Chapter 4: Chapter 4
James woke to the profound disorientation of a room that was his, yet wasn’t. The faint glow of the streetlight bled around the edges of his blinds, painting stripes across the cluttered floor. His head was pillowed on something warm and solid, rising and falling with a deep, rhythmic breath. The scent was familiar—laundry detergent, pine from the hike, and something uniquely Simon.
Memory flooded back, not as a shock, but as a warm, slow tide. The hike. His first time fucking someone. The trembling, fumbling kiss in this very room. Simon’s patient hands, his low voice guiding James through the mechanics of touch, of pressure, of giving and receiving pleasure in the living room. The garage. The overwhelming, shuddering releases he’d experienced under Simon’s mouth. His decision, wordless and mutual, to retreat here, to James’s bed, to keep Simon with him, where they’d fallen into an exhausted, tangled sleep.
He shifted slightly. His cheek was pressed against the soft hair of Simon’s chest. He blinked, his eyes adjusting. In the muted light, he saw it. Simon’s cock, soft and full, lay against his stomach, a dark shadow against pale skin. The sight sent a jolt through him, not of alarm, but of a fierce, curious hunger.
The analytical part of his brain, the part that always overthought, was still asleep. His body moved on a pure, instinctual current. Carefully, so carefully, he slid down the bed, the sheets whispering against his skin. He felt Simon’s deep inhale but no waking tension. James closed the short distance, his breath hitching. He nosed the soft flesh, then let his lips part, taking Simon into the warm, wet cavern of his mouth.
It was alien. Salty. Intimate beyond anything he could have imagined. He simply held him there, letting his tongue learn the shape, the softness of the foreskin, the smooth ridge of the head. A soft groan vibrated in his own throat. He was aware of his own hardness, a painful, leaking ache pressed into Simon's leg, but he made no move to touch himself. This was different. This was about returning the gift he’d been given, about exploring this craving without the pressure of performance.
Simon began to harden against his tongue, filling his mouth gradually. James focused on the tip, using just his lips and the flat of his tongue in a slow, tender mimicry of what had felt good to him. A soft, wondering moan escaped him. He was lost in the sensation, in the act of pure giving.
A heavy hand came to rest on his head. Fingers carded gently through his messy hair. “Mmmh,” Simon mumbled, his voice thick with sleep. “James…?”
James didn’t stop. He hummed in response, the vibration making Simon’s hips twitch minutely. Simon’s hand stayed, a warm weight of permission, his fingers curling loosely in James’s hair. James could feel the change, the gathering tension in the flesh under his tongue. Simon’s breathing hitched, growing shallower. Remembering Simon’s own technique—patient, focused—James didn’t increase his pace. Instead, he applied more suction, more focused pressure with his tongue, hollowing his cheeks.
Simon’s free hand fisted briefly in the sheet. A stifled, ragged sound broke from his lips. Then it came—not a violent pulse, but a slow, hot ooze that coated James’s tongue, rich and bitter. James swallowed instinctively, greedily, chasing every drop with his tongue, cleaning him with a diligence that felt both tender and possessive until Simon was soft again.
By the time James lifted his head, Simon’s breathing had evened back into the deep rhythms of sleep, his hand slack in James’s hair. James shuffled back up the bed, his own need a distant thrum. He curled into Simon’s side, resting his head on the solid, familiar plane of his chest, listening to the steady heartbeat. A profound, quiet contentment settled over him. He slept.
Sunlight, bold and intrusive, eventually pried his eyes open. Simon was still there, a warm, snoring weight beside him. The reality of the night crashed into the clarity of morning. James lay perfectly still, the taste still a phantom on his tongue. What now?
Simon stirred with a grunt, blinked blearily at the ceiling, then turned his head. His blue eyes found James’s. For a long moment, they just looked at each other. James saw no regret, no panic. Just a calm, sleepy assessment.
“Morning,” Simon rasped, his voice gravelly.
“Hi.”
Simon stretched, the muscles in his arms and chest corded. He scratched his stubbled jaw. “I had… a really good dream.”
