Chapter 14: Tzatziki
Josh watched Mr. Athanasiou’s chest heave, the thick ropes of his cum glistening obscenely against the oil-slicked, spit-shiny flesh. He waited, letting the older man ride out the last shuddering aftershocks, his cock still trapped between the quivering mounds, rock-hard and demanding. Mr. Athanasiou’s eyes fluttered open, dazed and sated, a dopey grin spreading across his flushed face. "Fuckin'... hell, Josh..." he panted, the words thick and slow.
Josh didn’t let him rest long. He pulled his slick cock free with a wet schluck, the sudden cool air making it twitch. He grabbed the thick head, smearing the pre-cum and oil mix over the purple crown, then began slapping it against the fleshy mounds, a smirk on his face.
The older man grunted, a low sound of pure obedience, and his thick, pink tongue snaked out, ready and waiting. He mumbled around Josh’s encroaching cock, spit dribbling down his chin. "Drench my fuckin' tits."
Josh pulled back, his cock still glistening with the mixed viscera. He gripped the heavy breasts again, slick with oil, cum, and spit, pushing them together into a tight, hot channel. The smell – coconut oil, sweat, musk, sex – was overpowering, primal. He thrust back in, hard, burying himself to the hilt. This time, he didn’t hold back. No teasing build-up. Just raw, animal need. He fucked the sloppy cleavage with punishing strokes, hips pistoning, his balls slapping rhythmically against Mr. Athanasiou’s cum-smeared belly. The wet, squelching sounds filled the small room, a filthy counterpoint to Josh’s guttural grunts and Mr. Athanasiou’s breathy moans. "Fuck! Yeah! Harder! Pound my fuckin' tits!" Mr. Athanasiou urged, hands scrabbling weakly to add pressure, his own spent cock giving a feeble twitch.
The intense friction, the heat, the sheer degradation of the act, the image of Hiro's vulnerability flashing behind his eyes – it all coalesced. Josh’s thrusts became erratic, frantic. "Gonna cover these fat fuckin' udders," he snarled, such a contrast to his usual pleasant demeanour, his voice cracking. "Paint 'em white!" With a final, deep plunge, he slammed home and held, his body rigid. Thick, hot ropes of cum erupted, jetting over the heaving, abused flesh, splattering across the dark nipples, running in rivulets through the oil and spit and Mr. Athanasiou’s own drying spend. He gasped, riding the pulses, grinding his cockhead deep into the cleavage as he painted the man’s chest.
He slumped forward for a moment, breathing hard, sweat dripping from his brow onto the sticky mess below. Then, with a sigh that was almost content, he pulled out, his cock dripping. He reached into the gym bag he’d left by the recliner earlier and pulled out a small stack of clean, white hand towels – always prepared. He left Mr A to enjoy the fluids covering his beautiful chest and began methodically wiping his own softening cock, his stomach, his hands, glad he had removed his clothes. He used another towel to dab roughly at the worst of the mess on Mr. Athanasiou’s chest, leaving the skin shiny and damp, streaks of white still visible. "Leave the rest. Looks good on you."
Mr. Athanasiou managed a wheezy chuckle, patting his sticky chest almost affectionately. "Fuckin' right it does." He pushed himself laboriously out of the recliner, tucking his spent cock back into his pants and putting on a thin, burgundy robe. "Hungry? Wife made pastitsio. And there's dolmades." He shuffled towards the small kitchen, moving with the stiff gait of a man whose back pain was momentarily forgotten.
Josh followed, tossing the damp towels into a small plastic sack he produced from his gym bag. The kitchen was cramped, dominated by the smell of oregano, cinnamon, and béchamel cutting through the lingering musk of sex. Mr. Athanasiou pulled a large, deep dish covered in foil from the oven, then a container of grape leaves from the fridge. He plated generous portions with practiced ease, steam rising fragrantly. No plates for sitting at the tiny table. They moved back to the living room.
