by James Lear
No need to hold it together anymore. In the rest of my life, I’m straining so hard to maintain control—my marriage is falling apart, my job is difficult and exhausting, my children seem to be disappearing—but here, for an hour or two, I can let it all go. Be the weak naked slut that I really am. He can do whatever he wants—get his friends around, two, three, four of them, a whole group of men watching and touching me, sticking their fingers inside me, their cocks.
I was sitting at my desk at the top of the house while Angie was downstairs watching TV and Alex was somewhere plugged into his headphones. I wanted so badly to wank, one touch would have done it, the thought of all those men using me, coming all over my naked body. But I saved it up. I wanted to give Graham everything I had.
Two days to wait. I was ready to explode, but I buried myself in work and training. Life at home was a strange dream, three people under one roof barely exchanging a word. Sometimes Angie was out all evening and never told me where she was. I didn’t ask. She returned after I’d gone to bed, used the bathroom, and went straight to our room—her room, I suppose I should call it now. I slept fitfully, with muddled, anxious dreams. My dick was painfully hard, but I only touched it to piss. Sometimes I woke up with my hand inside my pajamas, wrapped round the thickest point of my shaft, and as soon as I was conscious, I pulled away as if it would burn me. Not yet. I will save it. I want to give it all to Graham, to a man I have never met. It is his. I am his.
I needed to talk things through with a friend or a therapist, but that was the one thing I could not do. These casual encounters were the nearest thing to real friendship I had. At least with them, I could be myself, even if just for an hour. They knew me, these men, they saw my true desires, they accepted me, they recognized me as one of themselves. They should be my friends, not the mates and colleagues I drink with, braying on about football. What do they know about Joe Heath, the real Joe Heath, who wants to get fucked so hard he no longer has to think for himself? And what do I know about them? Nothing. They could all be the same as me. We might all be hiding the same secrets, a mass conspiracy of silence.
The day arrived. I trained at lunchtime to make sure I looked my best and then made my way to another destination, another new address. My knowledge of the outer suburbs of London was growing rapidly.
Graham lived in a pleasant tree-lined street, detached houses set back behind privet and laurel, one or two cars in every gravelled driveway. He was clearly not short of a bob or two. There was a new silver Audi outside his house and, I guessed, something even more expensive in the garage. I rang the bell, half expecting the door to be opened by a butler.
‘Ah, Mark. Come on in. You’re very punctual.’
He was about sixty. Neatly-cut gray hair, a handsome, lined face, a suntan that he definitely didn’t get in the dull, damp English spring. His clothes were casual, just a sweater over an open-necked shirt, jeans, loafers, but they all looked new and expensive. The large, airy hallway, broad wood staircase and slate flooring spoke of architects, designers, and decorators. I’m not in this for the money, God knows, but the term ‘Sugar Daddy’ flitted cross my mind. Even if I lost my job and got kicked out of my house, someone like Graham could provide a very comfortable cushion.
‘You’re very good looking, Mark,’ he said. ‘Handsome. A proper man.’
‘Thanks.’ I was already starting to get hard. A few months ago, I’d have been terrified, heart pounding, hands sweating. Now I was so accustomed to vice that I felt simply excited. ‘Nice house.’
‘It’s getting there. The builders have gone, thank God. Although one or two of them were quite easy on the eye. Please, go through to the living room. Would you like a drink?’
‘Sure.’
‘Scotch and soda? I know it’s terribly old fashioned, but it’s what I usually have around this time. Just one these days.’ There was a bar in the corner of the living room—a huge long box of a room with one wall made completely of glass. ‘I can’t stand the hangovers any more. My drinking days are over.’ He made the drinks. ‘Cheers. Please sit down.’ He gestured toward a large leather sofa—curled arms, gold studs, a real proper antique, I imagined. ‘Make yourself comfortable. You’re not in a hurry, are you?’
‘I can stay out as late as I like,’ I said, half joking.
‘Nobody to get home to?’