James felt a smile tug at his lips. “Yeah?”
“Mhmm. I dreamt that I'd spent the day having sex with the hottest young man...” Simon rolled onto his side, facing him. His expression was soft, open. “You okay?”
James smiled and blushed, the movement small against the pillow. “More than okay.” He hesitated. “Was that…? I mean, during the night, I just…”
Simon reached out and pushed a strand of hair from James’s forehead. The gesture was unbearably gentle. “It was perfect, James.” He sighed, a contented sound. “God, my mouth tastes like a sewer. I need coffee.”
The normalcy of the statement was an anchor. James watched as Simon threw back the covers and stood, naked and unselfconscious in the morning light. He padded toward the ensuite door, his thick frame moving with a loose, easy grace. “Coming?” he said over his shoulder, not waiting for an answer.
James scrambled out of bed, his own nakedness feeling suddenly more exposed. He followed Simon to his ensuite bathroom, a cramped space littered with his toiletries. Simon was already squeezing toothpaste onto James's brush, the ritual mundanely domestic.
“Go ahead,” Simon said around the brush, nodding toward the toilet.
James stepped up to the bowl, his heart doing a funny little tap against his ribs. He heard the electric hum of his toothbrush start next to him. Taking a breath, he let his stream go, the sound loud in the quiet room. He was acutely aware of Simon’s presence, of Simon's eyes watching his cock as he relieved himself, aware of the attention causing his cock to thicken. The stream tapered to a few final droplets. Simon, who had just spit his toothpaste into the sink, moved with a fluid, unexpected grace.
He leaned down, his warm mouth enveloping James’s sensitive head, and sucked lightly, taking the last beads of piss onto his tongue. James gasped, his hips jerking slightly at the shocking, intimate warmth. Simon stood back up, swallowing with a deliberate click of his throat, a wicked grin spreading under his blonde moustache.
“Perverts,” Simon said, his voice low and rough. “Never forget.”
James couldn’t think. He surged forward, capturing Simon’s mouth with his own, his tongue delving in to taste the faint, mineral tang mingled with mint. It wasn’t gross. It was just Simon, a new layer revealed. They kissed there, by the toilet, half-hard and morning-breathed, until Simon gently turned them.
“Switch.”
James took his place and began cleaning his teeth, weirdly enjoying the shared brush. Simon pissed a strong, steady stream into the bowl, and James watched, a knot of anticipation tightening in his gut. James, making sure he was done with his teeth as Simon finished, shaking off the last drops, mirrored the act without hesitation. He bent, taking Simon’s soft, damp cock into his mouth, sucking gently to collect the lingering warmth.
He stood, meeting Simon’s blazing blue eyes. “Perverts,” James confirmed, his own voice strange to him.
They kissed again, deeper this time, their cocks now fully hard, pressing against each other’s thighs in the cramped space. Simon broke the kiss, resting his forehead against James’s. “I need your cock, man,” he breathed. “But right now I need coffee more.”
James laughed, a shaky, relieved sound. “Yeah. Okay.”
They pulled on boxers and moved to the kitchen, a silent agreement in the shift from skin to cotton. James hopped up to sit on the counter, the cool quartz a shock against his thighs, while Simon ground beans and filled the machine. The gurgling brew filled the comfortable quiet.
“Sarah’s back tomorrow,” Simon said, not turning from the counter. The statement hung there, a practical guillotine.
“I know.” James watched the muscles shift in Simon’s broad back. “So we play it like this weekend we finally… became best bros. Like she always wanted us to be.”
Simon glanced over his shoulder, a single arched eyebrow.
“It’s not even a lie,” James continued, pushing his messy hair back. “We can go on more hikes. Have boys’ nights. She doesn’t have to know what we get up to.”
Simon brought two steaming mugs over, handing one to James. He leaned against the opposite counter, studying him. “I need to be sure, James. Absolutely sure. You don’t feel… coerced? This power dynamic is fucked six ways from Sunday.”