Mr. Athanasiou collapsed onto the worn sofa, placing both plates on the low coffee table. His thick thighs splayed, his cum-smeared gut resting on them, his sticky, abused chest still bare and glistening, his chest showing splotches of deep red. Josh sat beside him, close, the warmth of their bodies radiating. They ate in comfortable silence for a few minutes, the rich, savoury flavours a grounding counterpoint to the raw filth minutes before. Josh scooped up baked pasta and creamy sauce, licking the fork clean. Mr. Athanasiou devoured his dolmades, licking olive oil from his fingers.
As Josh finished his last bite, the heavy meal settling in his stomach, a different kind of warmth began to stir. The sight of Mr. Athanasiou’s large, dark nipples, still stiff and puffy from the abuse, glistening faintly with remnants of oil and spit, was irresistible. Without a word, Josh turned and leaned back against Mr A, nuzzling into him. He sought the soft, warm flesh near the left nipple, then closed his lips around the stiff nub.
"Ah, the agori still hungry?" Mr. Athanasiou murmured, a familiar, fond gruffness in his voice. He set his plate aside, shifting slightly to give Josh better access. His thick fingers carded gently through Josh’s blonde hair. Josh sucked lazily, swirling his tongue, the taste of salt and coconut oil and something uniquely male flooding his mouth. It wasn’t the frantic sucking of before; this was slow, possessive, almost affectionate. He moved to the other nipple, biting gently, making Mr. Athanasiou hiss and arch his back slightly, pressing his chest further into Josh’s mouth. "Yeah... suck 'em... good boy..."
Josh moaned around the stiff flesh, the vibration making Mr. Athanasiou groan. The lazy sucking was igniting a slow burn low in Josh’s belly. He was hard again, his cock flailing in the open air. He shifted, pressing his erection against Mr. Athanasiou’s thick thigh, grinding slowly. His hands slid up, not to knead, but to gently trace the contours of the heavy breasts, to reverently thumb the swollen nipples he wasn’t sucking.
Mr. Athanasiou understood. This was Josh’s turn. His fingers tightened slightly in Josh’s hair, not guiding, just holding. His other hand moved with surprising delicacy. Calloused fingertips brushed over Josh’s own nipple , feeling it pebble instantly. "These little fuckers gettin' jealous?" Mr. Athanasiou rumbled. Josh’s nipples were small, pink, and incredibly sensitive, already tight buds.
Mr. Athanasiou’s thumb, rough and warm, circled Josh’s left nipple slowly. Then he pinched. Not hard. Just enough pressure to make Josh gasp, breaking his suction on Mr. Athanasiou’s tit. "Fuck..."
"Shh," Mr. Athanasiou soothed, his voice a low, filthy purr. "Just relax, agori mou. Let old man play." He repeated the motion – slow, maddening circles followed by a sharp, precise pinch. He alternated between nipples, his touch maddeningly inconsistent. Sometimes soft, feather-light brushes that made Josh shiver. Then sudden, sharp twists that pulled a choked cry from his throat. He’d scrape a blunt fingernail over the hypersensitive tip, then roll the stiffened nub hard between thumb and forefinger. Josh squirmed, his hips bucking helplessly against Mr. Athanasiou’s thigh. The dual sensation – the sweet, sucking comfort on Mr. Athanasiou’s nipple and the relentless, expert torture on his own – was overwhelming. His cock throbbed, leaking into his boxers.
"Please..." Josh breathed, the word muffled against the warm flesh in his mouth. It wasn't a word he often uttered.
"Please what, kalo paidi?" Mr. Athanasiou asked, his voice thick with knowing amusement. He twisted Josh’s right nipple viciously. "These pretty little nips need more?"
"Yeah... fuck... more... please..." Josh gasped, arching into the painful pleasure. He sucked harder on Mr. Athanasiou’s nipple, needing the anchor, the counterpoint.
Mr. Athanasiou chuckled, a low, satisfied rumble. "Good boy. Ask nice." He shifted his tactics. He captured both of Josh’s nipples between his thumbs and forefingers. He squeezed, rolling them relentlessly, applying deep, pinpoint pressure that bordered on agony. Then, without warning, he pinched and pulled, stretching the tender flesh away from Josh’s chest, holding it taut. Josh cried out, a ragged sound torn from his chest, his body tensing like a bowstring. Waves of intense, almost unbearable sensation radiated outwards, coalescing into a white-hot point of need in his groin.
