Chapter 2: Desperate Measures
Dinner was torture. Every clink of cutlery, every bite of shepherd's pie, felt amplified. Hilary chatted about the garden club. Dominic nodded, mumbled agreement, tasted nothing. His body was a traitorous furnace. Images flickered behind his eyes: Daveed’s shoulders straining the cotton straps, tightness of the sweatpants, the knowing stare. Every time Hilary looked away, his hand drifted unconsciously towards his chest, fingers grazing the fabric over his nipple. He’d jerk it back. Focus on his plate. Feel the persistent hardness trapped beneath the table, the leaking continuing. He'd quickly put on an extra pair of boxer shorts to help hide any visible marks. Shame warred with a terrifying, undeniable hunger.
Later, after Hilary settled in front of the television with her knitting, Dominic poured himself a generous measure of whisky. Single malt. The good stuff. Oblivion in a crystal tumbler. He took it to his office, locking the door this time. A barrier. Against what? Himself? He sank into the armchair, the leather cool now. He gulped the whisky. Fire burned down his throat, pooling warmth in his gut. Good. Numbing. Another gulp. The sharp edges of the day blurred slightly. Daveed’s face swam in his vision, less distinct. The relentless hum in his body quietened. He closed his eyes. Just forget.But the fire spread. Not just warmth. Restlessness. A different kind of heat. The whisky lowered Dominic's inhibitions, dissolved his resolve. The numbness he craved didn’t come. Instead, the images sharpened. Daveed’s smirk. The confident tilt of his hips. The blatant display of hard muscle. The way he’d looked at Dominic… like he knew. Like he could see the hidden ache, the buried need.
Dominic’s hand moved. Not towards his chest this time. Towards the mostly ignored laptop on the cluttered desk. He flipped it open. The screen glowed harshly in the dim room. His fingers hovered over the keyboard. This was stupid. Dangerous. Wrong. He took another deep swallow of whisky. The burn was comforting. Courageous.
His fingers tapped. Hesitant at first. Then faster. More deliberate. He typed words he hadn’t consciously formed, driven by the whisky and the relentless pulse between his legs. Searches for sculpted physiques. Young men. Hard bodies. Terms emerged he wouldn’t have dared think hours before. Muscle worship. Defined pecs. Six-packs. Bulges. He clicked. Images flooded the screen. Dozens. Hundreds. Young men, gleaming with oil, flexing impossibly defined torsos. Biceps like boulders. Abdomens like carved stone. Chests broad and hard, tapering to narrow waists. Just like Daveed. But bare. Gloriously, shamelessly bare. He stared. Leaned closer. He knew people used the internet for this sort of thing, but it had never peaked his interest before. Now he couldn't look away.
The glow illuminated his face, casting deep shadows. His breath caught. One hand drifted down, palming the angry, insistent bulge in his trousers. It felt good, but he needed more. The other reached almost reverently towards his chest, the anticipation more intoxicating than the whisky. His hands began tentatively massaging his chest, starting lightly then getting a little rougher. But there was too much fabric in the way. He removed the top layer, leaving the tighter, thinner undershirt on. It squeezed and framed his chest in a way that would once have horrified him. But before he knew it he was pulling on his nipples and allowing the pleasure to guide him.
Looking at the screen, his eyes tracing the digital outline of a perfectly sculpted pectoral muscle on a dark-haired youth striking a pose not unlike Daveed’s against the desk. His own softness beneath his shirt felt suddenly different. Not just shameful. Sensitive. Alive. Connected to the throbbing heat below. As he manipulated his chest, he felt the heat and insistence in his crotch grow. He was mindless, just pure sensation, his torso becoming the centre of his world. As he dived deeper into the images on his screen he was faced with a fully naked, very well endowed man, who could have been Daveed's cousin. Without having touched his penis, Dominic came. Looking down at his thinly covered torso, he saw his chest was red and a little sore through the damp patches his sweating had created. And he had no idea what to do next.
He felt truly lost and alone, but the darkness wasn't empty. It was thick with the ghost of Daveed’s smirk, the lingering weight of his stare. Dominic lay rigid beside Hilary in their king-sized bed, the soft cream comforter feeling like a shroud. He had cleaned himself up again, had another whisky, but it was making his mouth too dry, so he drank two full glasses of water and then followed Hilary's summons to bed. He'd regret that at some point in the night. Her rhythmic breathing, usually a lullaby, scraped his nerves raw. Every rustle of the sheets echoed the frantic scramble of his own thoughts.
