The Office Gloryhole

[mGlottalstop]

Chapter Fifteen: Checkpoint

At 6:15, the fifth floor of Grayson & Sons was a mausoleum, a hollow shell of flickering fluorescents and shadowed cubicles, the air thick with the hum of sleeping machines and the faint ting of stale coffee. Mark barrelled through it, shoes slapping the carpet, breath shallow and ragged, his cock twitching half-hard in his trousers with a desperate, gnawing need that drove him toward the bathroom like a junkie chasing a fix. The hole loomed in his mind, that dark, filthy promise of oblivion, of wet lips and greedy suction, a beacon cutting through the grey dawn, pulling his steps faster until he was charging forward. His tie flapped loose, shirt creased and clinging to his sweaty chest, the hold-all thumping against him with every stride. He could feel it already: the cool wood of the bathroom wall, his leaking tip shoving through the hole, the first hot flick of tongue that’d utterly unravel him. The empty office blurred past, a silent witness to his frenzy, the bathroom door just yards away now: salvation so close he could almost taste it, balls aching and heavy with unspent lust for that interrupted dream.

“Mark!” Tim’s voice cracked through the stillness, eager and bright, slicing Mark’s momentum like a blade as he rounded the corner, quiff bouncing, grin splitting his face wide. He wore sweats and a hoodie, uncharacteristically casual, fingers toying with the pullcord around his neck. The sincerity stung like a slap, stalling his rush, his jaw clenching as he glanced at the bathroom door, blowjob slipping away like sand through his fingers. “Early bird, eh? Let’s get a move on!” Tim clapped his shoulder, oblivious, launching into chatter. “I’ve got the itinerary locked; by the time we get through, we’ll have a little bit of time before we board. The, uh, flight is at nine; Greg’s already waiting in the car. This is going to be a blast, right?” His voice cracked partway through; excitement, Mark supposed, watching him tug the pullcord around his finger. “Yeah, sounds ace,” he forced out in response, charm faltering, resignation sinking in as Tim steered him away, bags in tow.

Outside, the company car idled, a tidy cocoon of faux leather and petrol fumes. Tim added Mark’s hold-all to the pile of bags on the passenger seat while Greg sprawled in the back, all bulk and bravado, legs splayed, leaving Mark to slide in beside him. “Buckle up,” Tim chuckled, engine purring as they pulled out, the airport an hour away. Greg shifted, stretched an arm behind Mark’s headrest, scrolling through the phone in his other hand absently. Mark pulled the seatbelt across his chest, turning his head to look for its socket, finding himself face deep in Greg’s armpit when the scent hit: raw, musky; no deodorant. Just clean sweat and testosterone. A fog of pheromones rolled off Greg like summer heat off tarmac, slamming into Mark, primal and heavy. His eyes glazed over, mouth dropping; his cock, already aching from the morning’s interruptions, throbbed harder, pinned tight in his trousers, pulsing with need. Greg launched into a rant, voice a gruff bark: “This bird I’ve been shagging can’t take a fucking hint! She texts me nonstop, clingy as fuck. I tell her, ‘Mate, it’s a shag, not a bloody proposal,’ but she’s all over me like flies on shit.” He laughed, sharp and loud, dropping his arm from Mark’s headrest to around his shoulders, jostling him as he laughed. “Women, eh? Fucking needy bastards!”

Mark nodded absently, drowning in the scent: sweat-soaked, alpha, a wall of unapologetic manliness that thickened the air. His body reacted, unbidden, as his breath shallowed, groin tight, his hand dropping to cover his raging bulge as Greg’s bulk pressed closer, oblivious. Tim piped up from the front, “Sounds exhausting, Greg, but at least they can’t get you when we’re up—" his voice hitched as he cleared his throat before continuing, “while we’re flying.” Mark absently glimpsed Tim’s reflection in the rear-view mirror as it coiled and uncoiled the hood cord compulsively. The details of the conversation had washed over him, Mark was lost in the musk, the kiss replaying in his head, all soft lips and salty need, blurring with the dream’s chaos: Dave’s girth, Tim’s ass, Greg’s dominance. His hands flexed awkwardly in his lap, applying just enough pressure to conceal without drawing further attention, straining with effort to keep it together. Greg clapped his shoulder, arm still around him, and pumped more raw masculinity into the confined space, “You’re quiet, Hammond, keep your head in the game,” and Mark forced a grin, retreating within himself, his civility a thin veneer over the horny, haunted mess.

The car ride dragged, Tim’s steady hands on the wheel a metronome to Greg’s relentless growl, his voice filling the sedan like smoke, thick and inescapable. “Fucked that new temp last week,” he bragged, smirking, legs spreading further and inadvertently pinning Mark against the door. “Bent her over my desk after hours. Tight little thing, squealed like a pig. Been through all the temps, man, it’s tradition.” His laugh rumbled, guttural and crude, and Mark’s mind flicked through all of the temps he’d seen come and go over the years: Natalie, Jessica, Madeleine, even Tim before he’s swung the executive assistant gig. Greg didn’t pause, pushing on: “Line ‘em up, knock ‘em down, and write them a glowing reference. That’s how you keep an office happy, Hammond!” Mark nodded, a reflex, unease knotting under his skin as his dick throbbed, hot-boxed in the pheromone-filled car.

At the airport, they spilled out, bags slung over their shoulders as they navigated across the terminal heaving with early travellers. Tim led the charge, weaving expertly, Greg trailing, folk jumping apart to avoid getting in his way, and Mark followed, the ache in his going a dull pulse behind the hold-all he held tight. The security line snaked slow, and Greg, bored, fished out his phone, elbow jabbing Mark’s side. “Check this,” he grunted, showing the screen under Mark’s nose. A gallery of conquests flickered past: blurry tits bouncing, thighs spread wide, then a shot that stopped him dead. Greg’s dick, hulking and thick, long enough to dwarf any porn-star Mark had seen, crowned with a fat, glistening head enrobed in a generous snout of foreskin, all nestled between pendulous balls draped in downy blonde hair. Below it, pert, plump ass checks framed the shot: smooth, tight, not quite the bubble-butt he’d seen quivering through the hole, but close enough that his mind leapt. He pictured them there, clenching around his cock, cum-slick and trembling, a memory seared into him from that fifth-floor bathroom. They weren’t the same cheeks, not as round or as full, but the thought alone lit him up, his breath hitching, slacks tightening as his dick stirred, oblivious to the line inching forward.

“Sir, step forward,” the customs office snapped, a jock type: buzzcut, biceps bulging under his uniform, smirking like a schoolyard bully sensing weakness. Mark shuffled up, dazed, Greg’s photo burning behind his eyelids, those cheeks, that godly cock, and his own prick thickened fast, pushing against his boxers, straining the fabric. The pat-down started, and the agent’s hands were rough, sliding down his arms, palming his chest before diving lower. He felt the hands cupping his junk, firm and deliberate, fingers pressing into the bulge with a slow, teasing grip. Mark’s moan slipped out, a low, ragged sound he couldn’t choke back, his cock fattening fully now, the head nudging his waistband, pre-cum oozing hot and steady, soaking through his boxers in a sticky, shameful patch. The agent’s grin widened, toying with him. Palms slid up his thighs, brushed the swell again, then again. A thorough frisk that grazed his balls, sending jolts through his spine. Sweat beaded on Mark’s neck, dripping down his back, his face flushing red as his hips twitched, desperate for more, friction unbearable. He was seconds from cumming right there, slacks tented, lust boiling over in a public queue, every nerve screaming for release.

He stumbled through, legs shaking, joining Tim on the other side by the gate. Tim stood there, perky grin intact, but his eyes glinted with something sharp and unreadable, watching Mark adjust his bag over his groin, damp fabric clinging to his though. Mark avoided his gaze, heart hammering, and glanced back. Greg was mid-pat-down, towering over his agent, when the body scanner screen flared beside him: a stark, glowing impression of Greg’s naked form, broad shoulders, muscled thighs, and that massive dick hanging heavy, a shape so unmistakeable it punched the air from Mark’s lungs. His stomach lurched, a shockwave ripping through him; if Tim had watched his pat-down, that screen would’ve lit up too: his own aching hard-on, thick and pulsing, bared for all to see, pre-cum-slick, obscene and desperate for release. He gawped at Tim, awkward and wide-eyed, mouth dry as the realisation sank in. Tim might have clocked it, might’ve seen everything! Greg sauntered over, cleared, smirking like nothing fazed him, and Tim patted Mark’s back, light but loaded, fingers lingering a beat too long to Mark’s overactive mind. “Rough start, Stroker?” he joked, smooth as silk, that smile a fucking riddle, oblivious to Mark’s skin burning under his gentle touch. Mark nodded, mute, his mind a churning mess: those imagined cheeks, Greg’s unabashed dick, the agent’s hands, and Tim’s damned smile, all crashing together as his dick continued to leak, his shame and need an inextricable, throbbing knot.

 

[mGlottalstop]

Chapter Sixteen: Come Fly With Me

The plane hummed, a tin can slicing through the sky at 30,000 feet, and Mark sat wedged in the middle seat, a pressure cooker of frayed nerves and unrelenting, clawing horniness. Greg sprawled to his left, a mountain of calm indifference: hands, cupped on top of his head, eye-mask and noise-cancelling earphones drowning out the world, his bulk radiating heat and that raw, musky scent, a pheromone haze that fogged Mark’s skull, soaking into his skin. Each breath dragged it deeper, sweat and testosterone, a thick and primal whiff that made his cock twitch treacherously. It thickened in his slacks, despite his efforts to the contrary, pre-cum seeping slow and hot into his boxers, the damp fabric sticking to his slick tip.

Tim jittered to his right, upright and twitchy, quiff wilting as he gripped the armrests white-knuckled, eyes darting to the window like a trapped animal. “I hate flying,” he muttered, voice tight and high, a bundle of anxious energy vibrating beside Mark. “Always think the wings’ll snap off or some other ‘Final Destination’ bullshit.” Mark nodded, half-listening, recalling the way airport security had caressed him with his rough hands. The image of Greg in the scanner, the shape of his big dick hanging halfway to his knee shamelessly, kept flashing before his eyes, cheeks prickling pink as he recalled Tim’s knowing smile.

Turbulence slammed in, the plane lurching skyward, engines roaring, and Tim unravelled like a spring snapping loose. “Oh God, oh fuck,” he gasped, a panicked whine tearing free. His hand shot out, aiming for the armrest between them but missing entirely, fingers clamping hard around Mark’s half-erection through his slacks. The grip was firm, unwitting, and Mark jolted, white-hot pleasure spiking through him as his cock surged to full mast, thick and leaking, a slick and shameful patch blooming beneath Tim’s palm. Tim didn’t notice. He was lost in his panic attack, hyperventilating, wild-eyed. “We’re going to crash, I fucking know it, we’re fucked!”