‘My wife’s away.’ Not strictly true, but in some ways, Angie had been ‘away’ for months. Years, even. I’ve never actually stayed out all night—that’s a bridge I’ve yet to cross—but what would she do if I did? Alex doesn’t need me to take him to school any more, he’s completely independent. Angie doesn’t cook dinner for me; if I’m hungry, there’s something in the fridge. We don’t have social engagements. It might make a change to have a night out. Sleep in a bigger bed. With some company. I sat back on the sofa, crossed my legs, and started to relax.
‘Oh well then, we can take our time. That’s nice. Some guys are out the door the moment they’ve come.’
‘Is this something you do often?’
‘I wouldn’t say often.’ He sat on a matching armchair at a right angle to me. ‘Just once in a while, when I want to treat myself. I don’t have a different man every night.’
‘Just every week?’
He laughed. ‘Let’s say every month. Sometimes every fortnight. What about you, Mark? How often do you manage to break out?’
There was something about Graham that invited confidence. I was still fully clothed, but I was starting to lay myself bare in other ways. ‘Oh, I could be out every night as far as my wife’s concerned. But I’m not really . . . you know. Not sure about things.’
He raised his glass to me, and we clinked. ‘Cheers. What sort of things? You can tell me to mind my own business if you want.’
‘It’s OK. Just the whole sex thing. You know. Men, women. I was always straight, until . . . ’
‘Until you weren’t.’
‘Yeah. It sounds ridiculous, doesn’t it?’
‘Well, if it does, then I know an awful lot of ridiculous men.’
‘Is it common then? To change in the middle of your life?’
‘I don’t know about common,’ said Graham, ‘but people seem to take stock of their lives when they get to their forties and they realize that things aren’t quite as simple as they appeared to be in their twenties. You know what it’s like when you’re young. You sail through life, not questioning anything.’
‘Yeah. And one day you wake up with a wife who doesn’t love you and two grown-up kids who don’t need you any more.’
‘Exactly. And you start wondering, for the first time ever, what it is that you really want.’
It felt like he was reading my mind. I sipped my drink for a while.
‘What is it you really want, Mark?’
‘It’s not Mark,’ I blurted out. ‘It’s Joe.’
He looked at his watch. ‘Wow. That’s a record. You’ve only been here for ten minutes and already you’re telling me your real name. Hi Joe.’ He leaned over and extended a hand; we shook. ‘And I really am Graham. What you see is what you get.’ He kept hold of my hand, or maybe I kept hold of his. ‘So, I’ll ask you again. What do you really want, Joe?’
‘God knows. When I’m horny I just want to get my rocks off.’
‘You horny now?’
‘What do you think?’
He reached down and squeezed my crotch; my dick was half hard. ‘Yeah, I’d say you’re horny.’ He smiled, his blue eyes twinkling. ‘But we’ll get to that in time. I don’t want you to run away just yet.’
‘I’m not going anywhere.’
‘Good. So come on, answer the question, or tell me to piss off.’
‘I suppose I want my freedom.’
‘Ah. Freedom.’ He scratched his chin. ‘Freedom’s a funny thing, Joe. When you’ve got it, you’re not always sure that you want it.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Look around you. I have my freedom. I do
n’t answer to anyone, I have more money than I know what to do with, I’m in good health, and I have friends and family. I work as much as I want to.’
‘Sounds fantastic.’
Graham shrugged. ‘On many levels it is. But I’m getting old. I’m alone. There’s no one here to look after me.’
‘You’re single?’
‘Yes.’
‘By choice?’
‘That’s what I always used to say, Joe. I didn’t want to be tied down. The truth is that I was scared. When I was young, it wasn’t so easy to be gay. I had lots of sex, but I avoided commitment. And I had a lot of fun. But nobody stuck around.’
‘What about now? You’re still a very attractive guy.’
‘Lots of people say that when they see the houses and the cars.’
Houses? There was more than one? ‘Come on, I didn’t mean that.’
‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to offend. I’ve just had my fingers burnt once or twice. ‘People I’ve trusted who…’ He sighed. ‘Took advantage, shall we say.’
‘Well, I’m not like that.’ I wondered what they’d done. Stolen the family silver? Borrowed money they couldn’t pay back?
