Chapter 5: Chapter 5
James floated in a warm, post-storm quiet, his body humming with a profound and unfamiliar satisfaction. Simon held him tight, his coarse chest hair tickling James’s cheek, the steady thump of his heartbeat a lullaby. He could have stayed there forever, drifting in that hazy contentment.
But then Simon’s lips were on his again, softer this time, a question rather than a demand. James sighed into the kiss, opening for him. A warm, broad hand slid down the curve of his spine, past the dip of his waist, fingers tracing the sore, slippery skin of his ass. A frisson of something like alarm shot through James’s lethargy. He knew what was coming. He’d just learned how devastatingly intense that attention could be.
He tensed, a faint, involuntary resistance in the line of his shoulders.
Simon pulled back just enough to speak, their lips still brushing. “Too much?”
“No,” James breathed, the word barely audible. “Just… a lot.”
“It will be,” Simon agreed, his voice a low rumble. “Very intense. But it’ll be worth it. I promise.”
James looked into those clear blue eyes, saw the steadiness there, the complete absence of hurry or expectation. This man had taught him how to kiss, had guided him through his first taste of giving and receiving, had unlocked a pleasure in him he didn’t know he could feel. Trust wasn’t a question; it was the foundation everything was built on. He let out a trembling breath, his body going pliant against Simon’s. “I trust you, Daddy.”
A low, visceral growl vibrated from Simon’s chest into his own. Simon claimed his mouth in a deep, possessive kiss, his tongue mapping James’s as his fingers found him again. The touch was slick—more lube, cool at first then warming quickly. It wasn’t the searching stretch from before; it was an open, languid reacquaintance. Simon’s fingers slid in easily, one, then two, working him with a slow, twisting rhythm that made James cry out softly into the kiss.
The sensitivity was breathtaking. Every nerve in that previously uncharted territory was awake, singing. The deep, full feeling reignited, coiling that electric pleasure in his gut once more. The kisses grew messier, their breaths syncing into ragged pants. James began to move against Simon’s hand, chasing the friction, a needy, broken sound escaping him.
“Please,” he gasped, arching his back. “Simon, please…”
“Please what?” Simon murmured against his jaw, his fingers curling deliberately.
James’s mind was a scramble of sensation. He needed more. He needed the emptiness filled. “More. I need… I need…”
Simon stilled his hand, holding himself deep. “Use your words, James. Tell me what you need.”
The command, gentle but firm, cut through the fog. It was a lesson, just like the kissing. Participation. James swallowed, his voice cracking. “I need… your cock. Inside me. Please, Daddy.”
The air changed. Simon’s eyes went dark, the pupil swallowing the blue. He kissed James, hard and swift, then moved. He grabbed the lube, slicking himself with a hurried, wet sound. He positioned himself between James’s legs, nudging them wider with his knees. His cock, hard and leaking, nudged against James’s trembling thigh.
“We stop any time,” Simon said, the words ragged. “Any reason. You say the word.”
James looked up at him, at the flush on his chest, the tense set of his jaw, the love and desire so naked on his face. All James felt was a yawning, desperate need. “Please,” he whispered, his voice raw. “Fuck me. I need it.”
Simon lined himself up. The broad, blunt head of his cock pressed against James’s loosened opening. There was pressure, a stretching burn that was more pronounced than fingers, an insistent, undeniable fullness. James gripped Simon’s biceps, his nails digging in.
“Breathe,” Simon gritted out, his own body shaking with restraint. He pushed forward, a slow, inexorable inch. The burn flared, then settled into a deep, stretching ache. “You control this too,” Simon panted, his forehead beaded with sweat. “Push out against me. You can take me. You’re managing me, James. You’re letting me in.”
James tried to obey, relaxing muscles that wanted to clench in alarm. He focused on the feeling of Simon, on the stretch, on the overwhelming fact of it. Another inch. Then another. The ache blossomed, transformed. It was full, so incredibly full, a pressure against that sublime, secret spot deep inside. Simon slid home, his hips meeting James’s ass, his groin pressed tight against him.
