Chapter 5: Sticky and Sweet
The garage was a dim and depressing place to just stand there, but Dominic barely registered it. The glowing phone screen felt like a live wire in his greasy hand. That breast and nipple, clear and visceral, raw and glistening, filled his vision. The ache in his own chest flared, a hot echo. Big. Soft. Amazing. Tits. The words pulsed in his head, the ones he’d thought earlier about himself. Seeing that image, it made them feel less like a curse, more like an indulgent, shared secret.
He needed to see it properly. Bigger. Clearer. The phone screen was too small, too pixelated. It taunted him. He needed the laptop. Now.
He stumbled out of the garage, blinking in the afternoon sun. The coolness of the house hallway hit him like a slap after the dusty heat behind him. He headed for the study, the phone still clutched tight in his sweaty hand. His movements felt jerky, disconnected. As he reached the stairs, his free hand went to the buttons of his polo shirt. It felt suddenly stifling, oppressive, the fabric catching on his stiff nipples. Off. He didn’t consciously decide; his fingers were already working. Buttons popped open. He yanked the polo over his head, dropping it on the stairs without looking. The cooler air hit his bare chest, a relief and a provocation. The hair there felt damp with old sweat. But the freedom of letting his breasts be out and proud was something else. Never had he felt this amazed by his own body. Never had he thought this freedom would be possible.
The chinos followed. A clumsy shove downwards, stepping out of them, leaving them pooled on the threadbare rug beside Hilary’s abandoned yoga mat. He stood naked in the hallway, breathing hard, the phone screen still burning the image of that swollen nipple into his mind. He felt exposed, vulnerable, ridiculous. But the need for the laptop overrode everything. Just get to the study.
A flicker of insecurity pricked him. Naked felt too much. Too raw. He hesitated, looking up the stairs, towards his bedroom door. His heavy terrycloth robe hung there, familiar and safe. But the thought of its thick, enveloping weight felt suffocating. Claustrophobic. He didn’t want to be bundled away. He wanted something else.
As he started to climb the stairs, he felt his hips sway. He liked it. He accentuated the movement, feeling his softness sway at each step. His chest was moving to the same rhythm, feeling sumptuous and sensual - he couldn't take his eyes off them. His body, which he had feared and rejected for so long, was suddenly delighting him. It was intoxicating. His gaze slid to the master bedroom door, slightly ajar. Hilary’s robe. The short one. The silky one. Emerald green. Slippery. Barely covering his arse. He’d bought it for her birthday years ago, a failed attempt at socially expected seduction. She’d rarely worn it, and since they'd lost some weight together it was far too big for her. She'd lost nearly three times her target. He'd barely managed his. It hung at the back of her wardrobe now.
He pushed into the bedroom. The scent of her perfume lingered on the garment, faint but persistent – jasmine and vanilla – usually comforting, but felt wrong now. Sickly. Suffocating. As he unhooked the robe, raising his arms, he realised he hadn't put deodorant on after his shower. The musk coming from under his arms made his head swim and his nipples puff proudly forward. The thick scent was almost his own body's replica of the jasmine and vanilla - heavy, sweet, honeyed and warm. The smell was clean, the complexity was dirty. He stuck his nose into the hair as far as he could and took a deep whiff. Precum poured from his dicklet. Much better. He would override the perfume soon enough. The silk slithered cool and unfamiliar against his skin as he shrugged it on. It barely reached the top of his thigh. The tie felt flimsy, inadequate, the waist much higher on him. As he cinched it tight, the silk straining across his chest, he was able to use the robe to frame his breasts, the high belt giving added shape and contour. The fabric was whisper-thin. He could feel every curve beneath it, the soft weight, the persistent hard points of his nipples pressing against the smooth material. On one hand, it felt wrong. Indecent. Exposing. But it also felt like the only thing he wanted to wear. It felt right. He smoothed the hem down, suddenly pleased he didn't have to worry about his cock and balls being exposed. They were neatly nestled in his groin as always.
He padded silently back to the study, the silk whispering against his skin with every step. His breasts swishing back and forth under the smooth fabric. The smell hit him as soon as he opened the door: the sharp tang of lemon polish undercut by something else. Muskier. Saltier. Warmer. Creamier. His own fluids. The lingering scent of what he’d done in Daveed’s chair. It hung in the air, a humid, intimate reminder. It should have repulsed him. Instead, it coiled low in his belly, a dark pulse of recognition. He'd have to thoroughly clean before the weekend was out.
