A long lost love!

[kcdave]

Chapter 1.

I was surprised to see his message, shocked really. Seeing his name again after all these years, the memories and emotions came flooding back in an instant.
“Hi, this is Marcus, from Herbie’s. Do you remember me?”
Of course I remembered him. He was my first love. He had changed my life forever, though I had never found the courage to tell him that back then.
It was the summer of 1986 in St. Louis. The Central West End was a vibrant gay Mecca, and Herbie’s—tucked inside Balaban’s—was one of its beating hearts. I was eighteen, a recent high school swimming champion who would head off to college that fall on a swim scholarship. Marcus was twenty-five, a former college gymnast whose sculpted body still showed the results of years of elite training. He was strikingly beautiful—lean, powerful, with the kind of effortless grace that turned heads. The moment our eyes met across the crowded bar, it was like lightning. Love at first sight, if such a thing exists. But acceptance? That was still a dangerous dream in 1986.
We started talking that night. The chemistry was immediate and overwhelming. A few nights later, he invited me to a drive-in movie. I told myself it was just two guys hanging out. In the darkness of his car, he rested his hand on my thigh. The warmth of his touch sent an electric jolt through me. My breath caught. I didn’t stop him. I couldn’t. My body responded instantly, embarrassingly hard beneath my jeans. When his fingers brushed over the bulge, I melted into the seat, dizzy with a pleasure I had never known.
The rest of that night is still a heated blur. Marcus gave me the most intense, skillful blowjob of my young life—edging me again and again until my swimmer’s legs shook and I finally exploded in his mouth. He swallowed every drop. No girl had ever done that. I floated home feeling drunk on him.
I swore it wouldn’t happen again. Yet within days the craving became unbearable. I masturbated constantly thinking of him, whispering his name when I came. At work I tried to act normal, but every knowing glance we shared across the restaurant floor made my pulse race.
Soon we were back in his car. This time I reached for him too. When he freed his cock, I was stunned—thick, long, and rock-hard. I wrapped my hand around it, mesmerized by its heat and weight. His precum made everything slick as I stroked him, and I came almost instantly just from touching him.
A few nights later I went to his apartment, eager and nervous. We undressed each other slowly. The feeling of his bare skin against mine was intoxicating. His gymnast’s body was breathtaking—chiseled abs, powerful shoulders, and lean, defined legs that spoke of incredible strength and control. He pulled me close, and when he kissed me—deep, hungry, his tongue claiming my mouth—every last inhibition dissolved. I wanted to be his.
Going down on him felt completely natural. I loved the way his thick head stretched my lips, the weight of his heavy balls on my tongue, the musky-sweet taste of him. I sucked and stroked until he groaned and filled my mouth. I swallowed it all, euphoric.
We spent days in his bed after that. We explored every inch of each other. Our athletic bodies fit together perfectly—my long, smooth swimmer’s build against his compact, powerfully muscled gymnast frame. He was patient and passionate when I begged him to fuck me. The first time I lowered myself onto his huge cock, the pressure and pleasure were overwhelming. I came hands-free while we kissed, my swimmer’s core tightening as I ground on him and spilled across his chest. Nothing ever felt more intimate than when he finally came deep inside me. In those moments, I felt truly connected—truly in love.
Then, suddenly, he was gone. Rumors said he’d moved up North to care for a sick relative. I never knew the full truth. The ache stayed with me for years.
Now, decades later, his message said he was only in town briefly and wondered if I wanted to reconnect. I met him at his hotel bar, heart pounding. The forty years had softened some edges, but the spark between us hadn’t faded. We looked at each other the way lovers do, no matter how much time has passed.
He told me about his husband. I smiled and said I wasn’t surprised. “You were always easy to fall for.” The air between us crackled. He asked if I wanted to go up to his room.
Every part of me screamed yes, but I hesitated. Still, when he smiled, I couldn’t resist.
Behind the closed door it felt instantly familiar. I kissed him and the old fire roared back—urgent, hungry, undeniable. Because of his husband, I finally pulled away and said I should go. He understood.
I made it as far as the elevators before the pull became too strong. That light-headed, eighteen-year-old feeling washed over me again. I turned around just as he was stepping out of his room. Our eyes locked. We both knew.
In the hallway I finally said the words I couldn’t say in 1986: “You were my first love.”
Marcus smiled softly, took my hand, and led me back inside. “I know,” he whispered.


