Chapter 7: Chapter 7
The first sensation was a slow, wet heat circling his left nipple, followed by the gentle pressure of teeth. Rob surfaced from sleep not with a jolt, but with a deep, sighing breath, the memories of the night before—the gym, the shower, the overwhelming certainty of Martin’s hands on him—flooding back in a warm tide. He smiled into the dim room, the grey morning light seeping around the edges of his blackout curtain. His cock was already stiff against his thigh.
He fluttered his eyes open, bringing a hand up to touch the neat grey hair of the head bent over his chest. Martin looked up, lips slick and parted. “Morning, beautiful,” he growled, the sound rough with sleep.
Rob grinned, a faint giggle escaping him. “Morning, handsome.”
Martin closed the distance, kissing him deeply. It was slow and thorough, a claiming. He pulled back just an inch. “My morning breath isn’t awful, is it?”
“Not at all,” Rob murmured, tasting musk and sleep and Martin. “Is mine?”
Martin didn’t answer with words. He just dove back in, the kiss turning wetter, hungrier, his tongue sliding against Rob’s until Rob shuddered, a full-body convulsion of pure pleasure. Martin’s hand found Rob’s cock, wrapping around it, feeling the slick pulse of precum already beading at the tip. He smeared it down the shaft, the friction making Rob moan into his mouth.
“My boy is so horny,” Martin growled, not breaking the kiss, his eyes locked on Rob’s.
My boy. The words sent a new kind of thrill, electric and nervous, straight to Rob’s core. He pulled back, breathless. “If I’m your boy,” he whispered, his voice trembling just slightly, “that would make you my…?”
Martin just grinned, letting him get there, his thumb circling the head of Rob’s cock.
“Daddy?” Rob asked, the word feeling foreign and huge and desperately right in his mouth.
“If you’re comfortable with that,” Martin said, his earnestness cutting through the heat.
“Yes, Daddy,” Rob confirmed, the shyness evaporating under a surge of boldness. “I am very comfortable with it.” In one clumsy, enthusiastic motion, he pushed Martin onto his back, the older man laughing as he sank into the thin mattress. Rob loomed over him, his own considerable weight feeling powerful for once, not shameful. “Now,” he purred, lowering his head, “give me that Daddy dick.”
He took Martin into his mouth, swallowing his rigid length in one slow, determined glide. He held him there, savoring the weight, the heat, the clean-salty flavor of his skin. Saliva bubbled from his lips; he let it flow, eyes rolling back in his head as he lost himself in the act of worship. Martin’s hand returned to Rob’s cock, stroking him in a steady, counter-rhythm. They moved together like that, a slow, silent pact in the morning gloom, until the tension crested and broke—Rob swallowing convulsively, Martin licking Rob’s spend from his own fingers with a low, satisfied hum.
After, Martin pulled Rob back into the cradle of his arms. The room came back into focus: the faded band poster, the wobbly Ikea desk buried in papers, the faint, skunky scent of weed from the living room mingling with their own sweat.
“What are your plans today, boy?” Martin said, testing the name out against Rob’s hair.
“Well… Daddy,” Rob began, the term still a thrilling novelty on his tongue, “I have a paper I need to finish and hand in by twelve. Some plant specimens to transfer to the lab. And a study group from one to three.” He tilted his head back. “What about you?”
“Don’t work Mondays,” Martin said, his fingers tracing idle patterns on Rob’s shoulder. “Reduced my hours last year. Told everyone it was to relax, enjoy the quiet life.” He paused, and Rob heard the unvarnished truth in his next words. “Really, it was to give my… habits more space. Wanted more time in my own head. Worked hard for thirty years. I’m stable.”
Rob felt a pang. “Sorry I can’t spend the day with you.”
“It’s okay. But I… I want to talk.” Martin propped himself up on an elbow. His accountant’s face was serious. “I don’t want to be presumptuous. But am I correct in thinking this isn’t a one-time thing?”
Rob blushed, the heat spreading down his neck. He looked at the hollow of Martin’s throat. “I hope not,” he whispered.
“Good. Me too.” Martin took a breath. “So, since I’ll be spending some time here—given my situation and you need to be here for your plants—would you mind if I gave this place a little makeover? A little upgrade?” He rushed on, “Not that there’s anything wrong with your stuff, it’s got character—”
Rob interrupted him, a blunt, self-deprecating laugh cutting the air. “It’s garbage, Martin. I had no money when I moved in. This is all street finds and charity shop rejects. Nothing has any sentimental value. Except the plants. And my chem equipment.” He gestured vaguely toward the other room where the grow lamps hummed.