‘I’m sure you’re not. All I’m saying, Joe, is be careful what you wish for. Freedom is great as far as it goes, but it’s not worth throwing your family away for.’
‘Jesus.’ I took a big gulp of scotch. ‘I wasn’t expecting this when I turned up at your door.’
‘Sorry. I’m a bit of a buzzkill, aren’t I? Look, if you want to go . . . ’
‘I don’t.’ I put my drink down on the table. ‘Actually, I want to get naked.’
‘Good. I thought I might have put you off. I can be a bit of a gloomy bastard sometimes.’
‘Me too. Now, shall I strip? Or do you want to undress me?’ I suddenly felt very horny. I stretched my arms and legs; there was a visible bulge in my pants. To my surprise, I seemed to be the one taking control of the situation.
‘May I?’ said Graham.
‘Go right ahead.’ I put my hands behind my head. ‘I’m all yours.’
‘Music to my ears.’ Graham kneeled between my feet. ‘Let’s start with the shoes.’ He picked up my left foot, cradled the heel in his hand, and deftly untied the lace. ‘Nice shoes. Very smart.’
‘I came straight from work.’
‘Did you bring any clean underwear?’
‘No. I wasn’t expecting to need it.’
‘I see.’ He loosened the shoe and eased it gently off my foot. ‘Now the other one.’ He massaged my feet through my socks; there seemed to be a direct connection between my soles and my cock, which was soon at maximum hardness.
‘That feels good.’
He peeled my socks off and put them neatly in my shoes. The massage continued. My feet aren’t exactly things of beauty; lots of running means they’re covered in calluses, but at least they’re clean and neat. Graham took them one at a time and massaged the sole and toes, ran his fingers gently over the sensitive skin on top, tracing the thick veins and stroking the dark hair. ‘You like that?’
‘Yeah.’ My voice was thick and throaty. I leaned back on the sofa, shifting my arse forward. ‘I love it.’
‘Good.’ He carried on stroking me, then leaned down and kissed the top of my right foot. It was very gentle, just a brush of the lips, but it sent a jolt through me. I don’t think anyone has ever kissed me there before. I must have shuddered, because Graham looked up to check that I wasn’t freaking out. One look at my face assured him that I wasn’t. He went back to work, kissing the tops and then the soles of my feet, licking and sucking my toes. I squirmed in my seat; it tickled, but it felt so good. Graham was obviously a master, and I was happy to surrender myself to him.
His hands were straying up my legs to my calves, and now my trousers were pushed up to my knees, a look that reminded me, inappropriately, of my father paddling on the beach during family holidays. Graham unbuckled my belt and undid my trousers as easily as if he’d been undressing himself; I’d have been all fingers and thumbs. He pulled my trousers down my legs and over my feet, running his hands over my hairy thighs.
‘Wow. Nice.’ He kept stroking, his hands reaching a little higher each time until he was touching the edge of my underpants. It was impossible to ignore the fact that I was fully erect, my cock pointing toward my left hipbone, a wet sticky patch around the head. But Graham steered around it for the time being, and ran his hands inside my shirt, over my hairy stomach, up to my chest. This brought him even closer to me, his hips between my thighs, and I squeezed a bit, drawing him in, locking my ankles behind him. He found my nipples and pinched them gently. I moaned and pulled him closer, his groin against mine. He was just as obviously hard as I was.
I hoped he’d take control, take the lead, control all the decisions, and just fuck me. Keep me here all night, all week, forever. Own me.
As you might guess, he was very good at sex. Undressing me, making me vulnerable, tweaking my nipples, and pressing his clothed crotch into mine; I was basically ready to sign up for life.
I was still wearing my tie. He grabbed it, pulled me up, and kissed me on the lips. I opened my mouth and took his tongue, my hands around the back of his neck, legs holding onto his waist. He held me with strong arms around my shoulders, and without breaking the kiss, he lifted me off the sofa. One hand ran down my back to support my arse, squeezing my buttocks, a finger finding my hole, pressing and rubbing.