His fingers flexed, absently kneading Mark’s bulge like a stress-toy before letting go to run his hand anxiously through his hair, oblivious to the wet sheen he’d smeared there. Mark’s breath hitched, ragged and shallow, his balls tightening, hips twitching in response to the lost contact. But he shoved it down, reached out with a tentative but steady hand and gently rested it over Tim’s wrist. “Hey, hey,” he said, low and firm, more instinct than comfort. “We’re fine. Just turbulence, it’s normal. It’s like, uh, bumps in the road.”

Tim’s gaze darted to him, eyes wide, knuckles white against the tray table. Mark kept his voice calm, thumb tracing lazy circles on the back of his shaking hand. “Look at me. You’re alright. Deep breaths, yeah? In through your nose…” Tim tried, faltered, tried again, as Mark watched the rise and fall of his chest, the tremble in his shoulders. “See?” he murmured. “Still here. Still flying.” But the ache between Mark’s legs didn’t ease. His cock throbbed in time with the engines, every jolt of the plane echoing the tension in his body. He swallowed hard, jaw tight, forcing himself to stay still, to be the calm one.

An hour crawled by, the cabin lights dimming, and Tim’s sleeping pill finally kicked in; his head lolled sideways, body slumping against Mark like a ragdoll. Whereas Greg stayed zoned out, a snoring wall of musk and muscle, Tim nuzzled closer, a soft sigh escaping as his arm snaked across Mark’s waist, their legs tangling as he curled into him. Tim’s thigh pressed hot and insistent into his, the fabric of his sweats rubbing Mark’s slacks. Mark’s hard-on raged, unbearable now, pinned tight and aching, the damp patch in his boxers spreading as the tip leaked steadily, a slow drip of torment.

Then it got worse as Tim shifted in his sleep, first nose then lips brushing Mark’s neck, soft and pliant; a faint moan hummed against his skin, hot breath fanning the pulse there. Something hard nudged Mark’s hip: Tim’s boner, stiff and rebelling against the tranquiliser, ground into him through their clothes, a rigid heat that sent Mark’s mind reeling. The kiss from the hole flashed back, soft lips, salty need, blurring with the memory of Greg’s photos, Dave’s exhibitionism, and now this: Tim’s perfect, firm ass under his arm, his hand sliding lower instinctively to cup those cheeks, gripping tight.

He froze, arousal spiking as he felt Tim licking his lip, the tip grazing Mark’s neck. He told himself it was just support, not want, that Tim was a mate, that he needed to fucking stop! But his cock didn’t care. It throbbed harder, pre-cum soaking through to his slacks as Tim murmured in his sleep, hips twitching.

The plane droned on, a claustrophobic cocoon trapping him. Greg’s pits hit harder, raw, musky, an impermeable fog of pheromones that drowned his senses, making every thought sluggish, every pulse of his dick heavier. His eyes snagged on the air hostess up the aisle, blonde and curvy, her uniform hugging hips he’d kill to bruise, tits straining the buttons of her blazer. He pictured her right there, straddling him in the seat, skirt hiked to her waist, sinking slow and wet on his aching cock and how her cunt would grip him tight as she rode him. First, he decided, teasing; then, brutal, pert ass bouncing, cheeks clapping, cum-slick from his leaking dick, just like the hole. His dick thickened further, veins bulging, pinned so tight in his slacks he could feel the zipper bite, the wet spot growing, boxers sodden as he leaked like a faucet. Tim’s sleeping weight pinned him, wedged against Greg’s dissociated bulk, and his mind spun, no escape from the torment fate kept piling on.

A sharp ‘ping’ cut through as Greg’s meaty finger jabbed the call button, eye-mask off one eye, a grunt grumbling out. “Whiskey, neat,” he barked, voice gravelly, as a male steward appeared: lean, sharp-featured, corporate polish gleaming in his crisp uniform, a glint in his eye that flickered with something unsettling. “Sure thing, sir,” he said, smoothed and clipped, before vanishing momentarily, returning with a double. As Greg pulled the mask back down, the steward surveyed Tim, still nuzzled into Mark, arm draped across his waist. “Your boyfriend’s out cold, huh?” he teased, smirking. Mark flinched, heat flooding his face, clinging to denial. “He’s not my— I’m, uh, straight,” he stammered, voice cracking as his stumbled over the words, holding desperately to the shreds of his heterosexual reputation, forcing his mind to think of the air hostess’ tits, Sarah’s pussy, anything but this situation. The steward raised an eyebrow, unconvinced, his lips curling predatorially. “Right. Let’s check that seatbelt, then.” His hands moved with polished ease, rehearsed and clinical, until they didn’t—.

He leaned in, too close, his breath a warm, insidious gut against Mark’s ear; the crisp edge of his corporate polish melting into something darker, something raw. His hand slid down Mark’s chest, fingers splaying wide, a pretence of safety that veered off-script with glacial intent, brushing the fabric of shirt, grazing a nipple through the cotton until it stiffened, a traitor to his fraying control. Mark’s pulse hammered, pinned helpless between Tim’s drugged, slumping weight and Greg’s snoring mass, the engines’ hum a cruel backdrop to his unravelling. The steward’s fingers dipped lower, tracing the crease of his lap, then paused, hovering over the bulge in his slacks as the thick outline of his raging dick pulsed against the zipper. A firm, deliberate squeeze clamped down, and Mark gasped, a sharp, involuntary sound that caught in his throat, his cock straining under the pressure.

“Relax, straight boy,” the steward murmured, voice dipping low and conspiratorial, a filthy whisper that slithered into Mark’s ear and settled, uneasy, like an inside joke he wasn’t privy to. Each stroke set his teeth on edge, a tease that made his hips fight against Tim’s weight, a reflex he couldn’t stifle. The steward’s thumb circled the head, slow and taunting, rubbing through the cloth and tracing the fat, leaking tip as it twitched, milking more pre-cum in a steady, shameful drip. The scent of his arousal mingled with Greg’s musk, rolling off the broad man in waves, flooding Mark’s lungs. Eyes closing, he tilted his head closer, drawn like a moth to heat, his nostrils flaring as he breathed in deep, greedy pulls of the sweat-slick musk steaming from Greg’s armpit. The coarse hair glistened inches from his face, damp with fresh sweat, sweet and intoxicating. He didn’t register the movement, just the need, animalistic and all-encompassing, to fill his lungs with it again.

“Go on,” the steward hissed, “bury your nose in your mate’s pit like it’s your favourite fucking flavour.” Mark’s eyelids flickered open, eyes glassy, pupils blown, staring at the hairy hollow just inches away as he huffed down pheromones that thickened the air and his cock in equal measure. His balls ached, a deep and primal throb, as the steward’s grip tightened, a slow pump starting. Up. Down. Up. Down. The rhythm rocked his pelvis, twisting the fabric rough over his hypersensitive head.

The steward’s smirk widened, eyes glinting with control, and then—fuck! He reached for Tim’s limp hand, dangling slack across Mark’s waist. He guided it with precision, lifting those slender fingers, wrapping them around Mark’s bulge, closing them tight over the pulsing heat. Mark’s breath caught, panic and need colliding, his dick a steel rod under Tim’s unwitting grip, a glistening sheen coating his palm as the steward used his hand like a puppet, jerking Mark by proxy with a steady relentless pump and dragging a low moan from his chest. “Look at you, straight boy,” the steward growled, voice turning dominating, a filthy edge cutting through, “so fucking desperate, huh? Hard as a rock with your boyfriend right here, blissed out of your brains on man-sweat. Gonna spunk all over his hand, aren’t you, you filthy fuck?” The strokes quickened, the steward’s knuckles brushing Mark’s balls through the cloth, a glancing tease that sent jolts up his spine, his sack tightening, cum churning hot and thick at the base of his shaft.

Mark’s mind blanked, a haze of shame and lust swallowing him whole: Greg’s pit at his nose, Tim’s lips at his neck, the steward’s filthy diatribe in his ear. “Bet you’d love to blow it right now,” the steward taunted, leaning closer, his lips grazing Mark’s earlobe, “drench his fingers, let him wake up sticky and confused. I can feel you begging for it, straight boy.” His grip on Tim’s hand tightened, pumping faster, the friction searing through the fabric. His hips rutted wantonly, bucking into Tim’s hand, a desperate, shameless thrust that chased the edge. Muscles clenched, his breath ragged and sweat beaded on Mark’s brow as the plane’s vibrations synced with the rhythm to amplify every stroke. He was so close, so fucking close! His balls drew up tight, the ache surging, cum rising hot and thick as that scalding pressure built at his root, ready to erupt in ropes that threatened to drown everything.

The steward’s grip on Tim’s hand faltered, his fingers slipping as he leaned back to watch, a dark glint in his eye, letting Tim’s limp, sleeping fist take over. The hand was still curled tight around Mark’s bulge, flexing unconsciously with every twitch of his dreams. Mark’s control snapped, hips pumping, a guttural growl tearing free as the friction hit critical; Tim’s palm, slick with pre-cum, slid rough and perfect over the swollen head through the sodden slacks, the fabric chafing his slit just right. His cock pulsed, veins bulging, foreskin peeling back as he erupted, a violent, earthshattering orgasm blasting through him.

Thick, gushing ropes of spunk fired hard, foaming past the zipper’s teeth to splatter Tim’s hand in sticky, white foam. The first jet hit like a punch, drenching Tim’s fingers, dripping down his wrist, the second and third spurts arcing higher, splashing the armrest, smearing the tray table, a filthy arc of cum that painted the seatback in front of him, sticky with salt and shame. His balls clenched, pumping out more: five, six thick spurts, each one a shuddering jolt that rocked his frame, hips still jerking wildly, grinding into Tim’s hand as the mess pooled, seeping into the cracks of the seat: a hot, gluey puddle under his thighs.

Greg’s musk choked the air, amplifying it, his pit-sweat scent mixing with the raw reek of Mark’s load, a primal stench that fogged his head as he moaned low, broken, a resounding surrender and release. His dick twitched through the aftershocks, still leaking, smearing Tim’s knuckles with the dregs. Tim slept on, oblivious, his hand a cum-slick vice, lips parted against Mark’s neck, drooling faintly as the steward’s whispers faded into a smug, distant hum, leaving Mark trembling, spent, and soaked.

Then, before Mark could muster the strength to stop him, the steward’s hand darted to Tim’s shoulder. “Hey, sir, wake up,” he coaxed, voice snapping back to bright, corporate cheer as he stepped back, his smirk dripping with knowing, assessing the glistening mess splattered across Tim’s hand, the armrest and the seat with mischief in his eyes.

 

[mGlottalstop]

Chapter Seventeen: Flight Risk

Tim stirred, blinking groggy eyes, his head lolling at Mark’s neck as the sleeping pill’s haze clung thick, dulling his senses. His hand, slick with Mark’s spunk dripping down his fingers, flexed once, then slid off Mark’s lap, smearing a wet trail onto his own sweats before he wiped it absently on the fabric, mumbling, “What—? Fuck, are we crashing?” His voice was slurred, thick with sleep, his boner still pressing into Mark’s side as he shifted, oblivious to the sticky chaos coating his skin.