"Look at you," Mr. Athanasiou murmured, watching Josh’s face contort. "Big, strong malakas, brought to his knees by his little tits. Gonna cum just like this? Without a hand on your fat cock? Hmm?" He tugged harder, twisting slightly. "Think you can?"
Josh couldn’t speak. He could only moan, a high-pitched, desperate sound. His world narrowed to the excruciating, exquisite torment on his chest and the warm, solid nipple between his lips. The pressure built, unbearable, inevitable. Mr. Athanasiou saw it, the exact moment the dam broke. He gave one final, brutal twist to both nipples simultaneously.
Josh’s back arched violently off the sofa. A raw, animal howl ripped from his throat, swallowed halfway by Mr. Athanasiou’s flesh. His cock pulsed violently, untouched, as orgasm tore through him. Ropes of cum soared over him, landing as far as Mr A's tits, hot and thick, as his body convulsed, held taut by the agony-pleasure blazing from his tortured nipples. It felt like his nerves were on fire, fused directly to his erupting cock. Wave after wave crashed over him, leaving him trembling, gasping, collapsing back against Mr. Athanasiou’s sticky side, his mouth finally releasing the abused nipple with a wet pop.
Mr. Athanasiou kept his fingers clamped on Josh’s nipples, maintaining the pressure for a few seconds longer, milking the last shuddering aftershocks, before finally releasing them with a last, gentle squeeze that made Josh whimper. "There you go, agori," he said softly, his voice rough with something like affection. "Good boy. Let it all out." He started wiping up Josh's cum with his fingers, devouring it.
Josh lay boneless, spent, breathing raggedly, the sticky mess cooling on his body. The smell of sex, Greek food, and coconut oil hung heavy in the air. Mr. Athanasiou’s large hand rested heavily on Josh’s head, stroking his hair. After a long moment, Josh stirred, a slow, sated smile touching his lips despite the lingering sting in his chest. He glanced at his watch. Still early. He wondered if Hiro had revisited their session. Or had he decided it wasn't for him? He doubted it. The thought sent a fresh, anticipatory thrill through his exhaustion.
Mr. Athanasiou shifted, kissing Josh’s head. "Right. Gotta clean up the mess you made, eh malakas?" He heaved himself off the sofa with a grunt, peeling himself away from Josh’s sticky side. He shuffled towards the bathroom, leaving Josh sprawled on the worn fabric, cooling cum drying on his skin. The door clicked shut; the sound of running water followed.
Josh lay there a moment longer, the sting in his nipples a pleasant aftershock, then pushed himself up. He gathered the empty plates, sticky forks, and carried them to the sink. The remnants of pastitsio clung to the porcelain, rich with meat sauce and creamy béchamel. He didn’t wash them, just left them soaking. Wiping his own chest and stomach with a another of his towels, he pulled his briefs and trousers back on, the fabric rough against his sensitive skin. He’d need a proper shower soon.
The bathroom door opened. Steam billowed out, carrying the scent of cheap soap. Mr. Athanasiou emerged, scrubbed pink. He wore the exact same outfit: faded blue sweatpants, a thin, stretched-out white undershirt, the same burgundy robe hanging open. It was uncanny. Did he own a closet full of identical clothes? "Deck's on the shelf," he announced, rubbing a towel over his thinning grey hair. He gestured towards a small, scarred wooden table pushed against the wall, already set with a worn green baize cover.
Josh retrieved the battered deck of cards from a dusty shelf crowded with knick-knacks. He sat at the table, the plastic chair creaking under his weight. Mr. Athanasiou settled opposite, pulling his robe tighter. They played Rummy. Josh dealt swiftly, his mind only half on the cards. He tracked the plays, made small talk about Mrs. Athanasiou’s Bingo luck, the leaky tap in 3B, all while subtly manipulating his own hand and Mr. Athanasiou’s discards. He let the older man win the first game, celebrating a little too loudly. "Ha! Still got it, eh?"