He dropped the phone beside the laptop and sat in his comfy leather office chair. He flipped the laptop open. It hummed to life. The familiar desktop background – a photo of him and Hilary hiking – felt like an accusation. He ignored it. Opened the browser. Typed in the pixeldrop.cloud address from Daveed’s text with shaky fingers.
He found the folder. 'TM'. What could that mean? Tit... something? He double clicked.
Enter Password.
He typed: `password`.
The `TM` folder opened.
He maximized the browser window. The thumbnails filled the large screen now. Larger. More detail visible despite the deliberate blurring. He clicked the first image. It filled the screen.
For a moment, he just stared. The dark-skinned man, face obscured, kneeling, his broad, muscular, lightly hairy shoulders and back flexing. The focus was on the torso he was bent over. The swell of the breast. The way the man’s head was buried, the curve of his cheek suggesting suction. Dominic’s hand drifted to his own chest inside the silk robe, fingertips brushing a nipple through the thin fabric. A sharp intake of breath. He clicked next.
The clear shot. The breast. Glossy with spit. The nipple deep red, engorged, the areola puffy. Raw. Used. He leaned closer to the screen and zoomed in using the trackpad until the clear part of the image pixelated slightly, but the essential truth remained: focused, intense attention on that single, swollen point. His own nipples throbbed in sympathy, a deep, insistent ache. Precum beaded at the tip of his cock beneath the loose silk robe. He shifted in the chair, the leather cool against his thighs.
Click. Next image: the man kneeling over the torso. Hands pressing the large breasts together around his thick, dark erection. Although blurred, the sheer size of the cock was clear, the way it disappeared into the soft, yielding flesh. Dominic’s breath caught. He could almost feel the pressure, the heat. His cock twitched, hardening fully now against the silk. He didn’t touch himself. He couldn’t look away from the screen.
He clicked through them all. Methodically. Obsessively. Each image seared itself into his mind. A man’s lips sucking greedily. Fingers pinching a nipple hard. A different angle of the cock thrusting between the soft mounds. Close-ups of the aftermath: reddened, wet skin; droplets of fluid glistening. He saw variations. Sometimes the breasts seemed fuller, heavier; sometimes the nipples were pierced. Always the attention was relentless, almost devotional, focused entirely on the chest.
Time dissolved. The afternoon light streaming through the study window shifted, lengthening shadows across the floor. The faint scent of cut grass from the garden drifted in, mingling strangely with the intimate musk of his own earlier release still clinging to the chair nearby, the jasmine-vanilla of Hilary’s robe was starting to fade and his own sweet, musky richness was taking over. So similar, but his responses couldn't have been more opposite. He was vaguely aware of a stiffness in his neck, a dryness in his throat. He ignored it. The images held him captive.
He found himself leaning forward, elbows on the desk, chin propped on one hand. The other hand… he didn’t remember moving it. It was inside the robe, resting lightly on his chest. Fingers splayed over the soft swell of his left breast. The nipple being squeezed and caressed between each set of fingers, back and forth. Then, without conscious thought, they began to move. Tracing the curve. Massaging the ample flesh. Caressing the soft areolas. Circling the stiff nipple beneath the silk. Applying gentle pressure. A low hum vibrated in his throat, unbidden. It felt necessary. Instinctive. He pressed harder, pinched gently. A jolt of intense sensation shot through him, straight to his groin. He moaned, a soft, breathy sound. His eyes stayed glued to the screen, to the image of a nipple being rolled between thumb and forefinger. He mirrored the action. The sensation was overwhelming. Deep. Rooted.
He lost track of which image he was on. His focus fractured between the visuals on the screen and the intense feedback loop from his own body. His fingers worked, circling, pressing, pinching his breasts and nipples through the silk. Precum leaked freely now, soaking the thin fabric where his cock pressed against it. Drool pooled in his mouth. He didn’t consciously swallow; it just spilled over his lower lip, tracing a cool path down his chin. He absently wiped it away with the back of his hand, then smeared the wetness onto his chest over the silk robe, adding to the damp patch spreading there. It heightened the sensation, the silk sticking, pulling slightly against the sensitized skin.
He shifted again. The chair creaked. He felt a wetness, cool and startling, on the back of his thigh. He glanced down, away from the screen for the first time in what felt like hours. A dark patch soaked the seat of Hilary’s silk robe. More wetness, thick and viscous, gleamed on the worn leather of the chair seat beneath him. It wasn't just sweat. Precum. A lot of it. Had he…? He hadn’t consciously ejaculated, but his cock was still hard, throbbing, and the evidence was pooling around him. Rivulets of the clear, sticky fluid were slowly tracing paths down the smooth leather, dripping silently onto the hardwood floor below. One drop. Then another. Plinking softly onto the varnish.