Martin nodded, a slow, plans-forming smile on his face. “Okay. Good. That’s what I thought.” He kissed Rob’s forehead. “Right. You should get on with that paper while I throw something together for breakfast. You need fuel.”
Rob’s stomach growled audibly, a stark reminder. “Shit, I haven’t eaten since before the gym yesterday,” he groaned, pushing himself upright. “Thanks, Martin. Really.”
He shuffled to his desk, a slab of particle board propped on cinder blocks, and booted up his ancient laptop. Books on plant physiology and soil chemistry were already arranged in a precarious tower; he pulled the first one down, the crack of its spine a familiar, focusing sound. Behind him, Martin moved into the small kitchen nook, a space dominated by a single hotplate and a dented air fryer.
Rob heard cupboards opening, the clatter of a pan. Then Martin’s voice, low and businesslike, as he began making calls. “Cheryl. Marty. I need a favour. A big one.” The sizzle of butter hitting a hot surface soon accompanied his murmured negotiations.
Forty minutes later, Martin called him in. “Food's ready!”
Rob found a plate waiting on the cleared coffee table. It was a ridiculous, glorious mountain: toast topped with three perfectly fried eggs, chopped pickles scattered like confetti, a side of crispy chickpeas and bacon, with banana and grapes artfully arranged in a small bowl beside it. It was a chef’s improvisation from a student’s barren cupboard. The buzzer for the main door sounded.
“Delivery,” Martin said, disappearing into the hall.
He returned with two large takeaway coffees, placing one beside Rob’s plate. They ate in comfortable silence for a moment, the rich coffee cutting through the savory fat.
“So, how exactly is this makeover happening in, like, five hours?” Rob asked, spearing a chickpea. “This isn’t one of those daytime telly shows where they fake it with a crew of fifty.”
Martin laughed, a short, genuine sound. “My company has a lot of assets. One is a subsidiary that dresses properties for sale—staging, they call it. They’re always cycling through furniture, always need the latest styles.” He took a sip of coffee. “And I have favours to call in. Simple.”
He set his cup down with a deliberate click, his face turning serious. “I need to be clear, Rob. This isn’t payment. For anything. You don’t owe me for this, or the gym membership, or last night, or breakfast.” His gaze was steady, leaving no room for misunderstanding. “It’s a gift. No strings.”
Rob felt a lump form in his throat. He covered it with a cheeky grin, tilting his head. “But if I want to thank you with copious amounts of filthy sex, is that okay? Purely as a voluntary gesture?”
Martin barked a laugh, shaking his head. “Enough of that, or I won’t be letting you leave this flat at all. Eat. Then finish your work.”
Rob returned to his desk, the final paragraphs of his paper clicking into place with unusual clarity. Behind him, Martin’s phone rang again; he answered on video.
“Cheryl, you angel. Let me show you the canvas.” Martin moved through the rooms, his phone painting a slow panorama of the cluttered, sun-bleached space. Rob finished typing, saved his document, and sent it to the printer with a relieved sigh.
He grabbed a towel and ducked into the shower, the hot water sluicing away the last traces of sleep and anxiety. He was rinsing shampoo from his hair when the curtain rattled back.
Martin stood there, naked and unabashed, a playful intent in his eyes.
“Nope! Absolutely not!” Rob yelped, scrambling out over the side of the tub, dripping everywhere. “If I spend one second in here with you, I will miss my deadline, my lab slot, and possibly my own funeral. The temptation is physically dangerous.”
Martin laughed, holding up his hands in surrender. “Fine, fine. You’re right.”
After Rob was dressed, Martin pulled him in for what was supposed to be a quick, goodbye kiss. It deepened, turning slow and searching, Martin’s hands firm on his lower back. Rob finally broke away, gasping. “I have to go. Really.”
“Four o’clock?” Martin asked, his voice rough.
“Four o’clock,” Rob confirmed, and rushed out the door.
Alone, Martin began tidying. He boxed up the few dishes, stacked Rob’s textbooks neatly, and consolidated the bizarre collection of empty jam jars Rob hoarded. He was trying to make it easier for whatever came next.
They arrived just past noon. First, the cleaning crew: two guys in crisp overalls, friendly and lethally efficient. “We’ll be boxing and doing a deep clean,” the taller one said. “Might be easier if you made yourself scarce for a bit?”
