Chapter 1: Kissing Lessons with Simon
The front door slammed hard enough to rattle the frame. James took the stairs two at a time, his chest burning, his throat tight. He didn’t stop until he was inside his bedroom, throwing his weight against the door to shut out the world. The thud was final.
Silence, except for his ragged breathing. He leaned back against the wood, eyes squeezed shut, but the words played on a loop in his head. You’re a terrible kisser. Emily hadn’t even said it meanly. That was the worst part. It was a clinical observation, delivered with a sympathetic wince after he’d leaned in, heart hammering, and done what he’d seen in movies. She’d pulled back, patted his arm, and said it like she was telling him he had spinach in his teeth.
His eyes opened, landing directly on the full-length mirror tacked to the back of his door. The guy staring back was a stranger. Messy brown hair stuck to a damp forehead. Hazel eyes, usually warm, were wide and glassy with unshed tears. His face was flushed, cheeks blotchy with anger and shame. He looked young. Stupid. He’d spent years in hospital rooms and physiotherapy, building this body—the defined shoulders, the strong legs—believing it would be a passport to a normal life. He’d filled his room with posters and books, trying to cram a missed adolescence onto the walls. But none of it mattered. All it took was one attempt at intimacy, one moment of genuine want, to expose him as a fraud.
A raw, choked sound escaped him. He balled his fists and drove one into his thigh, a sharp burst of pain to eclipse the humiliation. It didn’t work.
A light tap on the door made him jump. Before he could answer, it creaked open, nudging him forward.
Simon stood in the hallway, silhouetted by the dim light from the stairwell. He was in his typical evening uniform: a faded blue dressing gown hanging open over a grey vest and a pair of checked boxers. His blonde crew cut was rumpled, his mustache framing a soft, concerned smile. The earthy scent of weed and the malty whisper of beer drifted in with him. His blue eyes, slightly red-rimmed, scanned James’s face.
“Heard the door,” Simon said, his voice a gravelly murmur. “Sounded like you murdered it. You okay?”
James turned away, pretending to be fascinated by his world map. “Fine.”
“You’re a shit liar.” Simon stepped inside, letting the door close most of the way. He leaned against James’s cluttered desk, littered with textbooks and a cold pizza box. “Rough night?”
The forced casualness in Simon’s tone was the final straw. The dam broke. “She said I was a terrible kisser,” James blurted out, the words hot and jagged. “My first real date, and I… I disgusted her.”
“Whoa, hey. I doubt you disgusted her.” Simon held up his hands. “People say dumb stuff.”
“She was right, though!” James snapped, whirling around. “I didn’t know what I was doing. I just… went for it. Like an idiot. How are you just supposed to know? Why aren’t there classes for this?”
A slow, understanding nod from Simon. He scratched his chest through his vest. “Yeah. No one teaches it. You’re just expected to… get it. Which is bullshit. I kissed a hell of a lot of people before I met your mum. Some of them were brilliant. Some were like being licked by an enthusiastic dog. Everyone could use pointers.”
“So give me some!” The plea was out before James could filter it, born of pure, desperate frustration.
The room went very still. Simon’s easy-going expression tightened, his brows knitting together. He let out a long, slow breath. “James… c’mon. That’s not… I can’t. I’m your stepdad. That wouldn’t be appropriate.”
“What’s appropriate about me being a laughing stock?” James’s voice cracked. The anger dissolved, leaving only the raw, aching humiliation beneath. A hot tear tracked down his cheek, and he swiped at it furiously. “You’re the only person who wouldn’t… who wouldn’t make fun of me. Who actually might help.”
He saw the conflict warp Simon’s face. Saw the affection warring with the lines of propriety. Simon looked at the ceiling, then down at his own hands, then back at James’s shattered expression.
“Ah, hell,” Simon whispered, more to himself than to James. He rubbed his mustache. A long silence stretched, filled only by the hum of the house. “Okay. Just… to show you. No weirdness. Just mechanics. Yeah?”
James couldn’t speak. He just nodded, his heart now pounding for a completely different reason.
“Sit,” Simon said, his voice softer now. He pointed to the edge of the bed.
James sat, his knees weak. Simon grabbed the pillow from the head of the bed and dropped it on the floor. He knelt on it, putting them almost at eye level. James was acutely aware of Simon’s state of undress—the open robe, the hair on his chest visible through the vest, the casual intimacy of it. He smelled of laundry, faint weed, and clean sweat.
“Right,” Simon said, his voice a low, instructive murmur. “Close your eyes if it’s easier. Do what you did with Emily. Let me see.”