Mark’s heart slammed, panic spiking through the post-cum haze as he scrambled to cover his sodden, wrecked slacks, the dark patch still spreading, but the dim cabin lights masked the worst of it. He yanked his hold-all onto his lap, fast and clumsy, the bag thumping over the mess, hiding the glistening puddle pooling under his thighs and the splattered armrest. The reek hit: salty, musky, a raw tang of spunk laced with the tang of Greg’s pits, but the recycled air and the faint whiff of jet fuel dulled it, blending it into the plane’s ambient funk. Tim’s nose twitched, a sleepy hum slipping out as he inhaled deeper, his half-lidded eyes fluttering, unfocused, the pill keeping him drowsy. “Mmm, smells like lunch— already?” he mumbled, voice thick and slurred, a faint smile tugging his lips as he shifted, still groggy, clearly savouring the scent in his haze.

Mark forced a laugh, hoarse and tight, “Mate, Greg’s pits are fucking lethal, right?”, nodding at Greg, who snorted, oblivious, his armpits gaping wider, pumping more musk into the fray, the perfect scapegoat obfuscating the truth. The steward lingered, tray in hand with Greg’s empty whiskey glass, his smirk twitching. “Bit of turbulence, eh? Spilled something, looks like.” He winked at Mark, a conspiratorial glint, then tossed a stack of napkins onto the armrest, right over the cum-smeared tray table before sauntering off, leaving Mark to mop up. Mark grabbed them, dabbing frantically at Tim’s hand as he grumbled "'M'all sticky—,” swiping his fingers on his hoodie, mistaking the spunk for spilled drink in his haze. Mark watched, horrified, as Tim curled his hood pullcord around his spunky fingers reflexively, then slipped the end of the cord into his mouth, chewing absently, a faint smack of lips. His head lolled back, eyes drifting shut again, the pill pulling him under; “Wake me when we’re landing,” he muttered, none the wiser.

Mark sat there, pulse racing, the soiled napkins balled in his fist, cum drying tacky on his thighs beneath the hold-all as he surreptitiously cleaned himself as best he could, the plane droning on, a cocoon of shame and relief.

Hours later, the plane began its descent, the cabin lights flickered, casting jagged shadows across the rows, and Mark gently roused Tim, still pressed into him, his warmth a lingering weight against Mark’s side. “Oi, Tim, we’re coming in to land,” he said, voice low and rough, nudging his shoulder. Tim jolted awake, blinking fast, his quiff a lopsided mess as he untangled himself from Mark, his boner fading as he fumbled upright. “Shit, sorry,” he blurted, face flushing red and the patch of drool on Mark’s collar, hands flailing to smooth his hoodie compulsively, pullcord still damp from his earlier chewing. “I didn’t— fuck, the pill, I—" Mark cut in, throat tight, “No, it’s fine, I— uh, you wanted me to wake you, that’s all.” Their words tripped over each other, a clumsy stammer-fest. Tim muttered, “Oh, yeah, right,” and Mark nodding too quick, the awkwardness building until the captain’s voice crackled through: “Cabin crew, prepare to land.”

The plane dipped, engines whining a high-pitched scream, and Tim’s nerves flared again, eyes widening, breath burning shallow and sharp as he clawed his fingers into the sticky armrest. “Fuck— sorry, I just, fuck, I hate this bit…” he hissed, voice spiking, a tremble running through him as the fuselage shuddered, the descent steepening. Mark watched, his own nerves still raw from the raw bliss of his orgasm, and something snapped in him: an urge to steady, to anchor. He slid his hand onto Tim’s leg, just above the knee, a firm but platonic squeeze, the fabric of Tim’s sweats warm under his palm. “Hey, you’re doing well, mate. Just a few minutes more, okay?” His voice was low and steady, realising he meant it more than he’d expected. Tim looked at him, eyes wild, then softened as a flicker of trust cut through the panic. His hand shot out, lacing their fingers tight; it wasn’t a lifeline Mark had offered, but he couldn’t, wouldn’t pull back from it, though the contact startled him: warm, clammy, too fucking close.

Mark sat rigid, breath held, Tim’s grip a quiet anchor as the plane bucked and swayed, turbulence rattling the overhead bins. The connection hummed, undefinable, a thread of not-nothing knitting between them; a tether born of Mark’s rough-edged calm soothing Tim’s fraying edges. His mind blanked, reliving the memory of those slick fingers, that sticky palm, the white foam squelching between those delicate knuckles - anything but the hand in his now clutching him like a scared kid! The cabin tilted, the runaway lights streaking past the window, and Tim’s grip tightened, his thumb brushing Mark’s knuckles, an unconscious stroke that sent a shiver up Mark’s spine. “Thanks,” Tim muttered, barely audible, eyes locked forward and cheeks pink with shame, and Mark nodded, mute, wallowing hard as the wheels hit tarmac with a bone-jarring jolt. He yanked his hand free like he’d be scalded, the disconnect sudden, just as Greg stirred, peeling off his eye-mask with a grunt, “Fucking finally,” oblivious to the tangle beside him.

Tim snapped into gear the moment they landed. Quiff bouncing back as he shook off the haze, business mode clicking on like a switch. “Hotel’s twenty minutes away, should be a driver waiting. Dinner, early night, meeting at 9 a.m. sharp,” he rattled off, crisp and efficient, grabbing his bag from the overhead with a brisk tug, no trace of the wreck who’d clung to Mark moments earlier. Mark trailed behind, kicking the tissues he’d cleaned himself up with under the chair, his mind reeling; Tim’s flip was so fast it left him dizzy, the intensity of his grip and intimacy of his vulnerability erased like they’d never happened, a ghost in his palm. Greg lumbered ahead, bitching about the delay, “Bloody plane, should’ve driven”, his bulk cutting through the aisle. The cabin emptied slowly, passengers shuffling, and Mark lingered, adjusting his hold-all, the tacky residue in his boxers a shameful reminder of his guilty secret.

His eyes flicked to the galley as they passed; the air steward leaned out, sharp features glinting under the fluorescents, smirking wide. “Thank you for flying with us, today, gentlemen,” he said smoothly, eyes locking on Mark with a knowing leer that hit like a punch. “We trust the experience was… deeply satisfying.” Greg snorted, still grumbling about the tight fit of the chairs and kept moving, but Tim nodded absently, already scrolling his phone as he briskly followed toward the jet bridge. Mark faltered, the double entendre sinking in, his dick twitching again: traitorous, raw, a reflex to the steward’s taunt and the enduring memory of Tim’s grip, the unstoppable flood of cum, a tightening knot of confusing thoughts at the back of his mind. He forced his legs to move, catching up as they hit the terminal, the air shifting from recycled funk to the sharp bite of jet fuel and tarmac heat. Tim glanced back, a quick “You good?” His voice was casual, but his eyes lingered a beat too long, their expression too soft, a shadow of that mid-flight trust flickering there. “Yeah, fine,” Mark rasped, nodding too hard, the hold-all thumping against his hip as they headed for the car: Greg’s musk still in his nose, the memory of Tim’s fingers still sending sparks along his bell-end, and the steward’s dirty whispers still echoing around his head.

The ride to the hotel was a silent slog; Greg sat in front, grumbling about jet lag through a whiskey slur, Tim behind him, tapping emails with sharp, restless jabs at his phone. Mark stared out the window, his dick finally soft but his mind a churning mess of mile-high shame. The city lights streaked past, a blue of neon against the dusk, and Mark’s cum had dried into a crusty film that he could feel against his skin with every bump in the road. At check-in, Greg peeled off to his suite with a grunt, “Get changed, freshen up, and then come find me,” leaving Mark and Tim with a single key between them. The room was a gut-punch: one double bed, sagging in the middle like a tired sigh, and a fold-out couch that refused to unfold. Mark groaned, dropping his bag with a thud, “You’ve got to be fucking kidding. I didn’t sleep a wink on that flight!”

Tim smirked, arms crossed, his hoodie still rumpled from the flight. “I dunno, I thought you looked pretty comfy— in the middle, I mean.” His tone was light, teasing, but it stung; Mark’s gut twisted, flashing back to tangled legs, warm lips, that sticky hand he’d somehow dodged explaining. He bristled, tension simmering. “Not funny, man. I need real sleep, not fucking jibes.” Tim’s jaw tightened, a flicker of something crossing his face; annoyance, thought Mark, or guilt? But he relented, shrugged. “Fine, take the bed tonight. You looked like a bloody wreck up there when I woke up, I’ll manage.” Mark nodded, placated, a shaky truce settling between them as they unpacked in awkward quiet, the hum of the air-con filling the gaps. He stripped to his boxers, turning away from Tim, and peeled off the cum-stained pair, crusty, damp, a white-streaked map of his disgrace tugging at his hair. Movement caught his eye, and his vision darted to the hanging mirror reflecting the scene; behind him, bending over to step into a pair of jeans, Tim’s pert arse framed in tight, purple boxer briefs. Mark’s eyes darted away, then back again, unable to stop watching as his dick began to rise again. He swallowed, eyes tracing that taut curve that made a mockery of the photo Greg had showed him, outclassed Karen in her tight skirts, proving a worthy rival to the bubble butt Mark had soaked at the glory-hole.

As Tim straightened, so did Mark’s identity, looking away quickly and silently chiding himself for his easy distraction; he snuck a second look, catching Tim’s shrewd eyes raking over him through the glass. Mark flushed, caught, fresh boxers halfway up his thighs, grinning despite the jolt of heat prickling his neck as he registered the look. Curiosity, competition, something else too complex to define, but gone in a blink. Tim cleared his throat, leaning against the dresser with forced ease, but his anxiety betraying him as he brought the pullcord to his lips again. “I’m sorry, Mark, about the room. If I hadn’t asked Greg to come along, you wouldn’t have to share,” he said, voice a touch too quick, gaze now fixed on the soulless wall art like it held answers.

Mark tugged his boxers up fully, turning slightly, a frown crossing his brow as he registered Tim’s tone. “It’s alright, mate, we’ll manage,” he rasped, voice rough, the rest of his sentence quieter, more sincere; “I’m glad you’re here. Besides, I don’t think I could keep up with Greg on my own!” Tim’s gaze dropped from the lurid wall-print to meet Mark’s, a smile shared as rough camaraderie flickered, fragile but real, coiling in the quiet between them.

 

[mGlottalstop]

(My longest chapter yet, I hope you enjoy!)