They were joined. Fully. Simon was buried to the root inside him.
A wild, disbelieving grin split James’s face. Tears, unimpeded, streamed from the corners of his eyes, tracing hot paths into his hairline. His mouth opened but no coherent sound came out, just a stream of garbled, blissful gibberish, spit bubbles forming on his lips. He was full. He was connected. He was fucked.
Simon began to move. Withdrawing slowly, a devastating drag, then pressing back in with that same deliberate, overwhelming fullness. Each stroke was a revelation. James’s world narrowed to the slick, hot junction of their bodies, to the sound of skin meeting skin, to Simon’s guttural groans. Simon tried to keep it slow, to make it last, but the tension coiling in him was too great, the sight of James beneath him—wrecked, weeping, grinning—too potent.
His rhythm fractured. His thrusts became shorter, harder, less controlled. “James… fuck… I’m gonna…”
He buried himself deep and came. James felt it viscerally—the hot, pulsing release flooding his insides, a sudden wet heat amid the pressure. The feeling triggered something catastrophic within him. Anal orgasms, dry and seismic, ripped through his body, one after another, wracking him with shuddering convulsions. His cock, still soft, leaked a steady stream of clear fluid onto his stomach with each clenching wave.
Simon collapsed onto him, a dead weight of spent pleasure. James wrapped his arms around him, holding him as close as the join would allow, whispering “thank you, thank you, thank you” into the sweat-damp hollow of his neck. He felt Simon’s own tears then, hot on his shoulder, and his own crying renewed, not from pain or even overwhelming pleasure, but from a connection so profound it cracked him open.
They lay like that for a long time, until their breathing evened and the tears dried into salty tracks. Simon shifted, sliding down the bed with a tenderness that made James’s heart clench.
Simon looked peaceful.
He pushed James’s knees up again, his gaze hungry and reverent. Then he lowered his head and began to eat his own cum from James’s used hole.
The sensation was beyond anything. The rasp of Simon’s tongue, the intimate suckling, the knowledge of what he was doing—it sent James into a state of mindless, crippling ecstasy. He writhed, hands fisting in the dark blanket, sounds escaping him that held no language, only raw, elated sensation.
Before James could even process that culmination, Simon was moving again. He took James’s soft cock into his mouth, slicking it thoroughly with the mixed taste of cum and lube from his ass. The warm, wet suction combined with the over-sensitivity had James hard again in startling, aching seconds. Simon stroked him with a firm, sure hand, and as he did, James felt him—Simon was hard again too, his cock pressing against James’s thigh.
Without a word, Simon positioned himself and slid back in. James’s eyes rolled back, a guttural “uhn” forced from his lungs. His cock leaked a fresh pearl of precum. This time, the glide was easier, slick with proof of their shared pleasure.
“Okay,” Simon breathed, his thrusts slow and deep. “Now you work. Squeeze me. Here.” He pushed in deep, held it. “Clench your muscles. Like you’re trying to stop peeing. Yeah… just like that. Oh, fuck, James. That’s it.”
James focused inward, tentatively flexing the internal muscles around Simon’s cock. He felt Simon swell and pulse within him in response.
“You feel that?” Simon gasped. “That’s you. You’re milking me. You’re in control.”
The realization was a lightning strike. His eyes, which had been screwed shut, flew open, locking onto Simon’s. He wasn’t just receiving; he was doing. He was actively working Simon’s cock with his own body. A powerful, dizzying agency surged through him, mingling with the pleasure.
Simon grinned down at him, his moustache damp with sweat. “Welcome to your pussy.”
James could only whimper in response, a high, needy sound, as he focused all his attention on rhythmically squeezing and releasing, matching the tempo of Simon’s now-driving thrusts. The pleasure built on both sides, a feedback loop of tightening and filling, of control given and taken.
