ceiling windows of the living room, facing the modest backyard of their condo. He started stroking himself, his movements rough and angry. He closed his eyes, not thinking of the twink, not even of Dan, but of the feeling of being watched, of being wanted, of the pure, anonymous thrill of the chase. It only took a few minutes before he came, his release splattering against the glass, a messy, unsatisfying testament to the hollowness he’d been trying to eradicate. Tim leaned his forehead against the cool window, catching his breath. He knew he couldn’t keep doing this. He couldn’t keep chasing after ghosts and coming up empty. It was stealing his soul.

He heard his phone buzz in his pants pocket, crumpled on the floor by the door. With a sigh, he walked over and picked it up. It was another message from the app.

“Hey, it’s Neil. From the hospital? I know this is random, but I’m in town for a few days and saw your profile. How’re things?”

Tim stared at the message, his breath catching in his throat. Neil. From the hospital. They had shared a moment of raw, unexpected honesty. He was suddenly aware of his nakedness, of the cooling evidence of his detachment on the window. He sank onto the couch, phone clutched in his hand.

Neil’s unexpected message felt like a lifeline thrown across the void of his loneliness. After a day of hollowness, the simple, direct question suddenly grounded him. His thumb hovered over the screen, the cursor blinking in the empty reply box. For the first time since Dan had left, Tim felt a flicker of something that wasn’t regret or resignation—it was possibility, fragile and unexpected.

“Things are…complicated,” he typed back. “You?”

Open House — Prologue: “Accidents and Emergencies”

Author’s Note

Every story has a secret. A single moment that seems small at first, but is actually the spark that lights the fuse.

This story, “Accidents and Emergencies,” was originally published as a standalone on April 15, 2026. But as the Open House arc began to take shape in my imagination, it became clear this wasn’t just inspiration—it was the inciting incident.

“Accidents and Emergencies” is the moment of choice that sets everything in motion. It felt only right to acknowledge its prominent position as the story line’s prologue.

Reading this story first isn’t required, but it will give you some context for the silence, the distance, and the desperation to come.

Enjoy.

ROLL CALL

Dan’s father had been asleep for most of the visit, though “asleep” didn’t seem quite like the right word for the way he lay there under the thin hospital blanket, his mouth slack, the television murmuring to no one in particular. Every so often, his eyelids fluttered, and he made a small sound in his throat, as if whatever drugs they had him on hadn’t fully carried him away from discomfort, only muffled it.

Tim’s partner, Dan, sat close to the bed, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, speaking now and then in a voice Tim recognized from phone calls with insurance agents, contractors, and pharmacists: steady, polite, patient to the point of strain. It was the same voice he used when he was trying not to let irritation or fear get the better of him.

Tim stood near the window for most of it, hands in his pockets, watching the parking garage across the way catch the late afternoon light. He had never known quite what to do in hospital rooms. Everything felt too exposed and too private at once. A tray of untouched roast beef, mashed potatoes, and gravy was congealing into an unappetizing and inedible mess. A bouquet somebody had brought days ago was beginning to droop. A couple of get-well cards, taped to the wall above the bed, had their corners curling slightly from the heat emanating from the overhead vent.

When Dan’s father stirred, opening his eyes just enough to register who was there, Tim stepped forward and offered a smile.

“Hey,” the old man said thickly, looking from Dan to Tim and back again. “You boys been here long?”

“Not too long,” Dan said. “How you feeling?”

His father gave a soft snort, as if the question insulted them both. “Like I’d rather be somewhere else.”

Tim laughed quietly at that, and for a moment the room loosened. Dan did too. His hand went to the rail of the bed, resting there.

A nurse came in not long after, all brisk efficiency and bright, trendy athletic shoes, to check a line and take a blood pressure reading. Dan stood to one side while she worked. Tim used the interruption as his excuse.

“I’m going to go get a coffee,” he said. “You want anything?”

Dan glanced at him, distracted. “No, I’m okay. You go, take a break. Get some air.”

Tim nodded and slipped out before anyone could say anything else.

The hallway was overlit and smelled faintly of industrial cleaner and processed cheese. Somewhere nearby, a monitor chirped with maddening regularity. A volunteer in a pink smock pushed a cart full of puzzle books and knitted blankets past him.

The waiting room at the end of the corridor was fuller now than it had been when they arrived. A young mother bounced a crying toddler against her shoulder. Two teenage boys sat side by side, one of them slumped asleep against the other. A man in work boots stared at the muted news on the mounted television while picking at the label on a bottle of orange-coloured drink.