He squeezed his eyes shut. Tried to fixate on the familiar scent of lavender on the pillows, but the usual calming effect was lost to him. It smelled, almost tasted, vile. Instead, his mind replayed the afternoon in brutal high definition: Daveed leaning against his desk, the predatory confidence radiating off him like he was burning with masculine energies. The slow, deliberate drag of those blue eyes down his body, pausing... there. The shocking, undeniable arousal that had followed, the frantic self-touch fuelled by humiliation and a terrifying new awareness of his own body – the sensitivity of his soft chest, the unexpected eruption of seed. The laptop screen glowing with images of hard, sculpted bodies that looked like Daveed’s, only bare. The shame afterwards, sharp as broken glass.
He shifted, trying to ease the renewed pressure building low in his groin. Stop it. Just stop. He focused on the quiet room: the faint outline of the dresser piled with framed memories of holidays and graduations, the soft glow of the garden security light filtering through the window. Normal. Safe. Hilary murmured in her sleep, a soft, indistinct sound. Her hand lay palm-up near his hip.
Desperation clawed at him. He needed to feel her. Needed the grounding reality of his wife, his life. Needed to prove to himself that this – the quiet companionship, the shared history – was what mattered. That the tempest Daveed had unleashed was just madness. A transient storm.
Slowly, heart hammering against his ribs, Dominic reached out. His fingers brushed the back of her hand. She didn't stir. Emboldened by the darkness, he slid his hand over hers, lacing their fingers together. Her skin was warm, soft. Familiar. He held his breath, waiting for the calm to wash over him.
It didn't come. The warmth of her hand felt distant, disconnected. His mind stubbornly conjured the cool, appraising gaze of the young man. The way Daveed’s own fingers had trailed over the trophy on the desk. Dominic’s thumb rubbed small circles on the back of Hilary’s hand. He tried to summon the usual tenderness, the decades-deep affection. But his body thrummed with a different current entirely – a raw, restless energy born of repression and illicit discovery.
He moved closer, shifting onto his side to face her shadowed form. The movement made the soft swell of his chest beneath his pyjama top shift against his arm. A tiny spark of the afternoon’s unwanted sensitivity flared. He tried to ignore it, focusing on Hilary. On the curve of her shoulder beneath the thin strap of her nightgown. On the scent of her chamomile face cream. The usually familiar, gently floral scent, making his nose unexpectedly wrinkle.
"Hil?" he whispered, his voice thick and unnatural in the quiet. "You awake?"
A soft sigh. She shifted slightly, her eyelids fluttering. "Mmm? Dom? What's wrong?" Her voice was sleep-slurred, concerned.
"Nothing," he murmured, leaning closer. He pressed his lips to her shoulder. The skin was warm, yielding. He kissed it again, lingering, trying to lose himself in the simple, ordinary act. Trying to banish the image of hard muscle under black cotton. "Just… I... I miss you." The lie tasted sour.
He felt her relax slightly. "Miss you too," she mumbled, still half-asleep. Her free hand came up, patting his arm vaguely, a gesture of sleepy comfort. It wasn't the response he craved. He needed immersion. Oblivion.
His hand moved from hers, sliding tentatively up her arm, over the curve of her shoulder, towards her neck. He traced the line of her jaw with his thumb. She sighed again, a contented sound this time, turning her head slightly towards him. Her eyes were still closed. He bent lower, kissing her cheek, then her lips. Softly at first. If he could reignite their lost passion, or make it burn for the first time might be more accurate, he could banish today's fantasies.
But his body betrayed him. The kiss deepened without conscious thought. He pressed harder, his tongue seeking entry with a suddenness that startled even him. His other hand, the one that had been lying stiffly at his side, moved of its own volition. It didn't go towards her hip, her waist – places he knew. It slid up. Over her nightgown, over the soft cotton covering her stomach, moving inexorably towards her chest. Not Hilary’s soft, familiar breasts. He was moving towards her left breast, mirroring the path his own hand had taken hours before. The memory of the intense, forbidden pleasure he'd found in his own body flared, hot and urgent.
Hilary stiffened. Her eyes snapped open, wide in the dim light. She pulled her head back slightly, breaking the kiss. "Dominic?" Her voice was clearer now, laced with confusion, a hint of alarm. "What are you doing?"
He froze. His hand, hovering near her breast, felt like a lead weight. Mortification crashed over him, cold and absolute. He jerked his hand away as if burned, pulling his entire body back.
"Sorry," he rasped, the word catching in his dry throat. "Sorry, love. Bad dream. Just startled." He rolled onto his back, staring blindly at the ceiling, putting distance between them. His face burned. His erection, momentarily forgotten in his desperate need for connection, throbbed painfully in it's unfamiliarity. The sharp scent of his own precum, faint but distinct in the warm bed, filled his nostrils, adding another layer of reality warping eroticism.