Chapter Eighteen: Team-Bonding Exercises
The pair headed up to Greg’s suite, Tim dangling a spare key from the tip of a finger, voice cool and clipped. “Part of the gig, keeping him upright. Last trip, he passed out in the lobby, trying to chat up the receptionist.” The door creaked open to a trail of chaos, Greg’s jacket crumpled on the floor, tie slung over a chair, socks strewn like breadcrumbs to the bedroom. Mark followed, Tim a step ahead, and there he was: Greg, half-dressed, wrestling with a pair of loose gym shorts. One foot tangled in the leg, he hopped, grunting, his meaty arse flexing, broad, hairy, and sweat-slick, the dark, puckered hole winking briefly as he shifted, a primal slab of muscle inches from Mark’s face. His long hanging balls swayed, thick with blonde fuzz, brushing his thighs, and that thick, uncut dick swung heavy. The photo, as impressive as it was, had not done him justice; his foreskin hung long and heavy, enrobing what Mark knew to be a fat, glistening head, atop a truly monstrous shaft reaching halfway down to his knees, raw and real. Mark’s breath hitched as he swallowed down a lungful of Greg’s unrestrained pheromones, and his cock stirred in his fresh boxers, a slow and thick swelling he couldn’t squash. Greg was pure, brash masculinity, cocky and unshakable, a bull stomping through life, and Mark’s gut churned with reverence as he remembered how that pendulous nutsack resting on his face had felt in his feverish dreams.

Greg steadied himself, eventually, yanking the shorts up, loose fabric tenting over his bulge and Mark mutely sank into the corner seat, brain fogged with musk and shame, watching as he launched himself onto the bed, legs wide, meaty frame dipping into the mattress, empty scotch glass dangling from his fingers. Tim was already there, sliding a fresh pour into Greg’s hand without a word, a gruff “Cheers” met with a slight nod, a routine so practiced it didn’t need asking, reflexive as breathing. Mark watched, clocking it: Tim didn’t just assist; he anticipated, a shadow to Greg’s storm, every move fluid, unspoken instincts. Greg took a swig, eyes landing on Mark, suddenly firm and commanding, “You’re a quiet one, Hammond. Talk; what’s your deal? Plan— give me something.” His tone cut through, a boss digging in, and Mark shifted, the musk still coiling around him, lowering his guard.

“Just… keep the job, pay the bills,” Mark muttered, voice low, fingers flexing against the glass that Tim pressed into his hand. Greg snorted, leaning back, blind to Mark watching his balls peeking below the loose hem of his shorts. “No, I don’t buy it, Hammond. I’ve seen you in meetings, when your head’s in the game, you’ve got something there.” Tim took a seat on the edge of the bed, sipping from a bottle of water on the nightstand, eyes glinting, sharp and eager, flicking back and forth between Greg and Mark, nodding at Greg’s continued commentary, “So, what gives? What’s going on in that clever head of yours?” The room shrank, heat rising in Mark’s cheeks as his resolve cracked, just a bit, “It’s been difficult, uh, at home, recently. My wife—Sarah, we’re not clicking the way we used to. Between work, and kids, we just seem to…” He trailed off, bumping his fists together lamely to indicate the strife in his home life. “We barely talk, and when we do, we fight. We haven’t even had sex in—”

Greg grinned, seizing on the comment, brash and assured as Mark choked on his own tongue, embarrassed at oversharing. “Marriage blues, that’s all?” His voice boomed, laugh echoing around the suite. “Well, no problem! Work trips fix that, cut loose, no leash! Vegas last year, fuckin’ wild!” His hand groped his bulge absently, fingertips sliding across the dangling, exposed balls. “Snagged this dancer, legs for days, arse like a peach. Fucked her in the hotel pool, 3 a.m., water sloshing everywhere. Picture it: she’s belt over the edge, I’ve torn the strings of her bikini with my teeth, her cunt’s dripping, screaming as I rammed her raw. Tits bouncing, balls slapping wet, fuckin’ paradise.” Gone was the boss persona, here was the bro, brash and crude, “Tim sorted the night guard, what, fifty quid to shut him up?” Tim smirked, eyes rolling, “And another fifty for the cleaning costs.” Mark’s mouth quirked, the wildness jolting him; Greg’s tale was a pornographic reel, her slick heat, his thick cock pounding, and Mark’s dick stiffened, hooked on the swagger.

Greg went on, voice a deep roar, “Chicago! Two sisters, conference room after hours. One rode me, pussy squeezing my cock like it owed her money, tits smacking herself in the chin as she bounced on it, lad. The other one sat on my face, grinding her clit on me, soaking me till I choked on cum. Fucked ‘em, one after another, again and again till they begged me for a break, spunk all over the table.” Tim deadpanned, “No cleaning crew that time, just me. Still waiting on that thank-you…” Greg barked a laugh, slinging an arm around him, their sync was seamless: Greg the tornado, Tim the fixer, and Mark’s boxers straining, picturing it vivid, Greg undone and Tim attentive, a mix of Greg’s musk and Tim’s cool quips coiling within him.

Greg knocked his drink back, holding the glass in Tim’s direction as he refilled it without looking. “Tomorrow’s a piece of piss, meeting at 9, we’ll be done by noon. Then, we’re hitting the town, Hammond: steak dinners, drinks, pussy, the works, courtesy of Grayson & fucking Sons. What was the name of that titty bar, downtown, with the swing— Tim?” A tilt of the quiff, a moment of recollection, then, “Tassels & Chains, I think.” Greg chuckled, “That’s the one. Tits everywhere, legs up to here, just what you need, Hammond.” He gestured high, dirty and eager, and Mark nodded, dick throbbing at the promise of familiarity: booze, curves, release. Tim was already on it, phone out, tapping reservations, “Table for three, 8 p.m., VIP treatment—want me to see if Snowball is there, again?” but the tone of his voice made it clear the question was rhetorical, eyes flicking to Mark, a conspiratorial smile on his face.

“Gotta piss—keep talking, ‘can still hear you.” Greg lumbered to the bathroom, pulling his shorts off as he walked, leaving the door open as a loud splash reverberated around the room. “Last trip, banged a waitress over her serving trolley between courses—pants down, arse up—was her fault for offering me a cream pie, dirty bitch.” His stream wavered, oscillating, as he laughed raucously at his own joke. Meanwhile, Mark’s eyes slid to Tim, heat itching. “What about you? Your stories.”

Tim set the phone down, a slow, teasing grin curling his lips, sharper than Greg’s swagger, electric, aimed at Mark now and showing off. “Alright,” he said, leaning forward from the bed, voice low and filthy, eyes locked on Mark’s. “Berlin, couple years back. This one,” he tilted his head toward the bathroom door, “drags me out to a club, and I run into one of the band in the street round the back. Pants come down, no underwear, I shoved my face in; they’re already loosened up for me, someone else’s load already up there, and they’re pushing my head in closer, panting, ‘Eat me out, make me scream!’” Mark gawped, unused to the vulgarity flowing easily from Tim’s lips, fascinated by the sexual deviant seemingly hidden within him all this time. “Fucked ‘em against the wall, one hand pulling their head back, the other, they’re sucking on like it’s another cock, our hips slamming til they’re shaking, cum running down us both.” His words painted it, wet gasps, sticky heat, raw thrusts, and Mark swallowed, throat dry, cock hard, hooked on Tim’s eager tone, the way he leaned in, alive for him.

Greg leaned in the doorway, clad only in a bathrobe, drink in hand, grinning loose and boozy. “That was a good one, little pup. You should’ve seen his face right after, Hammond; dopey grin, fuck-drunk, trying to convince ‘em he’s good for round two, hilarious.” Tim didn’t flinch; he grinned wider. “Miami, last year, we went out for a drink with the client after the meeting. Suddenly, they’ve got my dick down their throat under the counter while I’m trying to order. Lips tight, tongue lashing my tip, throat squeezing… My legs buckled, spunk blasting across their face while I paid up.” Greg cut in, grinning wide, voice rising in mock-orgasmic glee, “Oi, can I get a recei—uuunnnhh, fuck, I’m cumming, oh fuck, I’m cumming!” Mid-shout, he lunged onto the bed, yanking Tim into a sloppy, affectionate headlock, big arm hooking around his neck, free hand ruffling his quiff into a sweaty mess. They roared with laughter, scotch sloshing as Tim tried to extract himself. “Little pup, you horny bastard, bustin’ your load all smug like that! My favourite fuckin’ mess, eh, pup?” Tim squirmed, smirking, cheeks flushed, shoving back playfully but leaning into the attention, eyes still flickering to Mark, eager for approval. Mark’s loins tightened, pre-cum seeping, the room pulsing with energy.

Tim kept going, buoyed, “London, New Year’s Eve. Hotel room balcony, bent over the balcony, arse begging for me. Spunked deep inside them as Big Ben counted the year out, cum bursting out of them, dripping onto the street below— talk about fucking fireworks. Start the year as you mean to go on, right?” Mark sat, enraptured, cock raging, picturing the curve of Tim’s ass as he pounded nameless, faceless women, their legs wrapping around him, pulling him in by his tie for sloppy kisses. Greg downed his drink and poured himself another before Tim had the chance, then sat back against the headboard. “Okay, Hammond. Your turn, mate, what’s your wildest?”

A dare, horny and probing, and Mark froze, the memory of the hole blazing, cum-slick ass cheeks, that desperate kiss. He laughed, leaning back, diving too deep. “In, uh, in an old job, not here, I, uh, found this glory-hole in the bathroom.” The room went quiet, and Mark watched as both gentlemen leaned in towards him, Greg’s smile spreading like a shark’s, “Fuck, an office fuck-hole… You hit that shit, Hammond?” Mark nodded, quickly, his eyes meeting Tim’s as he watched carefully, the tip of his tongue darting out to wet his lips. “Uh, yes, once or, uh, twice. Rough day at work, just needed release, you know? Stuck it in, one day, got a blowjob.” He sat back, story finished. The silence stretched before Greg interrupted, “What, that’s it? Shit, Hammond, gimme details!” A throw cushion soared through the air, catching Mark square in the chest, as Greg’s bicep flexed.

Mark took another sip, set the glass down, and cast his eyes skyward as he recalled his history with the hole. “I, uh, I’d been thinking about it for days, since I first saw the hole. I couldn’t think, kept fucking up at work, like my brain was already in that toilet cubicle, waiting for me to catch up. That first time I slipped it through, I half expected someone to slice it off, or for HR to jump out at me, but no, just… Lips. The fucking softest lips I’ve ever felt, just waiting, like they had been there all their lives waiting for the chance to suck my dick.” The words poured from him, a filthy confession. “Wet, fucking sloppy lips, slobbering over my knob, sucking me down, and that fucking tongue, shit.” His voice dropped off into a groan, thumbing his hard-on against the zipper in his jeans.

Tim shuffled forward; eyes wide, eager for more information. “The tongue?” He hung off every word as Mark continued, “Pulling my ‘skin back, teasing my head and dipping deep into my slit, slurping up every drop of my filthy pre-cum.” A dirty grin crossed Tim’s face, and Mark noticed the way his eyes dropped down to watch Mark’s hand in his lap, before snapping up again, the tips of his ears flushed pink with arousal. Greg’s earlier description of Tim lapped around Mark’s head, ‘dopey grin, fuck-drunk, trying to convince them’, and he could suddenly picture it vividly, ‘prim Tim’, quivering and undone, not dissimilar to the eager form in front of him. “Go on, Mark…”

Mark leaned in, closer to the bed, voice dropping lower. “Thought my dick was going to explode, the way it was leaking. Like, I’m not massive, but I’m not small either, but they swallowed my dick like a pro. Then they went for my balls, and shit, I love my balls being sucked, and they didn’t disappoint, believe me; they licked and sucked, rolling them in their mouth, hot and greedy, stroking every bloody inch while they teased my tip with their hand.” Even Greg was hooked, Mark noticed, glass resting on his chest as he absently ran his other hand along Tim’s spine. “And then the main event: that mouth back on my dick, hard and fast, spit dripping off my balls onto my fucking shoes. I fucked their throat— shit, can still feel it, every time I close my eyes— deep, tight, gagging on me, their hands squeezing my nuts just right. And the best thing?”