Tim kept going.

The cafeteria was on the main floor, past the gift shop with its racks of magazines, mylar balloons and expensive hand creams no one in crisis needed. The place was quiet, too late for lunch and too early for dinner. Staff in scrubs occupied a few tables, heads bowed over salads or phones. An elderly couple shared a muffin in silence near a window.

Tim bought a coffee he honestly didn’t want, chose a table off to the side, near an outlet, and checked his phone out of habit more than interest. No messages. No missed calls. A couple of work emails he ignored. He opened Notes, stared at the blank screen for a second, then closed it again.

At a table over from and in front of him, a man scraped the chair legs across the floor as he pulled it out and settled at the table. Apparently, he wasn’t familiar with the unspoken social contract of facing the same direction as Tim.

Being face-to-face with this man unnerved Tim, and he was about to get up and leave when the man’s phone let out a familiar-sounding beep. It was the notification sound for one of the hook-up apps Tim used.

The man put down the disposable coffee cup he was holding, glanced at his phone’s screen, and let out a small, disgusted laugh. He looked to be around a few years younger than Tim, wearing jeans, a charcoal Henley, and a navy jacket he’d draped over the back of his chair. He had one of those faces that got better with age: a little rough at the edges, eyes lined from lack of sleep, greying at the temples in a way that would have looked studied standing at the front of a lecture hall, but here just looked faded and worn. He plugged his phone into the wall beside him. On the table beside his coffee sat a plastic visitor sticker peeled halfway off and re-stuck to itself.

As if he’d been conditioned by the app’s notification sound (which, if he must admit, he was) and against his better judgment, Tim picked up his phone and clicked open the app. There on the grid, right next to his profile picture, was another profile. A blank square, no photo, just the default silhouette and a distance marker that made the whole thing impossible to misread: <20 metres away.

Tim stared at it for a second. Then, before he could stop himself, he clicked.

The bio was almost empty. New to this. Killing time. Distract me. No age listed. No height or other physical stats. No attempt at branding himself as masc, discreet, sane, generous, or any of the other words men deployed when they wanted to sound both appealing and invulnerable. There was an air of exhaustion about this mostly blank profile.

Tim looked up. The man across from him was still frowning faintly at his phone, thumb hovering over the screen as though he regretted having opened the app in the first place. Then, almost as if he’d felt Tim looking, he glanced up too.

Their eyes met for just a brief moment, a mutual recognition of being in this anodyne, sterile place where death and illness usually took precedence over life and living. Then the other man’s gaze dropped to Tim’s phone, and a corner of his mouth moved.

Tim, who had absolutely no business doing any of this in a hospital cafeteria while Dan sat upstairs with his father, should have closed the app, pocketed his phone, and gotten up. Instead, he did the opposite. He tapped the man’s profile message box and typed, “Come here often?” and hit send.

Across from him, the man’s phone buzzed.

He read the message, looked up again, and this time the small, tired smile was unmistakable.

He typed back: Every Tuesday for the prime rib special.

Tim let out a laugh before he could help it.

The man tilted his head and replied with another message almost immediately.

Who would have thought the hospital cafeteria was so cruisy?

Tim typed, These days you have to take it where you can get it.

This time, the man laughed too, low and brief, glancing down at his phone. Then, instead of replying, he got up with his coffee, unplugged his charger and crossed the short distance between them.

“Mind?” he asked, gesturing to the chair opposite Tim.

Tim shook his head. “Not at all.”

The man sat. Up close, he looked even more tired than Tim had first thought. His hair was a little mussed at the crown, as if he’d been running his hands through it all afternoon.

“Neil,” he said, stretching out his hand to shake Tim’s and then pulling it back suddenly. “Or was I supposed to remain a stranger?” He asked, pointing to his phone.

Tim extended his hand, introduced himself, and said, “Nice to meet you, Neil.”

Neil nervously fiddled with his phone. “I was wondering whether to pretend I hadn’t seen you on there.”

“Why?”

Neil shrugged. “Hospital. Weird setting.”

“And yet there you were.”

“And yet here I am.”

For a moment, they awkwardly sat in the strange half-privacy of the cafeteria. Though they both felt conspicuous, nobody paid them any attention. They were just two middle-aged men with coffees and phones who could have been discussing hospital parking horror stories for all anyone knew.

“New to this?” Tim asked, nodding at the bio.