A wave of dizziness washed over him. He blinked, forcing his eyes away from the mesmerizing drip onto the floor and back to the laptop screen. The time display in the corner stabbed into his awareness. 17:48. He’d been sitting here for nearly two hours. Numbly, his gaze drifted down his own body. The green silk robe clung damply, transparent in patches, plastered to his chest, soaked dark between his legs. His chin was wet with saliva. His chest felt raw, exquisitely sensitive beneath his probing fingers, which were still absently circling a nipple. The scent – his scent, his musk, his pheromones – was thick in his nostrils. The small puddle beneath the chair glistened.
Dominic stared at the sticky puddle under the chair, his own breath loud in the quiet room. The sight should have disgusted him. Instead, a remembered taste bloomed on his tongue – salty, sweet, vaguely earthy. It was the taste from the chair, when he’d licked it clean after touching himself. That weird, satisfying completeness he’d felt afterwards. Shit. He needed that feeling again. Needed to finish the loop. The laptop screen still glowed, forgotten.
He shoved back from the desk, the leather seat groaning. The silk robe clung, damp and cold, to his thighs. He didn’t stand. He slid down, heavy and graceless, landing on his knees beside the chair. The hardwood was cool beneath him. The scent was overwhelming up close – sensual, musky, purely him. He leaned forward, supporting himself with one hand on the sticky leather seat edge. His other hand hovered near the dark patch on the floor. Precum. Still glistening.
Remembering the chair, the strange rightness of it, he lowered his head. Slowly. Deliberately. His tongue touched the varnished wood first. Cold. Smooth. Then it found the wetness. A tentative lick. Salty-sweet. Familiar. He closed his eyes. Another lick, bolder this time, gathering the viscous fluid onto his tongue. He swallowed. A low hum vibrated in his chest. Yeah. That was it. The ache in his breasts throbbed in response.
He kept licking, lapping at the small pool, cleaning the patch of floor with his tongue like a desperate animal. The taste wasn't unpleasant; it was intense, concentrated, that same musky tang he’d smelled under his arms, the same taste he’d chased earlier. He felt a fresh pulse of wetness between his legs. His fingers instinctively went to his small cock. They came away slick. More. Always more.
Without thinking, his wet hand drifted lower, skimming over his balls. Further back. Past the familiar territory. His finger tips brushed the tight, crinkled skin of his asshole. He froze for a second, surprised by his own trajectory. Then, driven by the scent, the taste, the sheer novelty, his middle finger circled the sensitive rim. Slow. Tentative. The touch sent a warmth spreading around his sphincter and into his hole, unbidden and unexpected. His hips jerked forward slightly.
He returned his hand to his dicklet, collecting more of his fluids. He pressed again, the pad of his finger slick with his own precum. Gentle pressure. The tight ring yielded infinitesimally. He pushed just a little inside. A gasp escaped him, uncommonly loud in the quiet study. The sensation was a strange, unknown pressure, not exactly pleasurable yet, but intensely intimate. Filling. He held it there, breathing raggedly. Was this okay? Was it dirty? The worry flickered.
He pulled his finger back. Held it up in the fading afternoon light filtering through the window. He sniffed it cautiously, bracing for the smell of shit. But nothing. Nothing fecal. Just that overpowering, sweet musk. His musk. The same scent from his pits, the same taste from the floor. Clean, in its own strange way. Powerful. He inhaled deeply, the scent filling his head, pushing the last shred of hesitation aside.
He looked at the glistening tip of his finger. Then back down at himself. The laptop screen was forgotten. The robe hung open, ignored. The only things that mattered were the scent on his finger, the insistent throb low in his belly, and the dark, unexplored territory behind him. He touched the rim again, circling slowly, deliberately, slicking it thoroughly with the fluid. The pressure felt different now. Intentional. He pushed the finger deeper this time. His muscles tensed. A soft, involuntary groan escaped his lips. There was only the scent, the building pressure, and the undeniable, terrifying pull forward.
Dominic rocked forward onto his hands and knees, the silk robe pooling around his waist. The scent of his own arousal, thick and primal, filled his nostrils, obliterating thought. That slick finger pushed deeper inside him, a surprising, welcome pressure that made his hips jerk and a choked gasp escape his lips. "Oh fuck," he breathed, the sound raw and unfamiliar in the quiet room. He withdrew slowly, then pushed back in, slicking the tight ring with more precum gathered from his weeping cock. Each shallow thrust sent jolts of heat radiating through his pelvis.