His voice thickened, cock throbbing, lost in it, composure hanging in the balance, and his gaze drifted from Greg’s smirk to the look of unbridled lust on Tim’s pinkened face, the way his eyes were staring at him, at his lips, as he spoke. “They didn’t make me pull out when I was ready to cum, they just wrapped their lips tight around me, fingers tickling my balls, even pressing up behind them, and mate, I saw fucking stars as I shot, load after load of cum down that hungry throat-cunt, squeezing me as they swallowed, making room for the next shot.” Tim was edged forward on all fours, crawling across the bed until he was at the edge, hands braced on the corner of the mattress, spine arched as he leaned in; his eyes were locked on Mark, laser-focused, like he couldn’t bear to miss a word. “Was— How did it feel? The suction, the spit.” Mark grinned, spurred on, “Tim, mate,” he swallowed the last of his drink, voice a growl now, “It felt like heaven; shit, that mouth worshipped me, treated me like a fucking god, needed me as much as I need it—”

Greg cut in, roaring with laughter, the interruption jolting both other men as if a spell had suddenly been broken, “Alright, horndogs— that’s enough for tonight, bedtime!” His grin was wide, affectionate, hand resting between Tim’s shoulders, keeping him pinned in his prone position as he stared at Mark through dark eyes, “Little pup’s all riled up now, aren’t you, kiddo?” He ruffled Tim’s hair playfully, oblivious to the way Mark’s dick twitched. “Don’t let this one bring any tarts up to the room, you hear me, Hammond? I need you both on top form tomorrow morning.” A gentle push, and Tim was on his feet, unable to meet Mark’s gaze, collecting empty glasses and setting them on the nightstand. Greg’s voice followed them as they headed to the door, “9 a.m., don’t forget— and get some fucking sleep!”, and as they stepped out into the silent corridor, both knew they’d have a hard time getting any rest, unsatisfied, unfinished.

 

[mGlottalstop]

Chapter Nineteen: Stalemate

Back in their cramped hotel room, Mark snatched a towel from the hotel’s linen, muttering a gruff, “Quick shower,” and bolted for the bathroom, the door clicking shut with a hollow snap. Hot water blasted down, steam curling thick and fast, fogging the chipped mirror as he soaped up, the cheap bar rough over his chest, dick still half-hard, a nagging itch pulsing low in his gut. He’d banked on this, five minutes at most, to rinse off the suite’s lingering musk, Greg’s scotch-soaked bravado and Tim’s eager, fuck-drunk tales still buzzing in his skull. Then, Tim would shower, and Mark could steal a quick wank under the covers, with the gloryhole’s soft lips and Greg’s hairy arse replaying in vivid detail. He scrubbed fast, suds sliding down his thighs, rinsing the flight’s sticky shame and the night’s restless heat, and stepped out, towel slung low over his hips, droplets clinging to his chest hair. He expected Tim to grab his kit next, the routine a silent hand-off, but when he pushed the door open, Tim lounged on the fold-out couch, still stubbornly folded, stripped to his tight, purple boxer briefs, a lazy grin splitting his face.

“Showering in the morning, night owl habits,” Tim said, voice light, stretching his arms back, oblivious to the fabric hugging his slim frame, a faint ridge teasing the outline of his cock. “That’s not a problem, right?” Mark’s stomach sank, his wank window slamming shut like a guillotine, the ache in his groin unrelieved, a traitor pulsing against the towel. He forced a nod, throat tight, “Yeah, fine,” and climbed into the sagging double bed, the springs creaking under him. He yanked the sheet up, turning away from Tim’s sprawl, willing his dick to settle, but the room felt too small, Tim’s presence too close: his breath, his heat, the faint rustle of his boxer briefs as he cupped himself absently.

Tim didn’t seem in any rush to settle, though, his uncoiling on the couch with a lazy stretch, one leg hooking over the armrest, boxer briefs pulling taut across his thighs. “You ever stay up too late before a big day?” he asked, voice quieter now, the suite’s wild energy dissipating, just a guy winding down. “I used to, back when I was temping. Couldn’t sleep, I’d just be lying there, reworking schedules in my head, making sure everything lined up for Greg the next morning.” Mark rolled onto his back, eyes tracing Tim’s lean frame, the quiff flopping as he rubbed his neck. Slowly, he slipped his hand under the sheet, fingers brushing his half-hard cock as he remembered the flight: Tim’s head, lolling against his shoulder, warm breath on his neck, nuzzling close in sleep, the heat of an erection pressing into his side. “Yeah, know that feeling,” Mark muttered, voice rough, thumb grazing his tip, pre-cum slicking as he stroked gently, the ache flaring with Tim’s nearness, so close again.

Tim yawned, unaware, and rolled over onto his stomach, the fabric tight over his pert cheeks, tracing the valley between. “Worst was sorting Greg out once. He missed a flight, too busy yelling at some poor bastard over the wrong milk in his coffee. Had to scramble to fix it, was a mess anyway with the whole, uh, flying thing…” Mark’s breath caught, his mind flicking to Greg, sprawled in the suite, bathroom open and framing that monstrous, golden cock as he wrestled Tim, their eyes alive and trained on Mark as Tim stroked Greg’s biceps with those long, delicate fingers that Mark remembered kneading his bulge, 30,000 feet in the air, his sticky secret. “Sounds rough, man,” Mark rasped, fingers circling his shaft, slow and discreet, the sheet tenting faintly. “Ever been caught out like that?” Tim asked, voice probing but earnest, “Feeling like all the plans you’ve made for yourself are suddenly falling apart?”

Mark froze, his hands stalling mid-stroke, a shaky “No, not really,” tumbling out, brittle and thin, the lie sour on his tongue. His life had taken an unexpected U-turn since he discovered that dirty little gloryhole: Sarah’s cold distance; Dave’s dirty friendship; Jamal surprising him at the hole; the office had become a maze of cum-soaked secrets, all unravelling faster than he could grip. His gut twisted, awkward heat flooding him. ‘Jesus, I’m wanking to Tim’s voice!’ He tore his eyes away from those slim hips shifting on the couch, remembering how he had jerked off between his own couch cushions just a few days ago. It all felt wrong now, exposed even under the sheet. Tim sighed, oblivious, “Sorry, Mark. I didn’t mean to keep you up talking bollocks,” and reached over, clicking off the lamp, plunging the room into a dim, bluish haze from the window. “Night,” he muttered, settling flat, leaving Mark alone with the silence. His dick pulsed unbidden, once, twice, three throbs, hard and insistent, counting them like sheep as shame gnawed his chest, the ache unrelenting. Sleep came fitful and fractured, a lust-soaked maelstrom twisting through him, dragging him under.

The dream hit him hard, vivid and wet, a fevered reel of filth unspooling in his head. He was back in the office, fucking a faceless woman: Karen, maybe, her sharp red lips parted, thighs spread wide on his desk, her cunt dripping as he pounded her raw, papers scattering, her moans sharp and desperate. Sarah straddled his face, grinding down, her pussy soaking his chin beneath the ruffles of her wedding dress, her gasps interrupting her recital of wedding vows as he lapped at her, tongue deep, her hips bucking. The scene melted, edges blurring, a crowded bar now, neon flickering amongst the smoky air, him leaning back against the counter as a barmaid’s lips slid over his cock, sucking him off mid-shift, the hum of patrons oblivious. Wet heat engulfed him, tongue swirling his slit, his balls tightening as he thrust into that greedy mouth. Then the world shifted again, darker, wilder, and he was on his knees in that smoky bar, looking up past a hazy thick dick, Tim’s smirking face staring down, eyes sparkling under the lights, his voice a low growl, “Take it, Mark, be a good little pup.”

The dream spun once more; flat on his back, legs splayed, Greg looming between them, golden dick bobbing, thick and uncut, foreskin partly retracting over that glistening head, eager to split him open. Mark groaned, helpless, as Greg’s hairy balls swayed, tickling his thighs, the musk choking him, primal and thick. Then Tim’s arse, pert, smooth, lifted by the waistband of those purple boxer briefs now tucked underneath, lowered and smothered his view, cheeks spreading as it pressed hot against his face, his moans vibrating into Mark’s skin, “Fuck, Mark, eat me, clean me out.” He tasted salt, sweat, felt the clench of muscle and traces of someone else’s testosterone as his tongue probed deeper, helpless as Greg’s cock slammed into him, stretching him wide, in perfect, practiced synchronicity with Tim’s grinding hips. The bar faded, neon dimming to blackness: just Greg’s grunts, Tim’s whimpering, and Mark shamelessly begging for more, his dick throbbing, leaking, ready to blow in a sticky shameful mess. He could hear the need in Tim’s whine, “Mark, fuck, Mark—”

“Mark, fuck’s sake, wake up!” Tim’s voice sliced through, sharp and urgent, shattering the dream like glass. Light knifed through the thin curtains, the hotel room snapping into stark, sweaty reality. Mark jolted awake, sheets tangled around his legs, his cock a steel-hard beast under the blanket that rivalled even his teenaged best, morning wood raging, thick and pulsing, tenting the sheet obscenely. He blinked, dazed, his dream-self clinging to the echoes of Greg’s grunt, Tim’s arse, the taste of salt… He froze as Tim loomed over him, hair mussed, boxer briefs clinging tight to a long, thick ridge against the cotton, his own erection jutting proud, balls in stark relief under the tight material, the wisps of pubic curls poking out past the waistband. “We slept through the alarm! Come on, the meeting’s in an hour!” Tim barked, already moving, grabbing clothes from his bag with sharp, efficient jerks. Mark gripped the sheet, his dick throbbing a pulsing secret, pressing against his boxers like a steel rod he couldn’t tame. If he stood, it’d jut out, undeniable; Greg’s funk-soaked suite flashed through his mind, Tim’s shrewd eyes from last night flaring, that spark now a live wire.

“Uh, give me a sec,” Mark mumbled, voice thick with sleep and shame, stalling. His brain scrambled: roll to the side, fake a stretch, anything to hide it! Tim turned, frowning, arms crossed. “Come on, get up— we’re late!” His tone made it clear that, in his mind, that was a cardinal sin. Seconds ticked, tension coiling, and Mark lay frozen, sheets clutched tight as their gazes locked, his erection a rebellion he couldn’t quash. Tim’s patience frayed, his tone sharpening, flippant and cutting. “What, you’re just gonna stay there? Oh, sure, no problem, I’ll just tell the client, ‘Sorry we’re late, my associate had a very nice, very fucking noisy, dream and couldn’t be arsed to get out of bed’— fucking move it, Mark!” His face burned. “Fuck off,” he muttered, a weak grumble, but Tim’s eyes narrowed, scanning him, then widened, pieces clicking into place. He laughed, a short, bright yap that made Mark startle. “Oh, shit, you’ve got a stiffy! That’s it, right, you’re embarrassed?”