Martin knew exactly where he was going. He headed to the nearest retail park, full of the outlets he needed. Two hours later, he was driving back to Rob's place with a car full of items - kitchen appliances, a new TV, a new laptop. When he arrived, the apartment was a hollow, echoing shell. All of Rob’s possessions were gone, stored in the crew’s van. The grow room had been emptied, cleaned and replaced. Every surface gleamed under the unforgiving daylight; industrial fans whirred in the corners, drying the freshly mopped floors and steamed carpet. The air smelled sharply of citrus and bleach.
Another van pulled up as he stood in the emptiness. A wiry woman with a severe grey bob jumped out—Cheryl. She shook Martin’s hand with a firm grip. “Right. Show me the space properly, then. I’ve brought three options for each room.”
They walked through the barren rooms. “He’s a botany student,” Martin explained. “Loves plants. Needs it to feel grounded, but not dark. He’s… he’s coming out of a cave.”
Cheryl nodded, already visualizing. “Greens for the bedroom, then. Earth tones for the living area. We’ll add splashes of colour with textiles and art—mustard, maybe a terracotta.” She beckoned her two assistants, and a silent, well-orchestrated ballet of furniture and fabric began.
By half-three, it was done. Martin stood in the doorway, stunned. The grubby student flat was gone. In its place was a warm, cohesive home: a deep sage green on the bedroom wall behind a new, sturdy bed frame with a navy duvet; a comfortable, earth-toned sofa in the living area facing a sleek, low bookshelf; abstract art prints with hints of rust and ochre on the walls. Even Rob’s own plants, now cleaned and repotted, were arranged on a stylish stand by the window.
His phone buzzed. A text from Rob: On my way.
Martin’s thumb hovered over the screen. He typed Wait downstairs, then deleted it. Let me explain first — also deleted. His pulse, steady through the entire orchestration of the day, now felt erratic. He settled on See you soon, sent it, and took the stairs two at a time.
The afternoon air outside was crisp, a relief from the sterile citrus smell now permeating the flat. He leaned against the brick façade, watching the street. When Rob's car rounded the corner, Martin felt a sudden, sharp fear. This was a violation, perhaps. An overstep dressed up as generosity.
Rob’s eyebrows were furrowed, his posture slumped with the weight of his day. He didn’t look up until he was a few feet away.
“Hey,” Martin said, pushing off the wall.
Rob’s smile was tired but real. “Hey, Daddy.” He leaned in for a quick kiss. “Sorry, just… long lab. My specimens were being divas.”
“It’s okay.” Martin blocked the main door, his hands finding Rob’s shoulders. “Listen. I did the thing. The makeover. It’s done.”
Rob blinked. “Done? Already? How is that even—”
“It is. And I need you to know it’s all yours. Nothing to give back.” Martin searched his face. “If you hate it, we box it all up tomorrow. No questions. No hurt feelings. Okay?”
A flicker of anxiety crossed Rob’s features, then curiosity won. “Okay. Show me.”
Martin handed him the key. “You go first.”
Rob took it, his expression unreadable. He opened the main door and started up the stairs, Martin following a few steps behind, his stomach tight. Rob stopped at his own front door, staring at the fresh wood grain. He inserted the key, turned it, and pushed.
The gasp was sharp, sucked in through teeth. Rob didn’t move from the threshold. His backpack slid from his shoulder and thudded to the floor.
He took one step in, then another, his head swiveling. His hand rose to cover his mouth, then fell away. “What… how…” He turned back to Martin, his eyes wide and shining. “Martin.”
He surged forward, grabbed Martin’s face, and kissed him hard, a messy press of gratitude and shock. He didn’t let go, just pulled Martin inside by his shirt, his other hand lacing tight with Martin’s, anchoring them together.
“This is… this is mine?” Rob whispered, leading them into the centre of the living room. He reached out and touched the back of the new sofa, as if to verify its solidity. "And the TV?!" he gasped, looking back at Martin with a frown that couldn't comprehend his generosity. He looked at the art, the plants on their new stand, the clean lines of a space that finally had room to breathe. He kept turning back to Martin, kissing his cheek, his lips, his stubbled jaw, a constant, physical punctuation of his disbelief. “Thank you. Thank you.”
Martin beamed, a wave of pure, undiluted glee washing the fear away. “You like it.”
“Like it?” Rob laughed, a wet, hiccupping sound. He pulled Martin onto the new sofa. It was firm but forgiving, and it smelled of clean fabric, not dust. “It’s not like a show home. It feels… it feels like a place someone capable lives. Someone who has their shit together.”
“Cheryl really knows her stuff,” Martin said, wrapping an arm around him.