Neil leaned back slightly. “Uh, yeah,” he said, drawing out the words as if he was waiting for his thoughts to form fully. “Yeah, kind of. Been out of the game for a while.”

“You have someone in the hospital?”

“My mother,” Neil said. “Surgery this morning.”

Tim nodded. “My partner’s dad had heart surgery a few days ago. We’re not sure if there’s something more.”

Neil’s eyes flicked up. “Partner?”

“Partner.”

“Right,” Neil said, and took a sip of coffee that had almost certainly gone cold. “Still. Here you are.”

Tim smiled. “Here I am.”

Neil looked down at the app again and gave a quiet snort. “I shouldn’t even be on this thing. My sister would kill me if she knew.”

“Your sister knows about your profile?”

“She made it.”

Tim blinked. “What?”

“Yeah. Last year. Post-divorce intervention.” Neil laid his phone down on the table gently, as if it were an explosive device that might go off in his hands. “Apparently, I was giving too many ‘content-to-die-alone’ vibes, and she was having none of that.”

Tim glanced down at his own phone, open to Neil’s blank profile. He scrolled through the listing. He could tell Neil had some photos uploaded, but they were locked and private. The rest of his bio was as weary and generic as the blank placeholder photos implied. Easygoing guy. Good sense of humour. Likes nights in or out. Looking to meet someone genuine. Tim visibly winced as he read.

Neil wrinkled his nose. “That bad?”

“No, not bad,” he said.

“Just bland.”

“Well, it’s not doing you any favours,” Tim started as he swiped his finger up and down his phone screen, cycling Neil’s profile up and down. “She’s got you sounding like someone who is trying not to offend anyone.”

“So bland,” Neil laughed nervously, picking up his phone and opening up his profile.

“How’s it been working for you?” Asked Tim.

“Well, just before you messaged me, I got hit up by a spambot trying to get me to sign up for some other site. I’m very popular with the spambots, it seems.”

Tim chuckled in recognition and agreed that the spam was starting to get out of hand on this particular app.

One of the staff tables nearby stood up all at once, trays lifted, chairs tucking back under with a rush of noise that made the room seem emptier once they’d gone.

Neil stared at his phone screen. “Okay,” he said. “Suppose you were going to fix it. What’s wrong with it? Besides everything?”

Tim should have shrugged that off and made a joke. Sent Neil back upstairs to his mother and returned to Dan’s father’s room. But there was something about the question, the fact that Neil seemed genuinely curious, that pulled at him.

He held out his hand. “Let me see.”

Neil passed him the phone with the faintest suggestion of a smile. “Be cruel.”

Tim read aloud. “Likes nights in or out doesn’t give much of anything. It sounds like you have no actual preferences and will adapt yourself to whatever the other guy wants to do.”

Neil laughed into his coffee. “You’d think that was a positive.”

“And good sense of humour is one of those generic things that someone says when they don’t know their best qualities, or are too afraid to admit them.”

Neil rubbed a hand over his mouth, trying unsuccessfully to hide his amusement. “Okay, then. What should it say?”

Tim looked up. “What do you actually enjoy doing with yourself?”

Neil shrugged. “Cooking. Walking at night when I can’t sleep. I like men with nice hands.”

Tim looked back down and began typing.

Neil watched him in silence for a moment before adding, “Old monster movies. Black coffee. I am comfortable being alone, but I don’t always want to be.”

Tim paused, glancing up.

Neil met his eyes without smiling this time. “Too much?”

“No,” Tim said. “It’s just that you sound a lot like me.”

He kept going, deleting whole clumps of defensive mush and replacing them with details that suggested an actual person had lived inside this profile all along. Someone more distinctly himself. A man who cooked. A man who stayed up walking off the day. A man who knew enough not to beg for attention and enough to admit when he wanted it. By the time Tim handed the phone back, he was aware of something quietly humming inside him, some old familiar charge he hadn’t been expecting to feel here of all places.

Neil read the revised bio once, then again, slower.

“Well?”

Neil looked up, and for the first time since he’d sat down, there was something almost unguarded in his face. “That sounds like someone I’d hit up.”

“Good.”

“No, I mean it.” Neil’s thumb moved absently over the edge of the phone case. “It sounds like someone worth getting to know.”

Tim looked away for a second, suddenly conscious of the dying warmth of the coffee cup in his hand. “That’s because you are.”

“Not according to the apps.”

“These guys on the apps aren’t looking for accuracy.”