"Beginner's luck," he retorted. Josh smiled, reshuffling with practiced flicks of his wrist. He dealt again. Halfway through the second game, Mr. Athanasiou pushed a container of baklava across the table. "Eat. Won't bite." Josh picked up a small, delicate square of rich flaky pastry, the layers of chopped pistachios and smooth honey perfect enough to satisfy any sweet craving. He ate another, leaving a sticky fingerprint on the scorecard he was meticulously falsifying.
He let Mr. Athanasiou win again, scribbling the inflated score. "Damn straight!" Mr. Athanasiou crowed, slapping the table. Crumbs from the baklava scattered over the green felt. Josh swept them absently aside with his hand. "Good games. You’re on fire tonight." The sound of a key scraping in the front lock cut through the quiet. Josh subtly nudged the scorecard closer to Mr. Athanasiou’s side of the table.
Mrs. Athanasiou bustled in, a whirlwind of floral print and the faint scent of cigarette smoke. Her eyes swept the room, landing on her husband, clean and content at the table, then Josh. "Josh, agapi mou! Still here? You are an angel, looking after this old lump!" She beamed, bustling over to kiss her husband's cheek. "Did he behave? Not talk your ear off about his back?"
"Perfect gentleman, Mrs. A.," Josh said, standing. "We played some cards. He crushed me." He gestured to the falsified scores. Mr. Athanasiou puffed out his chest slightly.
"Always the good boy," she clucked, patting Josh’s arm. "You need feeding properly. Long day of helping." She disappeared into the kitchen, returning moments later with a large, reusable shopping bag bulging with containers. "Pastitsio – the good piece with extra béchamel. Some moussaka. More dolmades. And tsoureki. You need your strength." She pressed the heavy bag into his hands. "Thank you, Josh. Really. Means the world."
"My pleasure, Mrs. A. Always good company," Josh replied, the picture of earnest charm. He nodded towards Mr. Athanasiou, who gave him a slow, heavy-lidded wink. The contentment on the older man's face was profound, radiating a deep, sated peace. "Night, Mr. A. Rest that back."
"Oh, I will," Mr. Athanasiou rumbled, shifting slightly, a faint, smug smile playing on his lips. "Feels fine. Just fine."
Josh shouldered the bag of food and slipped out the door. The cooler air of the hallway was a relief after the apartment’s warmth. He took the stairs two at a time up to his own floor, the smell of oregano and cinnamon trailing him. Inside his apartment – larger, cleaner, meticulously organized – he dumped the food bag on the sleek kitchen counter and stored everything away to feast on another time. The silence was immediate, a stark contrast to the Athanasiou’s clutter.
He pulled a small, ornate wooden box from a high shelf, along with a sleek black vaporizer. Packing the chamber with pungent, sticky green buds, he sank onto his expensive leather sofa. He took a long, deep pull, holding the thick, herbal smoke in his lungs until they burned, then exhaled slowly. A familiar, heavy calm began to seep into his muscles, sharpening his inner focus.
Images flickered behind his eyes: Hiro’s flushed, mortified face during the playback; the tremble in his voice admitting his fears; the way his small frame had looked retreating down the corridor. The raw vulnerability was exquisite. Then, the shift: Mr. Athanasiou’s thick, obedient tongue; the obscene squelch of his cock between the oiled tits; the brutal, perfect pain-pulse of his own orgasm ripped from his tortured nipples. It had been a good week. Productive. A low thrum of power vibrated beneath the weed-induced haze, the thrill of control, of secrets held, of desires manipulated and satisfied.
His phone buzzed on the glass coffee table, screen lighting up the dim room. He picked it up, squinting slightly at the glow. Hiro’s name. The message was brief, anxious: Sorry it’s late. Would tomorrow be too soon?
A slow, predatory smile spread across Josh’s face, wide and genuine this time. Perfect. He didn’t reply immediately. He took another long, deliberate hit from the vaporizer, savoring the potent smoke, the anticipation coiling tight and hot in his gut. Tomorrow couldn’t come fast enough. Hiro was ready. The real work could begin.