It crested faster this time, a towering wave. James came first, his orgasm a silent, arching explosion that seized every muscle in his body. His channel clamped down on Simon in violent, rhythmic contractions, and that fierce, involuntary grip was all it took. Simon shouted, pouring into him a second time, a hot, claiming rush that seemed to go on and on.
They collapsed together, a tangled, sticky, utterly spent heap. Simon slipped out, and James immediately curled into him, tucking his head under Simon’s chin. They didn’t speak. The early afternoon light began to slant through the window, painting gold across their legs. James listened to Simon’s heartbeat gradually slow, felt the gentle rise and fall of his chest, and knew, with a certainty that felt older than he was, that nothing would ever be the same. The room held a new silence, thick with the smell of sex and sweat and shared skin. Eventually, Simon stirred, his hand rubbing a slow circle on James’s back.
“We’re a mess,” Simon murmured, his voice husky with weariness. “Let’s hit the big shower.”
The main bathroom shower was a spacious, tiled cubicle that instantly felt like a luxury. Simon adjusted the water, testing it with his hand until steam began to fog the glass. He pulled James in under the hot spray. The water sluiced over them, a cleansing river turning milky at their feet.
They kissed under the falling water, slow and lazy, tasting each other’s mouths anew. Simon took the soap, working a lather in his hands before smoothing it over James’s chest, his shoulders, the defined planes of his stomach. His touch was methodical, worshipful, rinsing away the dried sweat from their chores and the sticky evidence of their sex. James returned the favor, his hands sliding over Simon’s thick, hairy torso, learning the map of him under the slick soap.
It was intimate in a different way, this quiet tending. As the steam cleared their heads, Simon’s hands stilled on James’s hips. “You’re gonna be sore,” Simon said softly, his thumb stroking the curve of James’s ass. “I’ve got some ointment. For nappy rash, honestly, but it’ll help everything… settle.”
James leaned his forehead against Simon’s damp shoulder. A low, persistent throb was already making itself known deep inside him. “I’m worried I won’t be able to leave it alone,” he confessed, the admission muffled against skin. “The feeling. I just want to… I don’t know. Figure it out again.”
Simon chuckled, a low, warm sound. “Maybe you need a distraction.” James’s fingers drifted from Simon’s lower back, tracing down the cleft of his ass. He found Simon’s hole and circled it with a tentative finger.
“What on earth could you be referring to?” James asked, his voice pitch mock-innocent.
Simon pulled back to look at him, water beading on his blonde lashes. “Just thinking. Now that you’ve been on the receiving end… you might have a better perspective on the giving end.” James’s cock, hanging soft between his legs, gave a definite, interested throb. A bead of clear precum welled at the tip, mixing with the shower spray, confirming everything Simon had suggested.
“First,” Simon said, turning off the water and reaching for towels, “we need refreshments. I’m starving.”
“I’ll make a salad,” James said, stepping out onto the mat. He dried quickly, his mind already racing ahead. He pulled on a fresh pair of plain black boxers, the cotton feeling abruptly dull and utilitarian. I need sexier underwear for this, he thought, a private, thrilling concession. For when it’s just us.
In the kitchen, he moved with a focus that felt new, chopping crisp romaine, cucumber, and bell peppers, halving cherry tomatoes. He found feta and olives in the fridge, drizzling everything with oil and lemon. It was simple, bright, something to cut through the weight of the day.
Simon entered, freshly dressed in clean sweats. He came up behind James at the counter, his solid warmth pressing close, his arms encircling James’s waist as James sprinkled pepper. He nuzzled into the damp hair at James’s temple. “Smells good.”
“Almost done,” James said, leaning back into him. Simon’s hands slid down, teasing the waistband of his boxers.
“Medicine first,” Simon murmured. He produced a small white tub, dipping two fingers into the thick, zinc-scented ointment. He gently tugged James’s boxers down just enough, his touch clinical yet tender. The cool cream against his sore, stretched flesh made James gasp, a sharp inhale that melted into a low moan as Simon worked it in with careful, circular presses.
“Soon,” Simon promised, his voice rough again. He gave James’s ass a light, stinging swat, then stepped away to wash his hands thoroughly at the sink.