Hilary propped herself up on one elbow, peering at him. "A dream? You were… intense." She reached out, her fingers brushing his arm. He flinched inwardly. "Are you sure you're alright? Was it about that new boy? Daveed?"
The name was a physical blow. Dominic squeezed his eyes shut. Daveed. The architect of this chaos. The catalyst for his unravelling. "No," he lied, the word scraping out. "No, nothing like that. Just work stuff. Stupid." He forced a weak chuckle that sounded hollow even to him. "Go back to sleep, Hill. I'm fine. Sorry I woke you."
He felt her hesitate. Heard the rustle of the sheets as she settled back down. Her breathing gradually deepened, returning to the rhythm of sleep. But the space between them on the wide mattress felt like a chasm. He lay rigid, every nerve ending screaming. The phantom touch of his fingers on her breast, seeking an echo of his own forbidden pleasure, felt like a brand. He’d tried to step back into his old life, grasp the anchor of his marriage, be the man he always thought he should be, and instead, he’d dragged the chaos and shame right into bed with them.
The garden light cast long, distorted shadows across the ceiling. Dominic stared at them, unseeing. The gnawing ache of unfulfillment he’d lived with for years had mutated into something monstrous, ravenous. It wasn't just desire Daveed had ignited. It was a terrifying glimpse into a hidden part of himself – a part that found pleasure in shame, that craved the intensity of being seen and appraised, even by a predator. A part that had reached for his wife seeking not comfort, but a twisted reflection of his own turmoil.
He remembered the phone call. Daveed’s smooth voice: "See you tomorrow." A command. A promise. Dominic felt a fresh surge of something dark and liquid in his veins. Part terror. Part desperate anticipation. His fingers, hidden under the comforter, drifted towards his own chest again, tracing the outline of a nipple through the thin pyjama fabric. A shudder ran through him, part revulsion, part electric thrill. The shame was still there, a corrosive acid. But beneath it, pulsing stronger with every beat of his traitorous heart, was a chilling certainty: tomorrow wasn't just coming. It was hurtling towards him, and Dominic Wheatley had no idea who would be waiting to meet it.
He lay rigid in the dark, Hilary’s soft breaths beside him a mockery of calm. The space between them felt charged, radioactive. That glimpse into the abyss within himself – the part that had reached for Hilary seeking a distorted reflection of the turmoil Daveed ignited – terrified him more than the boy’s knowing gaze. His own body felt unfamiliar, a traitorous landscape of expected softness and unexpected, humiliating sensitivity. The growing need for something wasn't just unfulfillment anymore; it was a ravenous beast, fed by shame and a terrifying new awareness.
His cock throbbed persistently against the fly of his pyjama bottoms, a dull, insistent pressure. Precum seeped, dampening the cotton. He squeezed his eyes shut, willing it away, but the remembered sensation of Daveed’s eyes raking over him only intensified the heat. He needed release. Connection. Oblivion. But Hilary’s peaceful form felt miles away, unreachable after his clumsy, alarming advance. He couldn’t risk waking her again, couldn’t face the confusion in her eyes.
A dark, desperate compulsion seized him. Slowly, carefully, he slid his hand beneath the waistband. His fingers closed around his erection. Although only 3 inches long when hard, it felt thick, engorged. A bead of wetness slicked his fingertips. He hesitated, breath catching. Shame warred with a sharp, almost chemical pull. He brought his fingers slowly, deliberately, to his lips. The taste was faintly salty, musky. Intrusive. His. He tasted it again, the intimacy of the act sending a fresh jolt straight to his groin. More precum welled.
His gaze flickered to Hilary. Still asleep. The dark room felt cavernous, isolating. His other hand moved, tentatively, to his chest. He slowly unbuttoned the matching shirt, feeling the material scrape against his enlivened flesh. Cool air brushed the exposed skin. His left nipple seemed to puff up in response . He drew his precum-slicked fingers to his chest, circling the large, soft areola. The sensation was magical – the cool slickness somehow adding layers of pleasure, the rough pad of his finger on the sensitive nub adding complexity. He gasped silently, thrusting gently into his own touch. Both sensations – the rhythmic pulsing below, the slippery exploration above – collided. It felt perversely right.