James took a scalding sip, letting the bitter heat ground him. “I feel like I’m being taught about sex by someone who actually cares if I like it. And who thinks I’m hot.” He shrugged, a genuine smile touching his lips. “There’s no downside for me. And it's not like you're double dipping. I know you guys don't have sex. I've heard the arguments.”
“Yeah.” Simon’s posture softened. “It's not the greatest situation for us. But this makes all those worries go away. I mean, I'm not exactly comfortable with cheating on her, but, for some reason, this doesn't feel like cheating. We both understand what's happening here, neither of us wants to be in an open gay relationship. And I get the honour of teaching the sexiest of young men how to understand pleasure, for some unknown reason.”
“That’s because I finally saw how insanely hot you are,” James said, the words feeling daring. “Daddy.”
The effect was instantaneous. Simon’s mug hit the counter with a thud. A low growl rumbled from his chest as he stepped between James’s knees, pushing his legs apart. “You’re gonna get yourself in trouble with that mouth.”
James wrapped his legs around Simon’s waist, locking his ankles. “Promise?”
The kiss was deep and claiming, flavored with black coffee. Simon’s hands gripped his thighs, holding him in place. When they finally parted, breathless, James turned his head to whisper directly into Simon’s ear, his lips brushing the stubbled skin.
“Maybe it’s my turn today.”
Simon went still for a second. James tightened his legs in answer, a silent press. Understanding dawned in Simon’s eyes, darkening them.
“My boy wants to meet his pussy, is that it?” Simon murmured, the crude word sending a lightning bolt of desire straight down James’s spine.
James nodded, unable to speak. Simon growled again, kissing him hard, one hand kneading the firm muscle of James’s ass through his boxers, making him moan into the other man’s mouth.
“First,” Simon said, pulling back with obvious effort. “Breakfast. Fuel.” He smacked James’s thigh lightly. “Gotta prep the engine if we’re taking it for a new kind of ride.”
As Simon moved to the fridge, pulling out eggs, bacon, and bread, the questions began tumbling out of James. “So, how do you… clean yourself? Like, properly. Does it hurt? What does it actually feel like?”
Simon cracked eggs into a bowl, his movements efficient. “You have a decent movement first. That’s step one. Then you use a douche—just plain lukewarm water, gently, until it runs clear. Give yourself a little time after to relax, make sure any leftover water comes out.” He glanced at James, who was listening with intense focus. “It shouldn’t hurt. Not if we go slow, use more lube than seems reasonable, and you communicate. It’s a full feeling. Pressure. It can be incredible. But it can also take time to understand how it feels and what you're looking for.”
“And we can stop?” James asked, his voice quieter.
Simon stopped whisking the eggs. He looked directly at him. “Any second. Any reason. A weird noise outside, a change of mind, a fucking itch on your elbow. This isn’t a contract, James. It’s play.”
They ate a hearty breakfast of scrambled eggs, bacon, avocado, spinach and buttered toast in a comfortable silence, legs touching under the small kitchen table. After a second coffee on the couch, scrolling phones and commenting on their feeds, a nervous energy settled over James.
He took a deep breath. “Okay. I’m gonna… go take care of step one.”
Simon nodded, giving his knee a brief, solid squeeze. “Take your time.”
Twenty minutes later, James returned to the living room, his expression a mix of resolve and slight anxiety. “Mission accomplished. For the, uh, next part… we should probably use your bathroom. My bathroom’s gonna need some airing out.”
A short, shocked laugh burst from Simon. “Christ, kid.” He shook his head, a wide grin spreading across his face. “Yeah. Mine’s down the hall. Supplies are under the sink.”
The ease of talking about it, the crude practicality, felt strangely liberating. This was part of it, James realized. The unsexy mechanics were just as important as the technique, because they led to a place where you could stop thinking and just feel. Simon followed him down the hall to the master ensuite, a space that still smelled faintly of his mother’s perfume over the cleaner, more masculine scent of Simon’s soap. It felt oddly transgressive, standing there in just his boxers.