They ate at the island, shoulders touching, feet hooked around each other’s stool legs. The crisp food was a needed anchor. “We should let this settle,” Simon said, chasing the last olive around his bowl. “Before we get into anything else. We need groceries for the week anyway.”
The suburban supermarket was a jarring landscape of fluorescent light and mundane chatter. James felt hyper-aware of his own body, of the subtle soreness with each step, of Simon walking beside him, their hands brushing against the cart handle. The ordinariness of it was surreal, a screen over the tectonic shift inside him.
“I need the bathroom first,” James said, his voice tight.
Simon just nodded, steering the cart. “This way.”
The men’s room was cold, tiled, and empty. Simon pushed the door of the largest stall open, guided James in, and locked it. The world shrank to porcelain and gleaming metal. Without a word, Simon put the toilet lid down. He pulled his t-shirt off over his head, dropped it on the floor, and sat.
He looked up at James, his blue gaze steady and utterly serious. Then he opened his mouth.
James’s brain short-circuited. He understood, but the understanding felt impossible. “You want me to…?” he whispered, the words swallowed by the hum of the overhead vent.
Simon nodded. He reached for James’s fly, freeing his soft cock. “Don’t force it,” Simon whispered, his breath warm. “Just let it go. Gently.”
James focused, his body responding to Simon’s hand. The stream began, pale and arching, splashing softly against Simon’s tongue. Simon’s mouth closed, his throat working in steady, deliberate swallows. He nursed at James’s cock, taking the flow, his tongue lapping at the sensitive head, mingling the taste of piss with spit.
A shocking wave of heat flooded James, unrelated to the urine. It wasn’t crude. It was profoundly intimate, a surrender and an acceptance that felt more sensual than dirty. He gazed down, mesmerized by the sight, by Simon’s complete immersion in the act. When the last drops fell, Simon suckled him clean, then let him slip from his lips.
“My turn,” James breathed, his voice shaky with a new kind of authority.
They switched places. James sat on the closed lid, but as Simon stood, James turned him around. He spat onto his fingers, then smeared the wetness over Simon’s exposed hole. He didn’t hesitate. He dove in, his tongue spearing into the loose, musky warmth.
He knew now. He knew what it felt like, what to search for. He ate Simon with a focused confidence, licking and probing, seeking the responding clench and shudder. A choked, animal sound escaped Simon. He bit down hard on his own bicep, his whole body trembling, braced against the stall wall.
After a long, relentless moment, James pulled back. He landed a sharp, possessive slap on Simon’s ass. “I’d rather do more of this at home,” he said, standing and tucking himself away.
They moved through the store in a electrified daze, grabbing bread, milk, coffee, eggs—a pantomime of domesticity. The car ride home was silent, charged. They barely had the patience to haul the bags inside, dropping them just inside the kitchen door.
James didn’t wait. He turned, backed Simon against the counter, and kissed him, deep and hungry. His hands fumbled with Simon’s sweatpants, pushing them down. He lifted Simon—a grunt of effort, answered by a gasp—and sat him on the cold quartz countertop.
Simon’s legs fell open. James got on his knees between them, his eyes locked on Simon’s. He didn’t ask. He simply leaned in, burying his face in the coarse hair, and licked a broad, flat stripe over Simon’s hole. Simon’s head thumped back against the cabinet, a ragged “FUCK!” tearing from his throat.
James did it again, slower, with more pressure. Then he dove in, his tongue working with the same deliberate, curling intensity Simon had used on him. He was a quick study. He listened to the hitches in Simon’s breath, felt the twitches in his thighs, and adjusted his technique—slower circles, then a firm, pointed penetration. He was learning Simon’s body through taste and touch and sound, and the power of it, the feedback of Simon’s helpless, groaning pleasure, was more intoxicating than anything he’d ever known.