James hesitated, then leaned in. His move was abrupt, head-jerking, lips pressed too hard against Simon’s. He held them there, tense and unmoving, for three endless seconds before pulling back, his face flaming.
Simon didn’t flinch. He nodded thoughtfully. “Okay. See? Not the worst. A little… stilted. But the foundation is there.” He licked his own lips. “First thing. It’s not an attack. It’s a… conversation. Start light. Just the pressure of your lips. Forget your tongue exists for a minute.”
“Okay.”
“Try again. Softer.”
James leaned in again. This time, he let his lips just brush Simon’s. They were softer than he expected, and warm. He held the contact, then increased the pressure slightly. Simon’s lips moved against his, a subtle give and take. A signal. James mimicked it, a soft press and release. His brain, which had been screaming with panic, quieted to a hum. He felt the prickle of Simon’s mustache, the warmth of his breath.
“Better,” Simon breathed against his mouth. “Now… tongue. Think of it as a suggestion, not an invasion. Just a little touch. Don’t spear me.”
James tentatively let the tip of his tongue trace the seam of Simon’s lips. Simon parted them, allowing the barest entrance. The contact was electric, wet and startlingly intimate. James kept it gentle, a shy exploration. Simon met him with a slow, reciprocal slide. The kiss deepened naturally, losing its instructional quality, becoming a shared rhythm. It lasted for long, quiet moments. When they finally pulled apart, a thin string of saliva connected them for an instant before breaking.
Simon’s eyes were darker now, his breath a little uneven. “That’s… yeah. That’s good. Now, variation. Don’t just do the same thing. A little suck, a little nip, back to soft.” His voice was husky. “And your hands, James. What are they doing?”
James looked down at his own hands, clenched uselessly on his knees. “Nothing.”
“They should be doing something. Stroke my jaw. Hold my face. Cup the back of my head. It’s all part of it.”
The third time James moved in, he used his hands. One came up to cradle Simon’s jaw, his thumb brushing the rough stubble on his cheek. The other slid into the short hair at the back of Simon’s head. Simon made a low, approving sound in his throat. This kiss was not a lesson. It was a slow, deep, searching thing. James forgot about technique, about Emily, about everything. There was only the warm, wet slide of lips and tongue, the scratch of facial hair, the solid feel of Simon under his hands, the shared breaths that grew gradually more urgent.
When they broke apart, it was with a soft, wet sound. They stayed close, foreheads nearly touching. Simon’s eyes were dazed, his lips parted and swollen. James’s own felt puffy, sensitive.
“Looks like you’re a good student,” Simon whispered, the words ruffling James’s damp lips.
Then Simon’s gaze flickered downward, and his whole body stiffened. He looked startled, almost guilty. In one swift, sharp motion, he shifted back on his heels, pulling his dressing gown closed and cinching the belt tight. He stood up too quickly, his movements awkward.
James followed his line of sight and heat flooded his own face. The hard, unmistakable outline of his erection pressed against the fly of his jeans.
The moment shattered, collapsing into thick, choking silence.
“Right,” Simon said, voice strangled. He wouldn’t meet James’s eyes. “You, uh… you get the idea. Just… practice that. It’ll be fine.” He was already backing toward the door. “Goodnight, James.”
“Night,” James managed to croak.
The door clicked shut.
Simon didn’t go to the living room. He went straight to his office at the end of the hall, the room that smelled of stale coffee, old paper, and guilt. He locked the door. The click of the bolt was a punctuation mark.
He sank into his creaky desk chair, the leather cold through his thin boxers. His heart was a frantic drum against his ribs. He could still taste James—the faint mint of his gum, the unique, warm flavour of him. He looked down. The front of his robe was tented. He was fully hard, aching, leaking a dark spot onto the fabric.
With trembling hands, he pulled his weed kit from the bottom drawer. He rolled a joint with practiced, automatic movements, lit it, and took a deep drag, holding the smoke until his lungs burned. It didn’t calm him; it just focused the thrumming energy.
He woke his computer. The screen glowed in the dark room. He didn’t hesitate. He typed the search, the words he’d never let himself type before. The video he found was amateur, poorly lit. Two men, one older, one younger, kissing on a couch. It wasn’t the action on screen that mattered. It was the concept. The echo.
He unknotted his belt. He pushed his boxers down to his thighs. He took himself in hand, his grip firm. He didn’t rush. He replayed it—the hesitant first touch, the soft instruction in his own voice, the way James’s hands had finally learned to hold. The dazed look in his stepson’s eyes afterward. The visible proof of his effect, tenting those jeans.