Neil huffed a laugh. “What are they looking for?”

“Confidence. Friction. The feeling that there’s a real person on the other side.”

Neil considered that. “And you think you gave me that?”

Tim smiled. “A little.”

Neil was quiet for a beat, then said, “You make it sound easy.”

“It isn’t,” Tim said, shaking his head. “I think most people edit themselves in the wrong direction. They flatten everything out.”

Neil looked at him for a moment in a way that made Tim aware all over again of the fact that he was sitting in a hospital cafeteria talking to a stranger from a hookup app while his partner waited upstairs.

“You realize,” Neil said, “this is probably the strangest flirting either of us has ever done.”

Tim smiled despite himself. “I should get back upstairs.”

Neither of them moved. Tim should have gotten up then. Instead, he stayed where he was.

“Me too,” Neil said, nodding his head towards the cafeteria door. “But I’m gonna use the bathroom first.”

His eyes grew icy, fixed squarely on Tim. He held Neil’s gaze for just a moment before nodding his head almost imperceptibly. Neil rose and headed towards the cafeteria exit; Tim waited a few beats before following. He kept enough distance between them to maintain plausible deniability, but close enough to track the path of Neil’s navy jacket through the antiseptic corridors. His heart thudded against his ribs, a reminder of what he was doing and who was waiting for him upstairs.

Neil took a left down a quieter hallway, past what looked like administrative offices, most of which were dark at this hour. He paused at a door with a universal restroom sign, glanced back once to confirm Tim was still with him, then pushed it open. Tim quickened his pace, catching the door just before it closed. Neil held it from the inside, making room for Tim to slip through.

The click of the lock engaging behind him sounded unnaturally loud in the small space. Before Tim could say anything, Neil was on him, pressing him against the wall, mouth hot and urgent against his. Neil dropped to his knees on the hard tile floor, hands already working Tim’s belt and zipper with an almost frantic intensity.

“Jesus,” Tim breathed, his head thumping back against the wall as Neil freed him from his confines.

Neil didn’t respond; he just took Tim into his mouth with a desperate hunger that made Tim’s knees weaken. There was a raw panic in the way Neil inhaled Tim, as if he needed this distraction and connection—a momentary escape from being the dutiful son and brother he needed to be upstairs.

Tim’s fingers threaded into Neil’s hair, feeling the softness there, the warmth of his scalp. The fluorescent light buzzed overhead, casting harsh shadows across Neil’s face as he looked up, making eye contact that sent a jolt through Tim’s body. The sheer inappropriateness of the whole situation only heightened the exchange. Tim bit his lip to keep quiet as Neil took him deeper, the wet heat of his mouth drawing out the air from his lungs, leaving him breathless, trying to catch up.

Tim felt himself getting close, and he tugged gently at Neil’s hair. “Wait,” he whispered, voice rough. “My turn.”

Neil rose to his feet, grabbed hold of the sides of Tim’s face, and pulled him in for a long, wet, deep kiss. Tim loved kissing, but rarely found anyone with the same appreciation and skill for locking lips. Neil, however, knew what he was doing. The second their lips connected, Tim felt his body melt into Neil’s, his bare and exposed penis seeking out the growing bulge in Neil’s pants as their bodies smashed together. Their kissing turned into a frenzied exploration of their oral cavities as both men began to moan into each other’s mouths audibly. Neil dropped a hand down to Tim’s cock, pumping it in rhythm with his tongue, now thrusting deep down Tim’s throat.

Tim pulled himself back to catch his breath before sinking to his knees, the cold tile sending a shock through his joints. He worked Neil’s jeans open with practiced hands, freeing him and taking a moment to appreciate the weight and heat of him before leaning forward. Neil’s hands braced against the wall, his breathing ragged as Tim took him in. The taste was salt and skin and something uniquely male that made Tim’s own arousal throb. He lost himself in the rhythm of it, the familiar-yet-new sensation of a stranger in his mouth, the forbidden thrill of the moment.

“Fuck,” Neil whispered, his voice barely audible. “I’m close.”

Tim pulled back, looking up at Neil’s face. His eyes gave Nel the go-ahead to unload his pent-up frustrations into Tim’s throat. With a muffled whimper, Neil unleashed days and weeks worth of anxiety, exasperation, and agitation into this random stranger’s mouth. The exchange was more than just a deposit; it felt like a connection—a human connection that had been absent in Neil’s life for too long.