“Alright, Miss Doolittle,” Simon said, his voice light. He crouched and rummaged under the sink, pulling out a large rubber bulb with a tapered nozzle. “Lesson one.” He filled it at the sink, then held it up. “Lukewarm water. You don’t want to shock the system.” He demonstrated the action, squeezing the air out before submerging the nozzle to draw the water in. “You only want to use about a third of this at a time. Gently insert, gently squeeze. Wait. Expel. Repeat until you’re running clear.”
James watched, fascinated by the clinical simplicity. “Why’s the bulb so big if you don’t need it all?”
Simon gave a slow, deliberate blink. “Sometimes you need it all,” he replied, his tone shifting to something more serious. “But that’s only for when you want to go really deep.”
James gave him a questioning look, his head tilting.
“Fisting,” Simon said bluntly.
James’s eyes widened, his mouth falling open slightly. A shocked, breathy laugh escaped him. Simon’s stern expression cracked into a grin, and then they were both laughing, the tension dissolving into the steam from the sink.
“That’s not something to think about right now,” Simon managed, wiping his eye. “One frontier at a time, yeah?” He handed James the bulb. “I’ll leave you to it.”
Alone in the quiet bathroom, James followed the instructions with meticulous care. The process was strange, a little awkward, but he found a rhythm. When he finally returned to the living room, a fresh towel around his waist, he felt a tentative confidence. “I think I’m good. I hope I’m right to feel confident about it.”
Simon looked up from his phone, his gaze warm and appraising. “Speaking of cleanliness,” he said, standing up and stretching, his t-shirt riding up to reveal a strip of hairy stomach. “There’s housework to be done. Chores before treats.”
They dressed in old, soft clothes—Simon in faded grey sweatpants and a worn band t-shirt, James in loose basketball shorts and a thin cotton tee. The work began in the living room, a silent, efficient ballet. Simon would clear the coffee table of cups and magazines, and James would be right behind him with a polish-spritzed cloth, wiping the wooden surface to a shine. When it came time to vacuum, James wordlessly lifted the armchair, his muscles flexing, and Simon guided the nozzle underneath, his free hand resting on the small of James’s back.
The touches were constant, electric excuses. Simon reaching for a dustrag brushed his fingers over James’s hip. James bending to gather cords bumped his shoulder against Simon’s thigh. Each accidental contact demanded a pause, a soft kiss against a shoulder blade, a mouth found in the dim space behind the couch. They were both half-hard the whole time, the thick fabric of their clothes doing little to conceal the persistent, eager swell of their cocks, a secret they carried from room to room.
By the time they collapsed at the kitchen island, gulping glasses of cold water, the house gleamed and their bodies hummed with suppressed energy. Simon watched a bead of sweat trace a path down James’s throat. “You want something to relax first? A hit?”
James shook his head, his hazel eyes clear and focused. “I’m tempted. But I want to be as present as possible for this.”
“That makes sense,” Simon said softly. He took James’s hand, his own calloused and sure, and led him back upstairs to James’s bedroom.
They remade the bed together, smoothing the sheets, the domestic act charged with ritual. Simon placed a clean, dark blanket over the freshly made bed. He disappeared for a moment, returning with a large bottle of clear lubricant. Without a word, he guided James down onto the mattress, laying beside him.
For a long time, they just kissed. It was slow and deep, a rediscovery of the taste of each other, of the shape of lips and the slide of tongues. Simon’s hands roamed over James’s shirt, finally slipping beneath the hem to trace the defined planes of his stomach, the sensitive skin of his hips. His touch was unhurried, mapping him. Slowly, so slowly James barely registered the path, Simon’s hand slid down, under the waistband of his shorts, beneath his balls. The pad of his thumb found the smooth skin of his taint and stroked, a gentle, maddening pressure.
James broke the kiss with a sharp inhale. His hips shifted, seeking more. Simon’s thumb moved lower, a slow circle over the tight, hidden furl of muscle. A full-body shiver wracked James. “Oh,” he breathed, the word dissolving into a sigh.
“Okay?” Simon whispered against his lips.
“Yeah. It’s just… really sensitive there.”