Chapter 2 – The Ritz Carlton, Clayton
The door to his suite at the Ritz Carlton clicked shut behind us, and the rest of the world disappeared. Forty years melted away the moment Marcus pulled me into his arms. He still moved with that same gymnast’s grace—controlled, powerful, deliberate. His body had aged beautifully. The lean, sculpted muscle from his college days had softened just enough to feel warm and real, but his shoulders were still broad, his chest firm, and his stomach showed the faint ridges of the abs I used to trace with my tongue.
“You’re even more gorgeous now,” I whispered, my hands already sliding under his shirt.
He chuckled low against my mouth. “Liar. But I’ll take it.”
We kissed like starving men. Deep, wet, hungry kisses that tasted like memory and need. His tongue still dominated mine the same way it had in 1986—slow and claiming. My cock was already rock-hard and leaking in my pants. I could feel his thick erection pressing against my thigh, just as big and heavy as I remembered.
Marcus pushed me toward the king-sized bed, peeling my shirt off as we went. When he dropped his own shirt, I actually moaned at the sight of him. His chest and arms were still beautifully defined, dusted with silver hair that made him look distinguished and filthy at the same time. He kicked off his shoes and stepped out of his slacks, freeing that magnificent cock. It sprang up thick and heavy, the head already glistening with precum. Still veiny, still impossibly long, still perfectly proportioned. My mouth watered.
“Fuck, Marcus… you’re still such a beautiful cocksman,” I breathed.
He smiled that same confident smile and stroked himself once, slowly, letting me watch. “You always did love this cock, didn’t you?”
I nodded, already sinking to my knees on the plush carpet. I took him into my mouth like I’d never stopped wanting him. The taste was intoxicating—salty skin, clean musk, and that familiar sweetness at the tip. I sucked him greedily, working my tongue along the thick shaft, trying to take as much of him as I could. He groaned and put a hand gently in my hair, guiding me but not forcing. His hips rocked, feeding me more of that gorgeous dick until the head bumped the back of my throat.
After several long, sloppy minutes he pulled me up and kissed me again, tasting himself on my tongue. He undressed me completely, then pushed me onto the bed on my back. His eyes roamed over my body—my still-long swimmer’s torso, the silver in my chest hair, my aching cock standing straight up.
“Look at you,” he murmured, voice thick with lust. “Still my eager boy.”
He grabbed the lube from the nightstand (he had clearly come prepared) and coated his fingers. I spread my legs wide without hesitation, pulling my knees back toward my chest. My hole twitched with anticipation. I had wanted this for decades.
“Marcus… please. Fuck me like you used to. I need it. I’ve never been fucked better than when I was eighteen with you.”
He leaned down and kissed me deeply as two slick fingers circled my entrance, then pushed inside. I gasped into his mouth. He worked me open patiently but firmly, scissoring and curling until he found my prostate. My cock jerked and leaked onto my stomach every time he rubbed it.
“Still so tight for me,” he growled against my neck.
When he finally pulled his fingers out, I whimpered. Then I felt the blunt, fat head of his cock pressing against my hole. He looked into my eyes as he pushed forward. The stretch was intense—exactly like I remembered. That delicious burn as my body opened for his thick girth. Inch after inch sank into me until his heavy balls rested against my ass and I was completely full.
“Fuck… yes,” I moaned, my voice cracking. “That’s it. God, you’re so deep.”
Marcus started thrusting—long, powerful strokes that made the bed creak. Every time he bottomed out, the head of his cock dragged over my prostate and sent sparks shooting up my spine. My swimmer’s legs wrapped around his waist, heels digging into his firm ass as I pulled him deeper.
He fucked me harder, leaning over me so our chests pressed together. The sound of skin slapping skin filled the luxurious suite. I was loud—moaning, cursing, begging—completely lost in the feeling of being owned by him again.
“You still take my cock so fucking well,” he panted, slamming into me. “This ass was made for me.”
I reached between us and stroked my cock frantically. The pressure inside me kept building until I couldn’t hold back. With a broken cry I came hard, shooting thick ropes of cum across my chest and stomach while my hole clenched rhythmically around his pistoning shaft.
Marcus didn’t stop. He fucked me through my orgasm, chasing his own. His thrusts grew faster, deeper, almost punishing. Finally he buried himself to the hilt, groaned my name, and unloaded. I felt every pulse as he pumped me full of his hot cum—spurt after heavy spurt flooding deep inside me, exactly the way I had craved for forty years.
We stayed locked together, panting, kissing softly as his cock slowly softened inside me. When he finally pulled out, I could feel his load leaking from my well-fucked hole.
Marcus collapsed beside me and pulled me against his chest. His voice was soft now, almost tender.
“I never forgot how good we were together,” he whispered, stroking my back.
I closed my eyes, still feeling him inside me, still tasting him on my lips, and smiled.

If you like this story, please leave some comments!

 

[Lee Bakker]

Chapter 1.