He was learning Simon’s body through taste and touch and sound, and the power of it, the feedback of Simon’s helpless, groaning pleasure, was more intoxicating than anything he’d ever known. He felt Simon’s hand grip his hair, not pushing, just holding on. “Jesus, James…” Simon’s voice was shattered glass. “Okay, okay, stop.”
James pulled back, lips wet and swollen, breathing hard. A sharp, desperate need coiled in his own gut; he was achingly hard, untouched, and buzzing with a frantic energy. His own release felt like a physical phantom, a pressure building behind his balls that demanded an answer. He looked up, questioning.
Simon’s eyes were darkened pools, his chest heaving. He read James’s tense posture, the way his fists were clenched at his sides. “You’re fucking needy, aren’t you?” Simon panted, a wild grin flashing under his moustache. “That beautiful cock is begging. I can see it.”
“Yeah,” James breathed, the word a bare admission.
“Then stop teasing me and fuck me with it,” Simon said, his tone shifting to a low command. “Hard. Grab the olive oil from the cupboard. The extra virgin shit. Now.”
James moved quickly, his hands unsteady. He found the bottle, a slick, cool cylinder of green glass. He popped the cap, the rich, grassy scent filling the space between them. Simon leaned back on his elbows on the counter, legs spread wider, an open invitation.
James coated his fingers generously, the oil warm to the touch. He met Simon’s gaze as he brought his hand down. The first touch was a slow circle, then a deliberate press. One oil-slick finger slid in, meeting little resistance, just a hot, welcoming clutch. James worked it slowly, his own breath catching at the sensation. He added a second, scissoring gently, feeling the muscle give way.
“More,” Simon grunted, his head falling back. “Don’t be gentle now. I’m not made of glass.”
A third finger joined the others, James stretching him with intent, a slow, twisting penetration that made Simon cry out, a sharp, ragged sound of pure pleasure. Soon, three fingers were pistoning in and out easily, the slick squelch of oil and flesh loud in the quiet kitchen. The sight was obscene, mesmerizing. James was transfixed by the loose, glistening grip of Simon’s body around his fingers.
“Now,” Simon demanded, his voice guttural. “Your cock. Don’t think. Just give it to me.”
James didn’t need telling twice. He oiled his length, the sensation almost too much. He positioned himself, the broad head nudging against the well-stretched entrance. He pushed in one smooth, relentless stroke, burying himself to the hilt. Simon yelled, a full-throated shout that echoed off the cabinets. The lack of tight resistance was a new kind of thrill; it was all depth, all slick, hot surrender.
James pulled back and slammed home. Again. The rhythm was punishing from the start. He held Simon’s hips, fingers digging into firm flesh, and drove into him. The counter rattled with each impact. This wasn’t like being inside him before; this was claiming, using, flooding him with a force that came from a deep, frantic well inside James.
“Yes! Fuck! Just like that!” Simon babbled, his words breaking on each thrust. “Let it go, James! Give me that load!”
The permission shattered the last of James’s control. His world dissolved into the slap of skin, the smell of olive oil and sex, the brutal, perfect slide into wet heat. A raw, animal scream tore from his throat as he came, pulsing deep inside Simon, his vision whiting out at the edges. He collapsed forward, his forehead against Simon’s shoulder, their bodies slick with sweat and oil.
They stayed like that for a minute, joined, breathing in ragged, broken sync. James’s cock slid out with a soft, wet sound. He carefully helped Simon down from the counter, steadying him as he wobbled on unsteady legs. Without a word, James took his hand and led him upstairs, to the sanctuary of his bedroom.
He laid a towel on the rumpled sheets. Simon, understanding, crawled onto it, kneeling on all fours at the bed’s edge, presented. James knelt behind him, his gaze fixed on the damp, well-used hole, glistening with a mix of his own cum and the golden oil. He leaned in and began to eat.
He fell into a trance. The taste was complex—musky, salty, rich with olive oil and his own distinct, fading bitterness. He loved the wetness, the complete lack of barrier. He licked and probed, feeding the mess back inside with his tongue, then with one finger, then two, working them in alongside his mouth, stretching Simon further, making the wet sounds louder. He was reclaiming, worshiping, obsessed. Time blurred into the rhythm of his tongue.