“Good.” Simon kissed him again, swallowing his next gasp as his finger continued its gentle, circular massage. After a few more minutes of this, of James melting into the bed, Simon nudged him. “Time to get naked." They both quickly threw off their clothes. "On your back, at the edge.” Simon commanded.
James complied, scooting until his ass was just off the mattress. Simon placed a pillow on the floor and knelt, his eyes level with James’s groin. He gently hooked his hands under James’s knees, lifting them. “Hold onto these,” he instructed, his voice rough. James gripped his own knees, pulling them back, exposing himself completely.
Simon just looked. In the afternoon light, the light dusting of dark hair, the heavy weight of his balls, the startling pink tightness of his hole, puffing faintly from the earlier massage. He leaned in, close enough for James to feel the heat of his breath, and simply smelled him, a deep, intimate inhale. He blew a soft stream of cool air across the sensitized skin first, making James jolt and whimper.
Then he kissed it. A soft, closed-mouth press that had James crying out, his fingers tightening on his knees. Simon kissed him there again, and again, his stubble scratching the inner thighs he held apart. He began to stroke with a single, finger, not penetrating, just tracing the tight ring. “So pretty,” Simon murmured, the vibration against his skin making James arch.
Simon started to make out with his hole as if it were a mouth, his lips and tongue working in slow, wet circles. His hands stroked James’s trembling thighs, his flank, the tense muscles of his stomach. James was muttering a stream of broken phrases—“oh god,” “right there,” “Simon, please”—his head thrashing on the pillow. Before too long, Simon’s tongue pressed harder, pointed, seeking entry. The first breach was a hot, wet intrusion that made James see white behind his eyelids.
He was drunk on it, on the obscene, exquisite feeling of being opened by a tongue, by the low groans Simon was making against his skin. When Simon finally eased back, his own breathing labored, he looked up. “You feel loose, baby. Ready for more?”
James could only nod, a frantic movement. Simon shifted him fully back onto the bed and lay beside him, popping the cap on the lube. He squeezed a generous amount onto two fingers, warming it. He kissed James deeply, James tasting himself on Simon’s tongue, as those slick fingers found him again. The circular pressure returned, now accompanied by the cool slip of lubricant.
“Just relax into my hand,” Simon whispered into the kiss. The pressure intensified. James felt his body yielding, the initial resistance giving way to a slow, stretching burn as the tip of Simon’s finger breached him. He gasped into Simon’s mouth. “Breathe,” Simon coached. “There you go.”
It was a full, unfamiliar stretch. Simon worked his finger in to the knuckle, then stilled, letting James adjust, kissing him through the tension. He began to move it slowly, in and out, a shallow penetration. James’s noises shifted from pained to pleading. When a second slick finger joined the first, the burn intensified, then subsided into a deep, profound feeling of fullness.
Simon watched his face, his own jaw tight with restraint. He crooked his fingers, searching. When he brushed over a spot deep inside, James’s entire body snapped taut. A punched-out, ragged cry tore from his throat, completely different from any sound he’d made before.
“There it is,” Simon growled, his voice thick with triumph. He focused on that spot, massaging it with a relentless, perfect pressure. Pleasure, sharp and electric and utterly foreign, radiated from James’s core, coiling in his gut. He was hard and leaking against his stomach, but Simon never touched his cock. This was something else, a rising tide building from within.
“I can’t—what is—” James choked out, his hips moving helplessly against Simon’s hand.
“Let it happen.” Simon captured his mouth, swallowing his cries as he worked his fingers, faster now, scissoring and curling. The coil snapped. James came with a shattered sob, his orgasm roaring up from that deep, internal place, stripping him raw. He spilled over his stomach in violent pulses, his channel clamping rhythmically around Simon’s buried fingers, milking the sensation for every last, shuddering drop.
He collapsed, boneless and panting, Simon slowly withdrawing his fingers. Simon gathered him close, holding him as he trembled through the aftershocks, pressing kisses to his sweat-damp temple. James buried his face in Simon’s neck, overwhelmed, a new universe sparking inside his wired nerves.