I was surprised to see his message, shocked really. Seeing his name again after all these years, the memories and emotions came flooding back in an instant.
“Hi, this is Marcus, from Herbie’s. Do you remember me?”
Of course I remembered him. He was my first love. He had changed my life forever, though I had never found the courage to tell him that back then.
It was the summer of 1986 in St. Louis. The Central West End was a vibrant gay Mecca, and Herbie’s—tucked inside Balaban’s—was one of its beating hearts. I was eighteen, a recent high school swimming champion who would head off to college that fall on a swim scholarship. Marcus was twenty-five, a former college gymnast whose sculpted body still showed the results of years of elite training. He was strikingly beautiful—lean, powerful, with the kind of effortless grace that turned heads. The moment our eyes met across the crowded bar, it was like lightning. Love at first sight, if such a thing exists. But acceptance? That was still a dangerous dream in 1986.
We started talking that night. The chemistry was immediate and overwhelming. A few nights later, he invited me to a drive-in movie. I told myself it was just two guys hanging out. In the darkness of his car, he rested his hand on my thigh. The warmth of his touch sent an electric jolt through me. My breath caught. I didn’t stop him. I couldn’t. My body responded instantly, embarrassingly hard beneath my jeans. When his fingers brushed over the bulge, I melted into the seat, dizzy with a pleasure I had never known.
The rest of that night is still a heated blur. Marcus gave me the most intense, skillful blowjob of my young life—edging me again and again until my swimmer’s legs shook and I finally exploded in his mouth. He swallowed every drop. No girl had ever done that. I floated home feeling drunk on him.
I swore it wouldn’t happen again. Yet within days the craving became unbearable. I masturbated constantly thinking of him, whispering his name when I came. At work I tried to act normal, but every knowing glance we shared across the restaurant floor made my pulse race.
Soon we were back in his car. This time I reached for him too. When he freed his cock, I was stunned—thick, long, and rock-hard. I wrapped my hand around it, mesmerized by its heat and weight. His precum made everything slick as I stroked him, and I came almost instantly just from touching him.
A few nights later I went to his apartment, eager and nervous. We undressed each other slowly. The feeling of his bare skin against mine was intoxicating. His gymnast’s body was breathtaking—chiseled abs, powerful shoulders, and lean, defined legs that spoke of incredible strength and control. He pulled me close, and when he kissed me—deep, hungry, his tongue claiming my mouth—every last inhibition dissolved. I wanted to be his.
Going down on him felt completely natural. I loved the way his thick head stretched my lips, the weight of his heavy balls on my tongue, the musky-sweet taste of him. I sucked and stroked until he groaned and filled my mouth. I swallowed it all, euphoric.
We spent days in his bed after that. We explored every inch of each other. Our athletic bodies fit together perfectly—my long, smooth swimmer’s build against his compact, powerfully muscled gymnast frame. He was patient and passionate when I begged him to fuck me. The first time I lowered myself onto his huge cock, the pressure and pleasure were overwhelming. I came hands-free while we kissed, my swimmer’s core tightening as I ground on him and spilled across his chest. Nothing ever felt more intimate than when he finally came deep inside me. In those moments, I felt truly connected—truly in love.
Then, suddenly, he was gone. Rumors said he’d moved up North to care for a sick relative. I never knew the full truth. The ache stayed with me for years.
Now, decades later, his message said he was only in town briefly and wondered if I wanted to reconnect. I met him at his hotel bar, heart pounding. The forty years had softened some edges, but the spark between us hadn’t faded. We looked at each other the way lovers do, no matter how much time has passed.
He told me about his husband. I smiled and said I wasn’t surprised. “You were always easy to fall for.” The air between us crackled. He asked if I wanted to go up to his room.
Every part of me screamed yes, but I hesitated. Still, when he smiled, I couldn’t resist.
Behind the closed door it felt instantly familiar. I kissed him and the old fire roared back—urgent, hungry, undeniable. Because of his husband, I finally pulled away and said I should go. He understood.
I made it as far as the elevators before the pull became too strong. That light-headed, eighteen-year-old feeling washed over me again. I turned around just as he was stepping out of his room. Our eyes locked. We both knew.
In the hallway I finally said the words I couldn’t say in 1986: “You were my first love.”
Marcus smiled softly, took my hand, and led me back inside. “I know,” he whispered.