He applied more precum, scooping it from the tip of his cock with trembling fingers. How was there suddenly so much? He smeared it thickly over his left breast, then the right, dipping his hand back for more as he realised it was going to keep coming. The cool wetness on the warm skin was shocking. He began to massage in earnest, fingers working the slick into the yielding flesh, kneading, circling his nipples until they stood rigidly erect, hypersensitive points of pure sensation. He felt his chest hair swirling in the slippery ooze. The quiet, wet squelch of his fingers moving through the sticky fluid filled his ears, a secret, obscene rhythm. He was mesmerized by the glide, the feel of his own softness made sticky and responsive. The scent of his arousal overwriting the faint lavender from the sheets.
He massaged harder, pulling and squeezing his slicked breasts, lost in the bizarre, intoxicating sensations radiating from his chest down to his cock and back again. The more he worked his sticky tits, the more precum leaked, coating his fingers anew, feeding the cycle. His hands alternating between collecting this new, precious resource and smearing it where it was suddenly, obviously meant to be. His hips rocked minutely in time with his circling hands. It was a closed loop of desperate sensation, a private ritual of shame and discovery. The outside world – Hilary, swimming pools, his garden, even the impending morning – dissolved. There was only the slippery sliding, the aching sensitivity, the quiet, wet sounds, and the iron pulsing of his cocklet below. He felt himself hurtling towards the edge, solely from the manipulation of his chest.
The climax hit silently, a powerful surge that clenched his teeth and arched his back deeply off the mattress. Heat pulsed over his fingers as his nipples seemed to jolt in time with his cock, which was producing a thick wave that seemed endless. He collapsed back, gasping raggedly, trembling. He had tears running down his cheeks and he was quietly sobbing. The release he needed. Emotions that he had been holding on to. The aftermath was immediate – the stickiness cooling rapidly on his chest should feel clammy, grotesque, but it left nothing but soft, clean skin. However, guilt and self-pity flooded back, thick and suffocating. He lay perfectly still, listening to Hilary’s undisturbed breathing, his crotch only lightly coated in the visceral evidence of his unravelling, but evidence nonetheless. The squelching had stopped, replaced by the frantic hammering of his heart against his ribs. He swung his legs out of the bed and reached for his water glass, emptying it and, exhausted, was finally dragged down into unconsciousness.
He awoke to harsh morning light slicing through the gap in the curtains. The bed beside him was empty, the cream comforter smoothed flat. Hilary must already be downstairs. He lay motionless, the events of the night crashing back. His chest felt tender, but was soft and silky smooth, even the usually coarse chest hair. Touching his torso, something he usually avoided at all costs, he realised the immediacy of pleasure had dissipated. He was so confused. He knew he should feel embarrassed and unsettled by the events, but he couldn't deny he felt... lighter. Nevertheless, the lingering scent of sex and indignity clung to the sheets around him. He'd have to strip everything down and wash it. Daveed was coming today. The thought crashed like a stone in his gut. How could he be in this young man's company, when he was reacting this way? He'd never felt this way before. Not even for women. And now he was, what... gay? He'd never had to even consider that idea before. He stared at the empty space Hilary had occupied, the sanctuary of the bedroom feeling hollowed out, violated not by anyone else, but by the stranger he’d become in its quiet dark.
Dominic pushed himself upright, the movement stiff, his body feeling unfamiliar, tender in unexpected places – the soft skin of his chest, the lingering ache low in his groin. The scent of his own release, faint but undeniable, almost a balm to him now, but he'd have to thoroughly wash the sheets, Hilary would never have it.
Again the insistent thought, Daveed is coming today. Eleven o'clock. How could he possibly sit across from that piercing gaze, knowing what he’d done? Knowing how his own body had perverted him, reacting with such violent, unfamiliar intensity? Not just to Daveed’s presence, but to the idea of him, to the images conjured on the glowing laptop screen and to how his body had reacted to those appraisals. His greatest shame was suddenly his greatest... what? Pleasure? It was still a shameful secret, just in a different form. And so, was this who he was now? This stranger who found pleasure in shame, in the very parts of himself he’d spent a lifetime hiding? Someone who writhed in their own perverted pleasures? He'd never understood such hedonism before. But now...
He swung his legs out of bed, the cool wooden floor shocking his bare feet. He reached for the glass of water, suddenly so thirsty again, but it was empty. He took it to the bathroom and deeply drank two full draughts. Strip the bed. Wash everything. If Hilary noticed, he’d mumble about a wet dream. A rare occurrence, but plausible. She’d understand. She always understood the minor follies and foibles life could throw at you. But she'd never understand what was actually happening.