Then Martin showed him the new kitchen equipment - a new, two drawer air fryer, a toaster oven and two hob hotplate, new kitchenware and utensils. Rob was touching everything, so impressed at how well they captured his tastes. Then Martin brought out the new laptop. "Last thing, I promise. I just couldn't help myself. It was all I could do to stop myself from buying you a whole goon station set up," Martin chuckled. Rob sat down at the new kitchen table - a heavy wooden country kitchen style with mis-matched chairs. He was dazed. "Too much?" Martin asked, genuinely concerned. Rob shook his head and pulled Martin to him.
Rob leaned into him, his voice small. “It’s like a dream. Am I just insanely high? Is that it?” He let out a shaky breath, part laugh, part sob. “That would make sense.”
“It’s real. I promise.” Martin turned his head, unable to resist the pull of Rob’s plump, parted lips.
The kiss started soft, a seal on the promise. Then Rob’s hand slid from Martin’s neck, down his chest, over the soft wool of his jumper, coming to rest on the growing bulge in his trousers. Rob moaned deeply, his fingers pressing, feeling the thick, ready hardness beneath the fabric. “Oh.”
“Wait here one moment,” Rob breathed, pulling away. He scrambled off the sofa and rushed to the bedroom.
Martin heard a drawer open, the rustle of movement. A few moments later, Rob’s voice, thick with intent, called out. “Daddy? Can you help me with something?”
Martin stood, his cock aching. He walked into the newly decorated bedroom, the sage green walls feeling calm and deep.
Rob was on all fours on the new bed, his ass pointed at the door. He was naked. One finger traced the crease of his ass, looking warm and inviting under the soft light. He looked over his shoulder, his expression a mix of boldness and shyness. “I have a spare douche in my college locker. In case I need a toy in me to help me focus at school.” He swallowed. “So I thought I’d make good use of it. And you could make good use of… this?”
Before Rob could finish the sentence, Martin was on the bed, his face buried between those pale, generous cheeks.
The noise Martin made was a raw, desperate whine. He lapped at Rob’s hole, sucking the rim, then spearing deep with his tongue. The wet, slick sounds filled the quiet room, obscene and beautiful. Rob cried out, pushing back against Martin’s mouth, his own vocalizations a matching soundtrack of high, wanton pleas.
“Daddy, yes, just like—oh god!”
Martin pulled back, panting, his chin slick, his hands quickly unbuttoning, unzipping and removing his clothes. “I need to catch my breath a moment or I’ll lose my load right here, boy.”
Rob rolled onto his back, his chest heaving. “All I want to do is get high and fuck for hours. But we have the gym.”
Martin crawled over him, caging him. “A slow fuck now,” he suggested, kissing Rob’s throat, “and a proper, messy gooner fuck later?”
“Yeah.” Rob reached to the nightstand, where a new bottle of lube sat. He squeezed a generous amount onto his fingers and reached down, smearing it over his own hole with a practiced, slick noise. “Please.”
Martin added lube to his own cock, the chill of it making him hiss. He lined himself up, the head pressing against Rob’s slick entrance. He paused, searching Rob’s face. “Are you going to be okay? This is your first time, right?”
“It is,” Rob said, his legs falling open wider. “But only my first time with actual cock.” A grin broke through his nervousness. “Silicone has been good to me.”
With that permission granted, Martin pushed in. There was a tight, hot resistance, a breathtaking friction that gave way to a gradual, yielding surrender. Rob sighed, a long, shuddering release of air, and groaned as Martin pushed deeper, until their hips met, Martin buried to the root.
Martin held there, motionless, trembling with the effort of control. The feeling was catastrophic, a heat and pressure he hadn’t felt in years. They held each other’s gaze, the connection thrumming between them, a circuit completed.
Slowly, Martin began to move. A shallow retreat, then a deep, rolling thrust. The wet sound of their joining was loud in the quiet room. “That’s it, boy,” Martin grunted, his rhythm building. “Take your Daddy.”
“Feels… so full,” Rob gasped, his hands scrabbling at Martin’s back. “Daddy, you’re so big.”
The praise, the name, ignited Martin. He drove harder, his thrusts losing their measured pace, becoming urgent, possessive. The bedframe tapped a steady beat against the wall. Rob’s moans climbed higher, tighter.
“I’m gonna… Daddy, I’m gonna—”
Martin fucked him through it, his own rhythm fracturing as Rob’s body clenched and pulsed around him, pulling his own orgasm from him in deep, wrenching spurts. He collapsed, careful to keep his weight on his elbows, his forehead pressed to Rob’s shoulder. They lay there, slick and spent, the only sound their ragged breathing syncing slowly in the dim, green room.