Chapter 2 – The Ritz Carlton, Clayton
The door to his suite at the Ritz Carlton clicked shut behind us, and the rest of the world disappeared. Forty years melted away the moment Marcus pulled me into his arms. He still moved with that same gymnast’s grace—controlled, powerful, deliberate. His body had aged beautifully. The lean, sculpted muscle from his college days had softened just enough to feel warm and real, but his shoulders were still broad, his chest firm, and his stomach showed the faint ridges of the abs I used to trace with my tongue.
“You’re even more gorgeous now,” I whispered, my hands already sliding under his shirt.
He chuckled low against my mouth. “Liar. But I’ll take it.”
We kissed like starving men. Deep, wet, hungry kisses that tasted like memory and need. His tongue still dominated mine the same way it had in 1986—slow and claiming. My cock was already rock-hard and leaking in my pants. I could feel his thick erection pressing against my thigh, just as big and heavy as I remembered.
Marcus pushed me toward the king-sized bed, peeling my shirt off as we went. When he dropped his own shirt, I actually moaned at the sight of him. His chest and arms were still beautifully defined, dusted with silver hair that made him look distinguished and filthy at the same time. He kicked off his shoes and stepped out of his slacks, freeing that magnificent cock. It sprang up thick and heavy, the head already glistening with precum. Still veiny, still impossibly long, still perfectly proportioned. My mouth watered.
“Fuck, Marcus… you’re still such a beautiful cocksman,” I breathed.
He smiled that same confident smile and stroked himself once, slowly, letting me watch. “You always did love this cock, didn’t you?”
I nodded, already sinking to my knees on the plush carpet. I took him into my mouth like I’d never stopped wanting him. The taste was intoxicating—salty skin, clean musk, and that familiar sweetness at the tip. I sucked him greedily, working my tongue along the thick shaft, trying to take as much of him as I could. He groaned and put a hand gently in my hair, guiding me but not forcing. His hips rocked, feeding me more of that gorgeous dick until the head bumped the back of my throat.
After several long, sloppy minutes he pulled me up and kissed me again, tasting himself on my tongue. He undressed me completely, then pushed me onto the bed on my back. His eyes roamed over my body—my still-long swimmer’s torso, the silver in my chest hair, my aching cock standing straight up.
“Look at you,” he murmured, voice thick with lust. “Still my eager boy.”
He grabbed the lube from the nightstand (he had clearly come prepared) and coated his fingers. I spread my legs wide without hesitation, pulling my knees back toward my chest. My hole twitched with anticipation. I had wanted this for decades.
“Marcus… please. Fuck me like you used to. I need it. I’ve never been fucked better than when I was eighteen with you.”
He leaned down and kissed me deeply as two slick fingers circled my entrance, then pushed inside. I gasped into his mouth. He worked me open patiently but firmly, scissoring and curling until he found my prostate. My cock jerked and leaked onto my stomach every time he rubbed it.
“Still so tight for me,” he growled against my neck.
When he finally pulled his fingers out, I whimpered. Then I felt the blunt, fat head of his cock pressing against my hole. He looked into my eyes as he pushed forward. The stretch was intense—exactly like I remembered. That delicious burn as my body opened for his thick girth. Inch after inch sank into me until his heavy balls rested against my ass and I was completely full.
“Fuck… yes,” I moaned, my voice cracking. “That’s it. God, you’re so deep.”
Marcus started thrusting—long, powerful strokes that made the bed creak. Every time he bottomed out, the head of his cock dragged over my prostate and sent sparks shooting up my spine. My swimmer’s legs wrapped around his waist, heels digging into his firm ass as I pulled him deeper.
He fucked me harder, leaning over me so our chests pressed together. The sound of skin slapping skin filled the luxurious suite. I was loud—moaning, cursing, begging—completely lost in the feeling of being owned by him again.
“You still take my cock so fucking well,” he panted, slamming into me. “This ass was made for me.”
I reached between us and stroked my cock frantically. The pressure inside me kept building until I couldn’t hold back. With a broken cry I came hard, shooting thick ropes of cum across my chest and stomach while my hole clenched rhythmically around his pistoning shaft.
Marcus didn’t stop. He fucked me through my orgasm, chasing his own. His thrusts grew faster, deeper, almost punishing. Finally he buried himself to the hilt, groaned my name, and unloaded. I felt every pulse as he pumped me full of his hot cum—spurt after heavy spurt flooding deep inside me, exactly the way I had craved for forty years.
We stayed locked together, panting, kissing softly as his cock slowly softened inside me. When he finally pulled out, I could feel his load leaking from my well-fucked hole.
Marcus collapsed beside me and pulled me against his chest. His voice was soft now, almost tender.
“I never forgot how good we were together,” he whispered, stroking my back.
I closed my eyes, still feeling him inside me, still tasting him on my lips, and smiled.

If you like this story, please leave some comments!

Amazing!

 

[PouletAuPoivre]

You called this Chapter 1 — so there are more chapters to come?