His strokes were long and slow, filthy with memory and fantasy. He imagined a world where the lesson hadn’t stopped. Where his hands had moved from James’s hair to his shoulders, pushing him back on the bed. He pictured the weight of him, the shocked gasp, the surrender.
In his bedroom, James lay flat on his back, the ceiling a blur. His lips were tingling. His whole body felt hyper-aware, humming with a new, terrifying frequency. The shame was still there, a cold knot in his stomach, but it was now tangled with something else—a hot, coursing thrill.
He fumbled with the button of his jeans, shoved them and his boxers down. He wrapped his hand around himself, his breath catching. He didn’t need to search for a fantasy. It was imprinted on the back of his eyelids. Simon’s blue eyes, close and intent. The feeling of his short hair between James’s fingers. The scratch of his mustache. The low murmur of his voice giving instructions, now twisted into praises in James’s mind. That’s good. Just like that.
His hand moved in a frantic, desperate rhythm, completely unlike Simon’s deliberate pace down the hall. This was a race to make the feeling overwhelm the thought. But the thought was the feeling. The kiss. The approval. The forbidden, solid warmth of him. The image of Simon kneeling, of his own hands learning the landscape of a man’s face.
In his office, Simon’s breaths came in short, sharp grunts, his fist a blur. In his bed, James’s hips jerked off the mattress, a choked sob catching in his throat.
They came almost in unison, two silent, seismic events in the dark, separated by a few feet of hallway and a world of unspoken rules, each alone with the ghost of the other’s mouth.
They came almost in unison, two silent, seismic events in the dark, separated by a few feet of hallway and a world of unspoken rules, each alone with the ghost of the other’s mouth.
The next morning, James’s head was a blur of thin sleep and thick memories. The logic was clear, a cold edict in the daylight: the kiss was a one-off. A clinical favour. He was grateful, genuinely. The phantom pressure of Simon’s lips against his felt like a shield now. He could probably kiss someone and not inspire pity or a critique. That was the point.
The problem, solid and throbbing in his gut, was that the only mouth he could imagine wanting was Simon’s.
He pulled on grey sweats and a white vest, the fabric soft against his oversensitive skin. The house was quiet. He padded downstairs, aiming for coffee, for normalcy.
A low, rhythmic grunting stopped him in the hall. It came from Simon’s office, the door wide open. James peered around the frame.
Simon was on the floor in a deep runner’s lunge, his right leg bent sharply in front, the left stretched long behind him. He wore navy shorts that had ridden up his thick thighs and a tight black vest darkened with sweat at the armpits and across his broad back. His muscles trembled with the strain. He saw James’s shadow and looked up, his face flushed with effort.
“Hey,” Simon puffed, offering a tight smile. His blue eyes were careful, scanning. “You okay after last night?”
The question hung there. After last night. Which part? The crying? The lesson? The silent conclusion reached behind locked doors?
“Yeah,” James said, leaning against the doorjamb, hoping he looked casual. “I’m good. Thanks again. For… you know. It helped. A lot.” He meant it. The gratitude was real, but it was a bridge to something else. “If there’s anything I can do to, like, thank you…” He let it trail off, his mind screaming the rest: let me do it again.
Simon held the stretch, his breath evening out. He looked at James, really looked, and James saw the conflict from last night still there, now tempered by morning light. “Actually,” Simon said, his voice casual, too casual. “I could do with a hand with this stretch. My hips are like concrete. And you’re practically an expert, all that physio.”
“Sure. Of course.” James’s pulse ticked up a notch.
“Come kneel behind me? I need support so I can really sink into it. I want to go deep.”
James felt a jolt, a direct line from those words to his dick, which gave an interested twitch against his sweatpants. He took a slow, deliberate breath and moved into the room. The air smelled of Simon—sweat, deodorant, the lingering earthiness of last night’s weed.
He knelt on the carpet behind Simon’s extended back leg. “What do I do?”
“Just brace me. Put your hands on my shoulders, or my chest. Keep me upright so I can focus on dropping my hips.”
James shuffled forward. His knees ended up on either side of Simon’s back thigh. He placed his hands flat on Simon’s pectorals. The heat was immediate, the feeling of solid muscle and coarse chest hair under the thin vest. His thumbs brushed against the surprising, prominent swell of Simon’s nipples. James’s mouth went dry.
“Okay,” Simon grunted. “Here we go.”
Simon began to bounce gently, sinking his hips lower toward the floor with each tiny, controlled movement. The motion pushed him back, and James’s groin came flush against the curve of Simon’s ass. It was an unavoidable, full-contact alignment. Through two layers of thin fabric, James felt the compact, firm shape of him.
And his body, traitorous and eager, began to respond.