Neil felt the tears flowing before he even realized he was crying. He wrapped his hands around Tim’s head and held him against his torso, his rapidly softening penis still warmly wrapped between Tim’s lips. Choking back sobs, Neil bent forward in an awkward embrace that Tim reciprocated as best he could in the position he was in. Then, pushing back and straightening up, Tim pulled Neil into his arms and gave him a proper bear hug. Neil cried into Tim’s shoulder, his body shaking uncontrollably from the unexpected emotional release triggered by his orgasm.

“It’s okay,” Tim said soothingly into Neil’s ear. “It’s going to be okay.”

“I don’t know why I’m crying,” Neil sputtered in an attempt to settle himself.

“Because you need to,” said Tim, reassuredly. “Because you need this. More than you knew.”

“I’m so sorry,” Neil sputtered. “You must think I’m a pathetic loser.”

“I think,” started Tim, “That it was no accident we ran into each other today.” He pulled back and looked Neil in the face. “It feels like you’ve been carrying a lot in your mind and body that needed to come out. I’m glad I was here to help.”

“Thank you,” said Neil, wiping his face with his sleeve. “Thank you for… this.” He laughed softly under his breath and looked down at the ground for a moment. “Well,” he said.

Tim looked around the claustrophobic bathroom as if he had just realized where he was. “I’ll go first,” he said. Smoothing out his clothing and sneaking a peek at his hair and face in the bathroom mirror, Tim pulled Neil in for a final hug. Go on,” he said, stepping back toward the door. “Go take care of your people, and be sure to take care of yourself, too.”

By the time Tim got back upstairs, Dan was standing near the window in his father’s room again, hands in his pockets. He turned when Tim came in.

“You’re back.”

“Yeah,” Tim said. “Sorry I took so long.”

Dan gave him a tired half-smile. “It wasn’t long. Gave me some time to chat with Dad.”

“How is he?” Tim asked, glancing over at Dan’s father, sleeping in the hospital bed.

“Exhausted, but all signs look good. They think he should be home in a few more days.”

For a moment, they just stood there side by side in the stale heat of the room, Dan’s shoulder brushing his.

“You okay?” Dan asked after a minute.

Tim looked at him. It was such a simple question, the kind of question people asked in hospitals because they didn’t know what else to ask. Under normal circumstances, Tim would have answered it with something equally simple. In the moment, the answer felt less straightforward than he wanted it to.

“Yeah,” he said at last. “Just thinking. Over-thinking, really.” He grabbed Dan’s hand and held it tightly in his. Tim leaned into his partner, resting his head on Dan’s shoulder. “Hospitals are so fucking weird. So many people circling in and out of here. So many lives. It’s just… a lot, you know?”

Dan smiled, picked up the jacket he’d draped over the back of a chair, and said, “Let’s let him sleep. We’ll come back in the morning.”

As Dan pulled a blanket up over his father’s sleeping body and tidied the items on the bedside table, Tim felt a silent buzz in his pocket. He pulled out his phone and saw a notification from Neil. It was the blue heart and praying hands emojis. As he smiled at the screen, a second message from Neil appeared: Thanks again. That was just what the doctor ordered.

“I think our work here is done for the night,” said Dan as he tuned back to Tim.

Tim grinned. “How right you are,” he said, pocketing his phone as they walked out of the hospital room into the corridor.

Chpt 01 Coming soon →

Hey, Misters.

So, we’ve (by which I mean I’ve) been on a break from regular posting, but that doesn’t mean the world of CALL ME MISTER has stopped turning. In fact, it’s doing the opposite. It’s getti…

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About this story

Ragged Glory came about through a couple of different channels. The first was something inspired by watching the recent Bruce Springsteen bio, Springsteen: Deliver Me from Nowhere. That’s where I got the idea for the title, and there was something about Springsteen’s rugged, workman-like aesthetic that I always found attractive. Naturally, the name Bruce fit the character.

The second inspiration was taking an idea for a still image and working with AI to animate it. It’s something I experimented with on other posts to varying degrees of success. I will be honest: I’m still not totally satisfied with the resulting video clip, but I wanted to share the story and original image, so why not give you the video, too, and let you decide how it turned out?

Drop me a comment to let me know what you think of the video and if you think I should keep experimenting with this format.

The rest of the world called it being “down on your luck,” but Bruce called it freedom. Today, freedom was the hot, gritty air of a forgotten highway rest stop, where he and his customized camper van pulled over to wait out a late-spring thunderstorm. For some people, these quarters would be too close for comfort. For Bruce, all he needed were four tires, a hot plate rigged up to run off the engine battery, and enough room in the back for a mattress.