Mark’s jaw tightened, trapped, the shame flooding hot up his neck, his dick twitching harder under the scrutiny. Tim grinned wider, relentless, stepping closer to the bed. “What, you’d think I’d care? I’m not an idiot, Mark, I know what happened on the plane—” Mark’s world whited out for a second, heart pounding in his ears, panic rising as the memory slammed into him: Tim’s hand kneading his hard dick mid-flight, cum streaking his fingers, the steward’s taunting leer. “—pills, I was totally out of it, didn’t know I’d popped a stiffy until I woke up and it was harpooning you. I’m sorry if it made you feel awkward around me, but seriously, we don’t have time!” He ran his hand through his scruff of hair in frustration, eyes imploring Mark to be reasonable, ignorant to the real reason for Mark’s discomfort at his proximity.

His patience frayed, voice cutting sharper, “Come on, Mark— we’re both blokes, got all the same bits down there. I went to an all-boys’ school, I’ve seen every shape and size flapping about in the showers, so don’t flatter yourself, you’re not hiding some rare beast under there. Mark’s face burned, the words a jab and a lifeline, but Tim’s limit snapped with a muttered, “Fuck’s sake.” From across the room, he hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his boxer briefs and yanked, briefs out and down, a flash of his uncut dick, long and smooth, pointing skyward, large balls risen close to the base of his shaft beneath a wiry bush, fiery red against the soft white of his skin. “See?” Tim said, voice firm, teasing swapped for a blunt edge, a challenge in his stare. “You’ve seen me, world didn’t end— now get out of that bloody bed. Greg’ll kill us if this meeting tanks.”

Mark floundered, eyes locking on it: sleek, pale, a proud jut that pointed toward Tim’s chin, until he tucked it back, the underpants snapping shut, a faint wet spot blooming where his tip pressed, pre-cum unexpectedly glistening under the cotton. The sight seared into him, Tim’s casual exposure a gut punch, and Mark’s dick throbbed harder, shame and heat colliding in a dizzying rush. Reluctantly, he threw the sheet off, rising slow, his own erection a thick, pulsing outline beneath his boxers, pressing obscenely against the fabric and streaming pre-cum under Tim’s appraising gaze. He stood, face burning, avoiding eye contact but catching it anyway. Tim didn’t rush now, meeting forgotten as he just watched him, a flicker of something in his expression as his sharp eyes lingered on the tenting fabric; satisfaction, assumed Mark, or curiosity, a whisper from his own mind replied. Mark’s cock twitched again, sparks all but ready to ignite the powder-keg, the damp patch spreading as a shameful bead pushed through. Mark watched, aghast, as Tim’s hand dipped to adjust himself, casual but deliberate, his own wet spot growing.

“Jesus, Mark,” Tim muttered, shaking his head as if to regain his senses, “we need to hurry.” With one last, lingering look, he turned, retreating to the bathroom with a quick stride, a door clicking shut behind him. Mark stood there, hard as hell and with no time to do anything about it, the meeting looking like an executioner’s axe. He fumbled into his slacks, cramming his erection down, the zipper fighting him as he tried to force it shut, ache unrelenting. His tie hung crooked; his fingers were clumsy as he knotted it, Tim’s flash looping in his head, that long, smooth shaft, the peak of a pink tip circled in foreskin, the tight balls, the growing wet spot. Images blurred with his dream’s depravity: Greg’s thick cock splitting him, the sticky floor of the bar humid against his knees, Tim’s bubble arse smothering him. Shame gnawed at him, sharp and familiar, but beneath it, a dark, unexpected arousal throbbed, his dick bouncing uncontrollably with each heartbeat as he recalled the look on Tim’s face as he stared at Mark’s tent, Greg’s description from the previous night, ‘dopey smile, fuck-drunk.’

The shower hissed behind the door, Tim’s silhouette a blur through the frosted glass, and Mark’s mind fixated, unbidden. He imagined those boxer briefs dropping, water slicking that pale skin, Tim’s hand maybe sliding lower, stroking himself under the spray, maybe thinking about Mark’s flushed, aching want. His own cock strained harder, pre-cum seeping through his slacks now, a humiliating patch he covered with his jacket, draped over his hips.

He grabbed his shoes, shoving them on, the clock ticking down, 9 a.m. closing in, Greg’s wrath looming over the morning like a shadow. But his body wouldn’t relent, the tension with Tim a live wire sparking in the cramped room, the dream’s filth and that flash of flesh, a reel he couldn’t stop. He was fucked. Running late. Desperately hard. Spiralling without release, finding himself longing for the simplicity of the distant gloryhole.

 

[mGlottalstop]

Chapter Twenty: The Buzz

The meeting room hummed, a sleek boardroom with too-bright lights slicing the haze of Mark’s morning shame. A long table of suits stared back, clients with sharp eyes and sharper questions, their pens poised like knives. Mark sat with his tie askew, his dick finally subdued but the ache still throbbing dully beneath his slacks, struggling to stay present as delegation after delegation droned through their presentation. When the time came for Grayson & Sons to speak, Greg and Tim slid into gear, working like a well-oiled machine, seamless and brutal in their rhythm. Greg took point with his voice booming, all muscle and charm packed into a pinstripe suit. He tore into the Q4 projections with brute finesse, slicing jargon and landing punches that snapped the room alert. “Margins are tight, but as you can see, we’ve squeezed the fat,” he’d growl, “Hammond’s cost breakdowns here prove it.” He tossed Mark a lifeline mid-sentence. Tim flanked him, cool and precise, a lean shadow beside Greg’s bulk. He fed numbers, dates, quips with his phone as a deadly weapon, fingers tapping notes and anticipating Greg’s pivots like he’d mapped his brain. They danced with one mind across two bodies: Greg’s gravelly bark countered by Tim’s smooth parry; their pacing so tight it felt choreographed. Eyes flicked in sync, a nod here, a smirk there, and soon the clients nodded back, pens dropped, sold.

Mark watched and got drawn in, his nerves thawing under their momentum’s heat. Greg lobbed him a curveball, “Hammond, back me up on the cost breakdown.” Mark’s voice caught at first, stumbling mid-breath, then he found the beat. Words spilled easier, sharper, numbers clicking like bullets. “Overheads cut by twelve percent, supplier rates locked,” he said, “Greg’s right, it’s lean but solid.” His voice steadied, chest loosening. Tim’s glance flicked his way with a quick nod, eyes glinting approval. Greg’s grin widened and he pulled him into the fold, a metaphorical sway Mark leaned into, his shell cracking as he matched their pace. The trio locked into something potent, a current buzzing through the room. By noon, the deal sealed with firm handshakes and tight smiles, the clients clapped Greg’s back like he’d won a prizefight. Mark exhaled, a quiet thrill pulsing under his skin. The morning’s sticky panic, Tim’s flash, his own throbbing shame, faded into the victory’s buzz.

The spilled into the hall, where Greg barked at Tim’s memo app, “Schedule follow-up for next week, get Legal on it.” His bulk filled the space, a king reclaiming his court. Tim smirked and pocketed his phone, all efficiency and quiet swagger, as Mark hung back, fishing out his own phone for a reflex check. No texts yet, just an itch to move lingered with the high still humming. One of the other delegates, a wiry Scouser in his late thirties who had introduced himself as Neil during the handshake round, caught his eye and nodded toward the lobby. “Fancy a quick pint, lad? Got an hour before me boss wants to debrief,” he said, his Liverpudlian lilt rolling thick, vowels broad and warm. Mark hesitated then shrugged, figuring why not? Neil’s vibe felt familiar, a stress-etched mirror with bags under his eyes, a wedding band he twisted absently, and the faint slump of a man juggling too much. “Yeah, sound,” Mark replied, falling into step, his veins still warm from the trio’s success.

The bar sat a block from the hotel, a dim hole-in-the-wall that proclaimed its ‘Proud Oirish’ heritage with chipped wood and stale ale, the kind of place reeking of late night regrets. They grabbed a corner table, pints sweating on coaster, as Neil loosened his tie and exhaled hard. “Fuckin’ ‘ell, these trips knacker you out, lad,” he said, “Don’t even get any kip at home anymore with two little scallies at home and me missus chewin’ me ear off. You?” Mark sipped his beer, bitter and cold, nodding with a wry twist to his mouth. “Same, mate, two little terrors, marriage on ice, I’m just running on fumes,” he replied. Neil laughed, a sharp Northern bark, and leaned in. “Tellin’ ya, me youngest won’t shut up about some daft dinosaur toy, proper doin’ me head in. Worth it, though, la’?” His tone warmed, tired eyes crinkling. Mark felt a tug, kinship from a shared trench. “Yeah, worth it,” he echoed, voice softening, “when they’re not screaming bloody murder.” Neil nodded and sipped slow. “You get through it, though, and find the good bits, y’know? Keeps you from goin’ boss-eyed,” he added, laughing.

The chat flowed easy, pints draining as Neil rambled about work stress, kid chaos, a wife who “gobs off at me till I’m half-deaf.” His words landed close, too close, like he’d cracked Mark’s skull and peeked inside. Mark leaned nearer, beer buzzing in his head, watching Neil’s hands, blunt fingers with a faint scar on the knuckle gesturing loose and free. “Sometimes I just need a breather, lad, somethin’ to shut the racket up,” Neil said, voice low, eyes locking on Mark’s for a beat, steady and open. Mark nodded, his gut flipping with anticipation, his throat tight, “Yeah, a breather, something real,” he replied. The air thickened as Neil’s laugh brushed his ears, Mark’s mind spinning with the memory of the gloryhole, Dave’s wank, Tim’s flash, all blurring into this, a chance, a spark, an opportunity to connect. One drink turned to two, edges softening, until Neil clapped his shoulder, “Bog run, back in a tick,” and Mark followed, legs shaky, a dumb, drunken impulse clawing up.

The bathroom loomed grim, a flickering light bulb buzzing like a trapped fly, tiles slick with piss-stink, a cracked mirror throwing back their blurry shapes. Neil leaned against the urinal wall, hands fumbling with his buttons, humming some off-key radio jingle, loose and careless. Mark stumbled in after him, head swimming from the second pint, heart thudding loud in his ears, the sound of Neil’s twang sparking a warm hum in his chest. “Fuckin’ ‘ell, the bogs in these dives are always mingin’, eh, lad?” Neil said, turning his head with a grin that lingered too long, eyes catching Mark’s in the dim light. Mark nodded and swayed closer, the air thick with beer, sweat, and something heavier, friendly but tingling, echoes of his misadventures with Dave in O’Malley’s flashing in his mind. Neil was trapped, Mark thought, same kids, same ice-cold wife, same grinding funk… But Mark knew the cure, that dirty enlightenment that would crack him open, wake him up from his doldrum. “Yeah, proper shithole,” he agreed, voice rough, stepping up at the trough beside Neil, their shoulders brushing, fingers twitching.