“That’s good,” Simon murmured, his voice a low, concentrated rumble. “That feels good. That’s it… good and deep.” He was narrating the stretch, but the words, breathed out with each exertion, landed in James’s ear like something else entirely. Good. Deep. Push it.
James’s eyes fixated on the patch of skin above Simon’s vest collar. The short hairs at the nape of his blonde neck were damp. His ears, the curve of them. James imagined pressing his mouth there, tasting the salt, nibbling the lobe just to feel Simon jump. His cock, half-hard and thickening rapidly, pressed insistently against the seam of Simon’s shorts.
Simon switched legs, giving James a merciful second to adjust. He discreetly tugged the waistband of his sweats, angling his erection upwards along his own stomach. It was a futile gambit. When Simon settled back into the lunge and James moved in to brace him again, the new position was worse. His cock, trapped and pointing upward, now lay perfectly along the cleft of Simon’s ass, the soft fabric of Simon’s shorts a maddening barrier.
Simon resumed his gentle bouncing. “Breathe into it,” he instructed, his own breath coming in deep, steady draws.
James tried. He tried to breathe. He tried to think of cold showers, of textbooks, of Emily’s disappointed face. But all he could process was the heat, the pressure, the rhythmic push and yield against the most intimate part of him. He was fully hard now, achingly so, and the friction with every small movement was either torture or heaven, he couldn’t tell.
Simon’s verbal litany continued, a steady stream of encouragement that wrapped around James and pulled him tighter. Yes. Right there. Deeper. James’s hands slid slightly on Simon’s sweat-damp vest. He was lightheaded.
The fantasy bloomed, vivid and complete: his hands sliding down that vest, pushing it up. His mouth on Simon’s back. Turning him over. Taking that confident, instructive mouth with his own, properly this time, showing him what he’d learned.
A sharper, pained grunt from Simon broke the spell.
“Okay,” Simon said, his voice strangled. He stopped bouncing, holding the deep lunge, perfectly still. “Okay. I think… I think that’s enough. Don’t want to pull anything.”
The words were a bucket of cold reality. James jerked back as if scalded, scrambling to his knees. His sweatpants were tented, obscenely obvious. He crossed his arms over his lap.
Simon didn’t turn around. He carefully unfolded from the stretch, groaning as he straightened his legs. He rolled his shoulders, his back still to James. “Yeah, that’s better. Loose. Thanks, mate.”
Mate. The word was a deliberate wall, bricked up fast and sturdy.
“No problem,” James managed, his voice cracking. He needed to be gone. Now. “Gonna… get coffee.”
He practically stumbled out of the office, down the hall, and into the bright, cold light of the kitchen. He braced his hands on the sleek counter, head hanging, and just breathed. The hum of the refrigerator filled the silence.
He could still feel the imprint. The heat. The specific, undeniable alignment of their bodies.
From the hallway, he heard the soft click of Simon’s office door closing.
James filled the kettle, the sound too loud in the quiet. He focused on the ritual: the click of the switch, the rumbling boil, the scoop of grounds into the French press. Normal things. Simple things.
But his hands shook just a little as he poured the water, the steam rising to kiss his flushed face.
In his office, Simon breathed his own sigh of relief. He knew what he was doing. He knew it was crossing so many lines. The feel of James pressed into him, the swelling of James's dick, apparently quite a large dick from what he felt. The feeling of James's hands on his chest, near his very sensitive nipples that Sarah had no interest in. The feeling of James's cock near his sensitive hole that Sarah also wouldn't go near, no matter how much he cleaned it and took care of it. He hadn't turned to face James after the stretch because his short shorts wouldn't have hid anything - the strain of his cock, the damp patch of precum.
He locked the door, his movements frantic. He pushed his shorts and boxers down, his cock springing free, thick and achingly hard. He spat into his palm, a crude lubricant, and wrapped his fist around himself. A groan ripped from his throat, low and guttural. With his other hand, he pinched a nipple through his vest, twisting sharply. The pain-pleasure shot straight to his groin. He thought of James’s unsure hands becoming confident. He thought of the weight he’d felt, the potential. His strokes were rough, frantic, a race against his own conscience. It was over in less than a minute, a strangled cry as he came in thick, hot spurts over his own stomach and the already-stained fabric of his shorts. He slumped in his chair, panting, disgust and exhilaration warring in his gut. He wiped himself clean with an old t-shirt from the floor, pulled a pair of grey sweats on over the cum-damp shorts, and headed to the kitchen, needing coffee himself.