After what felt like both an instant and an hour, he pulled back, breathing hard. “I love your hole,” he whispered, his voice hoarse. “I want to eat it like this every day. I love how it feels. I love how it tastes.”
Simon turned over onto his back, his movement fluid. He looked James in the eye, his expression open and raw. Slowly, he raised his knees, planting his feet on the bed, offering himself completely. James’s cock, which had never fully softened, was already painfully hard again.
This time, James went slower. He angled himself so he could watch. The sight of his cock slipping effortlessly into that loose, slick warmth was hypnotic. There was no fight, just a smooth, devouring acceptance. He fucked him with deep, rolling strokes, adding first one, then two oil-slick fingers alongside his cock, stretching Simon even further, fascinated by the yielding elasticity.
“God, yes,” Simon moaned, his hands roaming over his own chest. “Keep doing that. Exactly that. Don’t stop.”
James obeyed, lost in the visual, the physical feedback, the sounds of Simon’s encouragement. As his own climax began to build again, a tight coil low in his stomach, he reached for Simon’s cock. He wanted to feel him go first. He jerked him with a firm, timed grip, his thrusts never faltering.
“James, I’m gonna—” Simon’s warning was a choked gasp. His release was hot and sudden, striping his stomach. The intense, rhythmic clenching of his hole around James’s buried cock was the final, perfect trigger. James shouted, plunging in as deep as he could as his own orgasm ripped through him, a second, seemingly endless flood.
He collapsed forward, his weight fully on Simon, who grunted but held him, arms wrapping around his back. They lay locked together, spent and sticky.
After a long moment of ragged breathing, Simon gently rolled them. He pulled James onto the bed and into the crook of his arm. James snuggled close, his head on Simon’s shoulder, a deep, happy sigh escaping him. The late afternoon sun cast long, warm bars of light across the floor.
“So,” James began, his finger tracing idle circles on Simon’s chest. “The piss thing. Have you always been… into that?”
Simon chuckled, the sound rumbling under James’s ear. “No. Not always. There were a couple guys, way back. I’d get the urge, and I’d just… go with it. Always enjoyed it. The rawness. But it’s not something everyone gets. I always figured it had to feel right for both people, or it’d just be weird.”
“Does it feel right with me?” James asked, tilting his head to look up.
Simon looked down, his blue eyes soft. “James, I would drink every drop you’ve got if you let me.”
A thrill shot through James. “It’s hot,” he said, his voice low. “You can have as much as you want. Whenever.”
Simon’s fingers trailed down James’s spine. “One of these days,” he said, his tone dropping to a risky, conspiratorial whisper, “I might have you do it inside me.”
James groaned, a sound of pure, perverted glee. His cock, resting against Simon’s thigh, gave a thick, undeniable twitch, already thickening again.
Simon felt it. “Christ, it’s impressive,” he murmured, awe in his voice. “This thing just keeps going.” He slid down the bed, his hand closing around James’s rapidly hardening length. He looked up, a challenge in his eyes.
“So,” James asked, his voice thick with naughty anticipation. “You think you could take it? Without spilling a drop?”
Simon’s answer was to seal his mouth around the head of James’s cock. The warm, wet pressure was immediate and profound. James focused, letting the stream go slowly, a steady, hot release. He moaned, his head falling back on the pillow, as he heard the soft, gulping swallows, felt Simon nursing at him, taking every drop.
When he was done, Simon didn’t pull away. He began to suck in earnest, bringing all his skill to bear—a twist of his wrist, a flutter of his tongue, a deep, sucking pressure that pulled from James’s very core. The sensitivity was insane, overwhelming, a direct line from his softening bladder to his overstimulated nerves.
It didn’t take long. James’s back arched clear off the bed as a third, shocking orgasm seized him, a shuddering, almost painless crest that wrung him utterly dry. He collapsed, boneless and gasping, into the quiet haven of the bed.