He needed leverage. Proper leverage. With a grunt, he hauled himself up, clutching at the edge of the heavy oak desk. He crouched, legs trembling, back pressed against the solid wood. The green silk robe hung open, forgotten. His substantial breasts, heavy and soft, swayed slightly before settling, hanging low over the rounded curve of his protruding belly. He looked down at himself – the flushed skin, the glistening wetness smeared across his chest, the small cock standing rigid hidden under his protruding stomach, dripping steadily onto the floorboards. The laptop screen still glowed, casting a pale light on the scene.
Without hesitation, his right hand slid down his belly. Fingers slicked with his own fluid circled his cockhead, gathering a thick bead of precum. He didn't linger. He traced a wet path backwards, over his balls, pressing the slickness firmly against his asshole, smearing it into the soft, sensitive skin. The touch sent another wave of heat through him. His left hand rose, palm cupping the full weight of his left breast, thumb finding the stiff, swollen nipple. He rolled it hard between thumb and forefinger, the intense pleasure-pain making him moan, low and guttural. "Come on," he whispered hoarsely to himself, fingers working his nipple, the other hand pressing firmly against his asshole. "Need it... need..."
He pinched his nipple fiercely, a bright spark of sensation. His hips thrust minutely against the air. The pressure built, coiling unbearably tight deep in his core. It wasn't just in his cock; it felt like his whole pelvis was vibrating. His breath came in ragged pants. Something was pulsing inside him. Something he'd never knew was possible. Eyes squeezed shut, he felt the dam break. His prostate blossomed into orgasm as his cock pulsed violently, untouched. A thick rope of white fluid, far thicker and more forceful than anything he'd ever produced, shot out. It arced through the air, splattering audibly against the worn wood of the cabinet door a good foot away. Another pulse followed, then another, painting streaks across the dark oak. "Ah! God! Yes!" The words tumbled out, strained and breathless, as his body shuddered, his left hand still working his tits, his right still slowly pistoning into his hole, hips still jerking weakly as the last spurts dribbled down his trembling thighs.
Leaning forward, his finger gently leaving his wet asshole, his breasts given a chance to rest, allowing his hands to catch his weight, he bent down to the beginning of the first streak of cum. He extended his tongue and licked a long, deliberate stripe across the pooling fluid on the wooden floor. Salty. Bitter. Creamy. Warm. His. He licked again, cleaning the spot, the taste grounding him. He moved on to the next and the next, ingesting this seed in indulgent and needy gulps. He turned to his office chair and continued to find patches and drips he could feast on. And as Dominic had hoped, the frantic need was gone, replaced by a deep, sated tiredness. He slumped back fully against the desk, breathing hard, utterly spent. The frantic energy dissolved into a profound, liquid calm. He looked at the mess – the stains on his chair, the streaks on the floor, the sheen of sweat and fluids coating his own body. A strange peace settled over him. The laptop screen still displayed Daveed's images, but they seemed distant now, irrelevant.
He shut the laptop down and went to the ensuite bathroom to get cleaning supplies. He spent a slow 20 minutes carefully cleaning up his office furniture. The desk chair, the cabinet, revisiting the armchair Daveed had sat in and he had stained. He expected to feel a sense of hurried shame, destroy the evidence. But this felt right. Clean up your mess and do it right. A phrase he'd often used when mentoring.
He stood and admired his work, pleased at how easily it had all been resolved. No one could guess at what had just happened here. The intrusive pine smell, distasteful to Dominic, should deal with any lingering aromas of his own. Padding towards the big bathroom upstairs, he found himself in the kitchen already filling a second glass of water. It felt more than thirst-quenching. It was replenishing him. Revitalising him. He took a third glass up with him. Dominic let the silk robe fall to the floor as he once again walked naked through the house. He didn't once feel the need to cover himself. Although he wasn't sure he could be a nudist. It didn't seem very hygienic. In the bathroom, the cool tiles felt good under his feet. He ran the bath, water steaming hot, filling the small room with humid warmth. He sank into the tub with a groan, the water enveloping his aching body. He hadn't bathed in decades. Previously a too intense reminder of a boy he hated. Now, his hands drifted lazily over his skin, no longer demanding, simply appreciating. Fingers traced the curves of his breasts, the soft swell of his belly, the wet curls between his cheeks. Gentle. Soothing. He knew he should be washing away the sweat, the precum, the evidence of his release, but this felt more like washing away the barriers and rules he'd put in place to protect himself from... from what? From himself? Nevertheless, the warmth and steam and his own clean skin felt good.