In the downstairs guest toilet, where James had fled, he sat on the closed lid, head in his hands, then gave in. He freed his aching cock, his own spit slicking the way. “Yeah, just like that,” he mumbled to the empty room, eyes clenched shut, imagining a phantom Simon kneeling before him, those blue eyes looking up, that mouth—the same mouth that had taught him—opening. The fantasy was blisteringly fast, fuelled by adrenaline and shame. A few brutal tugs and he was coming with a choked gasp, his load splashing into the toilet bowl below. He flushed, washed his hands, and avoided his own reflection.
Now the two of them were in the kitchen, their individual orgasms cooling their desires into a fragile, awkward calm. The air smelled of cheap coffee and toasted bread.
Simon busied himself at the counter, cracking eggs into a bowl. “So,” he said, his voice deliberately light. “What’s the plan for you today? World domination? More revolutionary kissing techniques to perfect?”
James shrugged, leaning against the fridge. “Just chilling, I guess. Probably boot up the console. Die repeatedly in some fantasy realm where the rules make sense.”
“Sounds productive.” Simon whisked the eggs, the rhythmic clacking filling the silence. “I was gonna tackle the garage out back. That separate building? It’s a tomb of junk. Everything in there needs donating or burning. Thought I might make it into a gym, or a studio, or... hell, a panic room for when your mother’s in a mood.” He glanced at James. “Could do with a hand if you’re up for it. Manual labour. Good for the soul, they say.”
James hesitated. The sane part of his brain screamed to retreat to his room, to put digital distance between them. But the other part, the part that was still humming from the morning’s contact, won out. It was the right thing to do, to help Simon. And he admitted to himself he wanted to be near Simon. Now more than ever.
“Yeah, alright,” James said, trying to match Simon’s casual tone. “Can’t let you throw your back out alone. Mum would kill me.”
“Cheers, mate.” Simon poured the eggs into a hot pan. “I’ll cook us fuel, then we can get going. I’ll owe you one for the help.”
You could pay me back in kissing practice, James thought, the idea so vivid he almost said it aloud. He bit his tongue.
They ate at the kitchen island, the conversation skating over safe surfaces. Simon talked about a difficult client for his graphic design work, a logo that kept coming back looking like a “sad tennis ball.” James mentioned his history seminar, how he was finally catching up to the reading lists, feeling less like an imposter. It was almost normal.
“So,” Simon asked, scraping up the last of his eggs with toast. “You gonna give Emily a second chance, now you’re a hot-shot kisser? Show her what she’s missing?”
James felt the blush creep up his neck. He covered it with a scoff. “Nah. I think I’m done with her. I don’t need that energy in my life.”
Simon pointed his fork at him, a genuine smile touching his eyes. “Too right.”
The garage was a dust-choked cavern filled with the ghosts of old projects: a broken exercise bike, stacked boxes of yellowing paper, a forgotten lawnmower, an ancient sofa spilling its foam intestines. They worked in a steady, wordless rhythm, layered in a thin film of sweat and grime. Simon would heft something, James would open a bag. They developed a system. The pile for donation grew. The van out front filled with absolute junk.
The physical labour was a relief. It gave James’s restless energy a direction. He could focus on the weight of a box, the scrape of furniture on concrete, the satisfying thud of trash hitting the bag. He could steal glances at Simon, his vest now darkened across the back and under his arms, the muscles in his shoulders and arms working as he manoeuvred a heavy crate.
After an hour and a half, the space was transformed. The floor was clear, the walls visible. Light streamed in through the newly-uncovered windows, illuminating motes of dust dancing in the beams.
“Right,” Simon gasped, hands on his hips, surveying their work. “I’m calling time. Hydration break. Don’t move, I’ll get drinks.”
He returned from the kitchen with two cold cans of ginger beer, condensation already beading on the aluminium. He tossed one to James, who caught it with a smart snap.
They sat on the old broken sofa, which they'd decided to leave for now, collapsing into the surprisingly comfortable cushions, legs stretched out. The silence wasn’t empty anymore. It was full of the work they’d done, the shared effort, and everything they weren’t saying. They popped the cans open in unison, the hiss loud in the quiet space.
James took a long, cold swallow. Simon did the same, his throat working.
James glanced over. Simon was already looking at him. Their eyes met, held for a second, then darted away. James felt his heart trip. He took another drink, the sweet fizz on his tongue.
He looked back.
Simon was watching him again, a faint, unreadable smile playing on his lips. This time, neither of them looked away. The eye contact stretched, a delicate wire pulled taut between them. Simon’s tongue darted out, wetting his lower lip. James mirrored the action almost unconsciously, tasting the ginger beer on his own mouth.
They just sat there, in the sunlit dust, smiling faintly, not speaking, the air between them crackling with a language neither had learned how to speak aloud.