Life on the road agreed with him more than any four walls and responsibility ever had. He was no longer the man who used to wear a tie and study spreadsheets. That Bruce was a ghost—had always been one, if truth be told. His body had been just a vessel for his head to travel from one meeting to the next.

This Bruce, however, was flesh and blood and fire. He thrived on the thrum of the engine, nourished by the sting of the sun on his neck, and relished the profound, simple pleasure of his own company. And as the first drops of rain began to patter on the van’s metal roof, he retreated to his sanctuary in the camper van’s back, eager to commune with the only god he’d ever truly trusted: his own body.

He peeled off his sweat-damp shirt, his hands already skimming the warm, familiar terrain of his chest. His fingers weren’t hurried; they knew this landscape by heart. They traced the line of hair that narrowed down his stomach into the forest of coarse hair at his groin. He followed the path down to the thick, heavy weight of his cock. He curled his fist around the base, his thumb stroking over the sensitive head, smearing the bead of pre-cum that welled there. A slow, deliberate pull, and his hips canted up, seeking more. His other hand wasn’t idle; it rolled his balls, tugging just enough to send a sharp jolt of pleasure up his spine.

This was his church, the rhythm of his fist his prayer, the low groan in his throat his hymn to ragged glory. Every stroke was a rejection of that past life, a celebration of this raw, unapologetic present. Bruce was no ghost. He was here, he was hard, and he was completely fucking alive.

Outside, the sky finally broke, and a sudden, deafening clap of thunder rattled the van’s frame, a percussion section for the shuddering release that tore through him. He lay spent in the sudden quiet, listening to the rain drum a steady, cleansing rhythm on the roof, washing the road clean for the miles still to come.

Go beyond the frame.

Your PRIVATE VIEWING begins here.

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Where There’s Smoke — Part VII

← Start at Part 1

ROLL CALL

Christian didn’t have to wait long for action; as soon as he settled into the sling, the two men who had been observing from a distance approached, letting their towels fall to the floor.

The stockier of the two, adorned with a thick mustache and days-old stubble, positioned himself by Christian’s head, guiding his thick, meaty, uncut cock toward Christian’s eager mouth. Christian could taste the tangy saltiness on the man’s foreskin. Rather than recoiling in disgust at the flavour, he felt an unexpected surge of arousal, a reaction that both thrilled and surprised him. The man massaged Christian’s chest with each thrust, his palms thumping against Christian’s pecs, accompanied by low, wordless moans of pleasure.

The other man, younger and leaner, settled himself between Christian’s spread legs, his hands exploring Christian’s heavy balls and cock while teasingly working a finger down to Christian’s twitching hole. Once he had stroked Christian’s cock to hardness, the smooth stranger pulled back Christian’s foreskin and lowered his lips onto the sensitive head. Christian squirmed, pushing his cock deeper into the man’s throat while simultaneously urging the finger deeper into his opening.

The contrasting sensations of a cock filling his mouth, someone stroking his own cock, and a finger probing his ass unleashed a torrent of sensations Christian had never before imagined. Even in his most daring fantasies, he hadn’t envisioned how right it would feel to be with another man in this way. And yet, here he was, completely enthralled, with two men focused solely on him. Christian surrendered to the moment, each new sensation overpowering years of denial and hesitation.

The chains of the sling creaked softly as he rocked between the two men, his an instrument of pleasure he never knew he possessed. The mustachioed man thrust deeper, compelling Christian to relax his throat, while the younger man’s fingers probed more insistently at his entrance. When the slim man added a second finger, Christian’s body tensed momentarily, then yielded, accepting the intrusion with a muffled groan around the cock filling his mouth. The stretch burned slightly, becoming an electric pulse that radiated through his groin and up his spine. His cock throbbed in response, leaking precum onto his stomach as the younger man’s tongue danced around his shaft. The finger inside him curled, hitting his prostate and blurring Christian’s vision. His hips bucked involuntarily, the sling rattling as he sought more of that exquisite pressure. Each time the young man’s fingers brushed his p-spot, he felt himself unravelling further, spiralling toward a kind of pleasure he’d never known. Gasping for air, he pulled his mouth free from the stocky man’s cock. “Fuck me,” he panted, looking down at the younger man between his legs. “I need to feel you inside me.”

Are you ready for more, Mister?

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