I almost came.
He couldn’t hold me for long; I’m heavy, and Graham, while fit, was no athlete. He dropped me, panting a little, his face red.
‘Wow,’ he said and wiped his mouth. ‘I wasn’t expecting that.’
‘What? Lifting me?’
‘Kissing. Most men don’t.’
Perhaps I was playing this all wrong, I thought. I should be keeping up the straight/bi-married façade—no kissing, no emotion, just rough, recreational man sex. Doesn’t mean I’m queer. Perhaps that’s what Graham really wanted, and my eagerness was putting him off. Perhaps he’d politely hand me my trousers, offer me another drink, and then show me the door.
‘But you’re not like most men, are you?’
‘I don’t know. I suppose not.’
‘Let me get you naked.’
I wasn’t going to argue with that, not least because I was finding it hard to speak. My tongue and lips seemed swollen, my throat constricted. Lust was turning me into an animal. The thought crossed my mind that I had never, even in my lusty youth, felt like this with a woman. I never lost control or wanted to surrender it. It was always fun, hot, exciting, but I knew what was what, and so did the girls. Nothing was unexpected. Now, here, with this older man in his beautiful home, the whisky buzzing in my brain, his hands undoing my tie, unbuttoning my shirt, and laying me open, I wanted something I didn’t yet understand, something that was appearing as if through a fog, getting closer and clearer with every moment.
Graham took my shirt off slowly and carefully, like a nurse undressing a patient. All that was left was my underwear. I must have looked desperate, because Graham laughed. ‘OK, OK! I’m getting there! There’s no hurry!’ He kissed the side of my neck, down to my collar bone, across my chest, apparently finding all the most sensitive parts that I had never appreciated before. Every touch of his lips sent tremors through me and pumped more pre-come out of my cock. My pants were wet through now, and it was oozing out of the fabric.
His hands were on my waist now, feeling the flesh and muscle, and for the first time, he looked directly at my cock in its cotton prison.
‘OK. Time for these to come off, I think.’
He gripped the waistband and pulled. My cock offered some resistance, caught like a lever by the elastic, but he kept pulling until it flipped out and slapped against my stomach, leaving messy goo in the hair where it landed.
Graham tossed my pants over his shoulder—he was not so neat and tidy now—and looked at me.
‘You’re beautiful.’
I felt something turn to hot liquid inside me. I don’t think I could have stood up.
Graham linked his fingers with mine and kissed my stomach, my navel, working down to my pubic hair. I couldn’t stand it much longer. I could feel an orgasm building, and my cock hadn’t even been touched. I was moaning, babbling, oh God, oh shit, oh Jesus, oh fuck.
His mouth reached the base of my cock, and I felt his chin graze against the shaft, an electric crackle of stubble, and I knew it was too late.
‘Oh no . . . ’
My voice sounded as if I was going to cry.
Graham pulled back, looked at me quizzically, and realized what was happening. ‘Oh, you’re not going to . . . oh. You are.’
The first jet of spunk shot out of my cock. Graham grasped me, wanking me with the smallest movements, and pumped the rest of the load over my chest and stomach. Three, four, five huge jets, a pause and a dribble, and then one final supersized blob that landed with an audible splat on my lower abs.
I whimpered, partly with the intensity of the sensation, partly because I hadn’t wanted this to be over so soon.
‘You’re full of surprises,’ said Graham, when my breathing had slowed and I managed to open my eyes.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘What for?’
‘I didn’t mean to come so soon.’
‘That’s alright.’ He stood up and handed me a box of tissues. ‘I shall take it as a compliment.’
‘I just lost control.’
He laughed. ‘It happens.’
I could see it all disappearing—the intimacy, the connection, the hope that he might take me over and make me his. Usually after an orgasm I recover quickly, and in most of my experiences with men, I’ve been content or even eager to get away. But this time, I wasn’t ready. That orgasm was like a prelude—a necessary function before we got to the real business, whatever that might be. But Graham didn’t seem to see it that way.
‘If you want to wash up, there’s a bathroom just at the top of the stairs.’