Neil didn’t pull back, just chucked, his hip nudging Mark’s as he shifted. “Takes me back, this, la’, lads’ nights, neckin’ pints, dodgin’ the missus! You miss that freedom, don’t ya?” he asked, tone wistful and conspiratorial, head tilting close, breath warm with ale. Mark’s gut flipped; Neil needed this, he reckoned, the jolt to break the slog, like the hole’s wet depths had woken him up. “All the time,” he rasped, eyes flicking to Neil’s hands now fishing out his dick from the confines of his denims, blunt fingers flexing, that scar glinting, then up to his face, stubble sharp, lips parted. Neil laughed softer, slappin’ Mark’s shoulder, letting his hand linger as his fingers squeezed firm. “Sound, lad, glad you get it: life’s a fuckin’ plod, need a buzz sometimes, don’t we?” he said. The sentence hung between them, and Mark’s dick twitched, half-hard, the pub’s noise fading as he focused in. Neil’s touch sparked, his grin glowing, clearly a man begging for release behind a shallow façade.

“Fuck, yeah, exactly,” Mark said, leaning in further, their chests close now. Neil didn’t flinch, his mouth twitching as he nodded, dropping his hand to Mark’s arm, a slow slide down to his elbow, casual but steady. “You’re sound, Mark, it’s nice to talk to someone in the same muck, y’know?” His grip tightened momentarily before he let go. He stayed put, hips angled toward Mark, and Mark’s breath hitched, mind racing. Neil’s closeness, that squeeze, those steady eyes screamed a man drowning in the same rut, ripe for the filthy salvation that Mark had found. The hole’s rush flashed, Dave’s grunting cumshot, Greg’s intoxicating musk, and the beers drowned out caution. Mark could free him, show him the light through the dark, a brotherly gift wrapped in cum and shame. “Real sound,” he mumbled, dizzy with purpose, and lunged, hand darting out, clumsy and bold, reaching across to grab Neil’s exposed dick, fingers closing around the tip, aiming to spark that awakening he swore Neil craved.

Neil jolted back, hands up fast. “Woah, lad, what the fuck’s that?” he said, voice spiking, shock slicing through the grin. Mark froze, hand hovering, face burning as Neil stepped clear, palms out like a shield. “Listen, I’m made up you’re into me or whatever, but I’m not queer! I’ve got a missus, kids, the full works. Not judgin’, la, it’s boss if you are!” he added, tone softening to a gentle letdown, eyes wide but kind. Mark’s gut sank, panic clawing up, his manhood teetering on a knife-edge. “I’m not, fuck, I’m not gay!” he barked, voice cracking, stepping back, hands balling into fists. “I’ve got a wife too, kids of my own, I’m straight as a fucking ruler, I’m a proper block!” Neil’s brow lifted, calm but sceptical, as he tucked his cock away. “Aye, lad, but straight fellas don’t go ‘round grabbin’ cocks in bogs, do they? What’s the story there, lad?”

Mark floundered, shame flooding hot and briny, his whole self under siege. “It’s not like that, I was bevvied, mate, trying to help you out,” he muttered, desperation clawing his throat. Neil tilted his head, arms crossing, voice steady. “Help me? We’re just having a laugh, chattin’ shit, where’s that comin’ from?” he pressed. Mark’s chest tightened, his mission crumbling, stammering, “You’re fucking stuck, mate, like I was— thought you needed a push, the ‘buzz’ thing, grabbing my arm. I thought you wanted out, but, fuck, I’m pissed— fucked it all up!” Neil sighed and rubbed his neck, still gentle but firm. “Lad, I’m just being a mate, going through the same shite as you, thought you might have needed a friend and that. Wasn’t after no push like that.”

Mark’s face burned hotter, masculinity fraying under scrutiny. “I’m not into fellas, Neil, I swear down. I’ve shagged women, I’m not queer, I was just trying to sort you out, daft fucking move!” Neil nodded slowly, unconvinced but ready to let it drop. “Alright, alright, calm down. Bevvy gets you daft, no harm. Let’s leave it there, yeah?” he offered, reaching out to clap Mark’s shoulder again but pulling his hand back just short of making contact. He slipped out, the door banging shut, leaving Mark alone with his noble intents.

When he gathered the courage to leave the bathroom, Neil was gone, glass empty and their table occupied by a noisy young couple. He awkwardly extracted his jacket from the back of the chair, apologising, and staggered out, retracing his steps back to the hotel, head pounding with shame, the meeting’s glow a distant memory. His phone buzzed with messages as he slumped into the room, having automatically connected to the cheap Wi-Fi; one from Sarah, dripping venom in lieu of literacy. “Kids r doing my head in, can’t find Jack’s fckn teddy, keeps laughing n saying ‘Mr Bearnaby’s on holiday’. Wanna explain this?” she wrote, attaching a photo: his crusty underwear wedged between the cushions of the couch, cum-streaked from his desperate humping days back, “Fckn GROSS, Mark!!!” No warmth came, just a blade twisting deeper in his guts.

He checked his remaining messages, two from Dave, last night’s reading, “Tried my luck with O’Malleys barmaid, she kept laughing about me ‘missing my boyfriend’, so cheers for that, Stroker, I’ll have to go somewhere else tomorrow!” Mark’s ears prickled pink with heat, realising that he’d need to find somewhere else to drink with friends in future, and he hastily scrolled to his next message. This one was dated this morning, a photo of an ‘Out of Order’ sign on a familiar cubicle door, captioned “Came back after having yesterday off to find this bullshit! Hope you’re having more fun than me.” Mark’s gut sank, the hole cut off, his dirty lifeline snipped while he flailed here, still stinging from Neil’s rejection, Sarah’s disgust and lack of understanding feeling like a fresh bruise, and now Dave’s loss a shared wound.

He sank onto the bed, springs groaning, feeling the room closing in, too small, too quiet, yanking his tie loose before it threatened to choke him. The success of the morning felt distant, a cruel tease with Greg’s support, Tim’s approval, his own fleeting moment of fitting in now shattered by this, a failed fumble, a crusty relic, a dead outlet for his frustrations. He was out of his shell, sure, cracked wide open, but it landed him in a mess, adrift and raw, a thrumming tangle of stress without release, without anchor. As he stared at the ceiling, his dick twitched unbidden at the memory of Neil’s hands, Tim’s flash, Greg’s musk, but it rang hollow, a reflex in a void. His breathing shallowed, rock bottom pooling beneath him, shame-soaked, cut loose, a man unmoored— adrift in the wreckage of his own undoing.

Tonight’s debauchery loomed: “restaurant at eight, lads, then drinks, tits, the works!” Greg had exclaimed before they parted for lunch; and Mark found himself craving it, the filthy escape he didn’t deserve, a chance to drown this quiet wreck in noise and flesh and absolution.

 

[mGlottalstop]

A bit of a longer one, there was a lot I wanted to cover in this chapter and my usual word target just wasn't enough!

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Chapter Twenty-One: The Performer

The restaurant oozed wealth like a fresh wound, all dim chandeliers dripping light over plush burgundy booths, the air thick with truffle oil and the clink of crystal. Mark slid in beside Tim, the leather creaking under his trousers, still damp with the faint musk of his earlier panic. Greg sprawled across from them, tie loose, shirt straining over his linebacker chest, barking at the waiter like a king on a bender. “Steak, rare, biggest you’ve got, none of that dainty shit, and keep the whisky coming, company card’s on me tonight, lads!” He slapped the plastic down with a grin, meaty fingers flexing, already half-cut from the hotel minibar. Tim ordered a duck confit, his voice smooth and clipped, effortless class in every syllable, while Mark fumbled the menu and landed on oysters, fancy and slick, a whisper of the shameful thrill he’d been chasing since the hole went dark. Greg roared approval, pounding the table so the glassware rattled. “Oysters, eh, Hammond? Now you're getting the idea, good man!” Mark forced a grin, cheeks hot, the molluscs’ briny sheen mocking him as they slid onto the table.

Tim’s eyes flicked up, sharp and teasing, while he speared a bite of duck. “Oysters, huh? Supposed to be an aphrodisiac, you know.” His tone stayed light, but it landed like a jab, and Mark choked on a sip of water, the flush creeping down his neck. “Yeah, lucky for the girls at the titty bar,” he muttered, aiming for a laugh but landing flat, the words sour in his mouth. Greg launched into a slurred tirade, tearing into his steak with juice dripping down his chin. “Fuckin’ smashed it today, lads, sealed that deal tight, they were eating out of my hand, couldn’t say no to this bulldog!” His laugh boomed, and Tim’s gaze slid to Mark, appraising, steady, a quiet weight that made Mark shift in his seat. He shovelled an oyster down, the salty slime coating his throat, but it didn’t spark anything. He felt flat, unplugged, surrounded by Greg’s roaring self-congratulation and Tim’s silent scrutiny, a spectator to their ease while his own dick stayed limp, haunted by Neil’s soft rejection and Sarah’s venomous text. The night stretched ahead, a promise he couldn’t grip, and the oysters sat heavy in his gut, a slick, useless tease.

The cab swallowed them next, a steamy yellow coffin with windows fogged by neon streaks bleeding through the dusk. Greg claimed the front, his bulk spilling over the seat, spinning a yarn to the driver, a wiry bloke in a backwards Mets cap who nodded along with a bored smirk. “So I’m balls-deep in this bird, right, husband’s watching from the closet, fuckin’ loved it, the perv, kept yelling ‘harder!’ ‘til I’m dripping sweat!” Greg’s voice boomed, hands flailing, whisky breath fogging the windscreen. Mark sat crammed in the back, Tim’s lean frame pressed close, their knees brushing as the cab jolted through traffic. He felt squeezed, caught between Greg’s loud, sweaty masculinity and the churning mess in his own head, Neil’s ‘I’m not queer,’ Sarah’s ‘Fckn GROSS,’ the hole’s ‘Out of Order’ sign, all looping like a bad reel, his dick a traitor that wouldn’t rise.

Tim shifted, his quiet voice somehow cutting through Greg’s cackle. “You alright, Mark? You’ve been quiet all night.” His tone held no fuss, just a crisp observation, and Mark shrugged, staring at the misted window. “Fine, just a long day.” Tim didn’t push, but he didn’t drop it either, leaning in a bit with heat radiating off him. “'Tassels and Chains' will shake you up. Madame Tassel’s a burlesque star, all curves, and Master Chain’s her leather-clad partner. It’s quite the performance, you’ll see, but brace yourself, things can get a touch, uh, wild...” His words dangled like bait, and Mark nodded, a spark flickering, jealousy or curiosity, but it didn’t catch.