He shuffled back towards the ensuite bathroom, avoiding his reflection in the mirrored wardrobe doors as always. There were so few mirrors in the house because he had never been able to stand his reflection. The familiar routine felt brittle. Brush teeth. Splash cold water on his face, the shock barely registering. He glanced automatically at the small digital clock on the sink counter. 8:05 AM. The numbers blinked, innocuous. Dominic froze. 8:05? He blinked, rubbed his eyes. Looked again. Panic, sharp and sudden, lanced through the fog of exhaustion and residual shame. He never slept past six. Never. His internal clock, wound tight over decades of early meetings and pool installations, was a point of quiet pride. Two hours. He’d lost nearly two whole hours. Daveed arriving at eleven suddenly felt terrifyingly imminent. His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the sudden quiet of the house. He could hear Hilary downstairs now, the distant clatter of a spoon against a bowl. Breakfast. Normalcy. He felt an immediate need to rush. Two hours behind schedule was unheard of. Shower quickly, dress, maybe even pretend to eat something.
But the panic subsided as quickly as it had surged, replaced by a strange, heavy apathy. A slowness that wasn't just physical. What was the point of rushing? To greet Daveed looking flustered, unprepared? To pretend yesterday hadn't happened? To pretend last night hadn't happened? The frantic energy was gone, leaving him feeling hollow, adrift. Eleven o'clock was still hours away. An eternity. And yet, no time at all. He turned the shower dial. Hot. As the steam filled the small room, clouding the mirrors, blurring the edges, he stood at the toilet bowl for his usual morning piss. He was expecting a burst of urine, a strong, long lasting jet. But it was just a regular release. A perfectly directed stream of surprisingly clear water. He suddenly needed the heat, the water, the anonymity. He stepped into the large shower stall and under the spray, letting the near-scalding water sluice over his shoulders, down his back. It stung, then soothed. He grabbed the bar of plain soap Hilary bought in bulk – oatmeal and honey, practical, usually unassuming, but today even that mild scent felt cloying. He started mechanically: arms, underarms, the ritual cleansing he’d performed thousands of times. Then his hands moved to his chest.
He began washing methodically, the soap creating a thin, slick lather over the soft swell. Very thorough. He always was. Especially here. Years of ingrained habit, ensuring no trace of sweat, no must, no hint of anything that might draw attention. There was a time he'd scrubbed and scrubbed, trying to wash the excess flesh away. But today, the familiar motion stalled. His fingers, slick with soap, lingered. Not clinically, but curiously. The water streamed over him, warm and insistent. He pressed his palms flat against the yielding flesh, fingers splayed. The sensation wasn't disgust. It was texture. Warmth. The soap made his skin slippery, strangely sensitive. He circled his left nipple with a soapy thumb. A jolt, sharp and hoped for, shot through him, echoing the intense, forbidden pleasure he’d discovered in the dark. He did it again, slower this time, applying gentle pressure. The sensation intensified, radiating outwards, a low thrumming warmth that pooled deep in his belly. He found himself exploring the contours, the softness, the surprising responsiveness of his own body beneath the lather. He cupped his right breast, kneading gently, feeling the soap slide, the water cascade over his hands. He wasn't washing anymore. He was mapping. Discovering. Getting lost in the sensations he’d spent a lifetime trying to ignore or numb. Minutes blurred. The steam thickened. The frantic drumbeat of his heart slowed to a heavy, rhythmic pulse. Daveed, the clock, Hilary downstairs – they all receded into a muffled background hum. There was only the heat, the water, the glide of soap, and the profound, unsettling sensitivity radiating from his chest.
He rinsed slowly, reluctantly letting the soap slide away. The water felt cooler now against his sensitized skin. Routine reasserted itself. He soaped his legs, his feet. Turned, letting the water hit his back. He then reached behind with the soapy washcloth. Down his spine, over the curve of his buttocks. Automatic. Efficient. He shifted his stance slightly, bending forward just a fraction to reach lower. The washcloth, rough-textured and soapy, brushed firmly between his cheeks as he cleaned. It was a practical motion, one he’d done countless times. But this time, as the coarse fabric grazed directly over his anus, a strange tingling warmth suddenly spread outwards from his tight sphincter. Not the bolt of pure, electric sensation that had ripped through him from his nipples. But a lazy, inviting pulse that was as equally alien and shocking. It was deep and resonant, momentarily short-circuiting his thoughts. He gasped, jerking upright, the washcloth falling from his hand onto the shower floor with a wet slap. He stood frozen under the spray, water streaming down his face, heart hammering wildly again, but for a completely different reason. His body thrummed with the aftershock of that single, accidental touch. A new frontier. Terrifying. Intriguing. Utterly disorienting. He stared blankly at the tiled wall, the steam swirling around him, the insistent beat of the water the only sound in the suddenly charged silence. Daveed was coming at eleven. And Dominic Wheatley felt more unknown to himself than ever before.