The cab lurched to a stop, Greg barking, “Tim, pay the man!” as he stumbled out, leaving Mark on the kerb, the night air sharp against his flushed face. Tim pulled out his wallet, handed over a wad of notes to the driver, then leaned across the seat, muttering something inaudible, a quick grin flashing as he scribbled on a napkin and passed it over. The cabbie smirked, pocketing it, and Mark watched, brow creasing, that spark flaring hotter, suspicion now, maybe envy, before Tim clapped his shoulder and dragged him towards the club’s pulsing neon maw.

'Tassels and Chains' thumped with bass, a neon-soaked pit of velvet booths and glistening flesh. Greg stormed the VIP section like a conquering warlord, sprawling across a couch, shirt unbuttoned to his hairy navel, bellowing for “the good stuff” as the crowd parted for him. Mark sank into a booth, the velvet sticky under his palms, sweat prickling his neck as Tim waved over a dancer, long legs stretching into forever, glitter-dusted tits spilling from a lace bra, a smirk that promised to unravel him. “VIP treatment, you've earned it,” Tim said, leaning back with that cool, assessing gaze, sipping his drink like he owned the place. She slinked over, all hips and heat, straddling Mark slow and deliberate, her thong a whisper of fabric brushing his trousers as the bass pulsed through the floor.

Her hands slid up his chest, nails grazing his shirt, popping a button loose as she arched back, her breasts hovering inches from his face, nipples hard under the lace. She rolled her hips in a languid grind, the heat of her radiating through her thong, pressing against his groin in a slow circle. Her breath hit his neck, hot and ragged, a soft moan humming from her throat as she pinned his wrists to the booth. The glitter on her skin caught the neon, shimmering as she rocked forward, her arse flexing, a faint sheen of sweat on her spine. She leaned in, lips brushing his ear to whisper, “You like that, big guy?” Her tongue flicked his lobe, wet and quick, leaving a slick trail that cooled in the humid air.

Mark’s chest heaved, her musk sharp in his nose, the way her thighs clenched around him flooding his senses, a tease that should’ve sparked him alive. Her fingers tugged his belt loose, nails scraping his zip as she ground harder, a rhythm begging for a rise. But his dick stayed limp, a dead weight under her heat, refusing to stir as Neil’s ‘Straight fellas don’t grab cocks’ looped in his head. She noticed, her smirk twisting sour, and slid off with a huff. “If I wanted to grind on disappointment, I’d visit my ex.” She melted back into the crowd, leaving him exposed, shirt askew, cheeks burning.

He slumped, humiliation a hot coal in his throat, and his eyes drifted to Greg, sprawled across his couch, a king in chaos. Two dancers flanked him, one straddling his thick thighs, her arse bouncing as she ground against his tented trousers, the other perched on the armrest, feeding him coke off her glittered nail. Greg snorted it with a grunt, head tipping back as she smeared the residue across his lips, his tongue lapping it up, her tits pressed to his chest while the straddling one rocked harder, her moans cutting through the bass. It was filthy, vivid, Greg’s hairy bulk heaving, worshipped, a raw, unapologetic seen-ness that twitched Mark’s cock, a slow, shameful swell not from the dancer on him but from Greg’s sweaty throne. Tim’s eyes flicked his way, catching it, but said nothing, just sipped his drink, distant and unreadable. The room spun, Greg’s grunts, the dancers’ heat, his own useless groin, and Mark bolted, shirt clutched over his lap, dick half-hard for the wrong reasons, shame clawing his throat as he stumbled towards the bathroom.

The bathroom offered stark refuge, flickering lights, fogged mirror, the faint reek of piss and bleach. Mark hunched over the sink, splashing cold water on his face, chest heaving, the stripper’s jab echoing with Neil’s recoil and Sarah’s disgust. His reflection stared back, flushed and hollow, a man unmoored. The door creaked, and Tim’s shape loomed in the mirror behind him, lean and steady, hands in his pockets. Mark froze, water dripping down his chin, as Tim stepped closer, his voice low, catching once. “Look, I was worried about you, Mark. You’ve been off all night.” Mark blinked, caught off guard, and Tim pressed on, eyes locked in the glass, steady but real. “You did a cracking job today, honestly. Greg’s out there riding high, but it’s your work propping it up—those cost breakdowns, that was all you.”

Mark’s throat tightened, the words hitting hard, but his head still churned, Neil, the hole, the dancer’s sneer. “Doesn’t feel that way,” he muttered, voice rough. Tim stepped closer, breath faintly brushing Mark’s neck, his voice firmer. “Whatever’s been messing with you tonight, it doesn’t mean you’re knackered. Greg brought you along because he trusts your work, your drive. Maybe it’s time you trusted it too.” Their eyes met in the mirror, a beat of raw recognition, not romance, just something, electric and messy. Tim’s mouth quirked, voice dropping with a slight hitch. “A little bit of 'fun' doesn't make you a bad person, Mar—.”

The air thickened, charged, and the loudspeaker cut in, brassy and loud. “Ladies and gentlemen, a real highlight, in his debut performance, put your pretty little hands together for the one, the only, GOGO GREG!” Mark’s jaw dropped, Tim’s eyes widened, and they bolted out the door, the moment snapping mid-breath.

They burst from the bathroom as the spotlight sliced through the haze, pinning Greg to the stage, handcuffed to a chair, his bulk slouched but thrusting with drunken bravado. Tim grabbed Mark’s arm, his voice sharp. “We need to stop this.” Mark nodded, breathless. “Yeah, we should stop it.” Neither of them moved. Tim’s grip tightened, eyes flicking to Greg, swaying in the cuffs. “Are we just going to stand here?” Mark’s laugh cracked, dark and ragged. “Can’t ditch him, look at him, he’s half gone already!" They watched in stunned silence as Greg struggled against his restraints, muscles straining with exertion. "He loves it really! I bet he’s not even got boxers on, probably planned for this," Tim grinned, a glint in his eye. Mark watched the struggle, curiosity peaking, before extending his right hand towards Tim, with a strangely confident, “You’re on! ”

The crowd roared, a sea of whoops and whistles, as Madame Tassel strutted out, curves spilling from a black corset, fishnets hugging her thighs, her crimson lips curled in a wicked grin. Master Chain flanked her, leather gleaming under the neon, a whip coiled at his hip, his bald head shining as he cracked his knuckles. The bass dropped low, a sultry beat, and Tassel’s voice purred over the mic. “Ladies and gents, feast your eyes on our freshest catch, let’s peel him down, shall we?” Greg grinned, dazed and sweaty, as the striptease kicked off, a slow burn that hooked the room.

Tassel moved first, gloved hands tugging his unbuttoned shirt wider, yanking it off slow to expose his hairy chest, the fabric sticking to his skin as the crowd cheered. Chain stepped up, grabbing Greg’s tie and looping it around his neck like a leash, jerking his head back with a slurred, “Fuckin’ do it!” Tassel crouched, tickling his socked soles with her gloves, dragging them along the arches, and Greg squirmed, a giggle breaking through his haze, his trousers tightening as the ticklishness sparked him up. Chain grabbed the waistband of Greg’s trousers, sliding the zip down slow, revealing no boxers, just as Tim had bet, and Tassel dragged the trousers off, exposing his thick thighs flexing against the cuffs.

Chain took the first go, smearing glitter gel across Greg’s pecs, rubbing it in rough with his leather glove, Greg’s nipples hardening as he groaned, eyes glazed, barely there from the coke. Tassel stepped in next, her silk glove sliding up his shaft, tickling his ribs while he slumped, a low moan spilling out, the crowd whooping. Chain pushed her aside, gripping Greg’s dick with that leather glove, stroking slow and firm, teasing the base as Greg’s head lolled, slurring nonsense. Tassel took her turn, tickling his armpits with one hand, her silk glove stroking his cock light and quick, asking, “Who’s got him, folks?”

Greg’s cock bobbed like a metronome to the crowd’s chants, thick and alive, and they roared for Chain’s rougher grip. Chain jumped back in, stroking harder, his free hand tugging Greg’s bush while Tassel tickled his sides, Greg a sweaty, moaning wreck, nearly out of it, hips bucking on autopilot. The spotlight cut out, plunging the stage black, a gasp ripping through the crowd. A beat later it snapped back on, Chain and Tassel bowing centre stage, blowing kisses, the show done. Greg slumped against the cuffs upstage, his cock twitching in the neon glow, a king mid-coronation or mid-collapse, Mark couldn’t tell, abandoned in the chaos.

Mark stood rapt, heart pounding, dick throbbing, not from Tassel’s curves, but Greg’s raw, mythic wreck, manhandled and untouchable. Tim whooped beside him, a crack in his cool, before grinning and dropping his voice conspiratorially, “See, you can have fun!” The crowd surged, Chain flexing his gloves, and Mark’s laugh broke free, wild and ragged, merging with Tim’s. They leaned into each other, shoulders shaking, gasping as the absurdity hit, Greg’s silhouette swaying, the night a glorious, filthy mess. Tim’s arm slung around him, steadying them, and for a moment, the shame lifted, drowned in the shared howl. The fog parted, not gone, but paused, and Mark felt it, seen, tethered, alive in the wreck, if only for one night.

--

I'd just like to say a quick thank you to those of you who have left feedback, I greatly appreciate it! If you're enjoying this story, please leave a comment or DM me telling me what you're enjoying, where you'd like to see the story go!

 

[michaelnola]

Chapter Eleven: Unravelled

The clock ticked towards 5 p.m., each second a sledgehammer grinding Mark’s resolve into dust; he’d buried himself in emails all afternoon: flight confirmations, connections from the airport, Greg’s shifting agenda; his fingers rushing over the keys, sloppy but persevering, anything to put off the pull. But it clawed back, relentless, primal, a dark pulse coiling in his gut. Dave’s smug strut back from the hole yesterday, Tim’s coy smile, the barmaid’s gasp as his cum hit the trough, they all swirled in his skull, a maelstrom of want and shame that wouldn’t let go of him. His dick stirred, half-hard once more in his slacks and making a mockery of his every attempt to focus, to hold the line. He’d sworn it off, ‘no more,’ he’d hissed into the dark last night, Sarah’s continued rejection still stinging, but the itch had festered, an infection taking place deep within his head, a fever he couldn’t shake. Work was a grey slog, home a beige cage, but the hole? It glowed vibrant in his mind, a filthy beacon promising pleasure beyond measure, something he wanted, needed more than air.

By 4:50, his restraint was a ghost, a frayed thread that snapped under the weight of his need. He glanced at Dave in the pod next to his: sprawled in his chair, picking his teeth, satiated and oblivious, and the jealousy flared, sharp and hot, knowing Dave had claimed it again, fed that wondrous mouth his thick spunk while Mark sat chained to his desk. His breath quickened, shallow, as he weighed his options: he should stay, finish the itinerary, go home to Sarah’s rollers and scorn; or, he could go, shove his cock through that hole, feel that wet heat swallow him as he reclaimed what he should never have turned away. The choice churned, a war in his chest, but his dick decided for him, swelling full, straining against his zipper, a beast he couldn’t unleash. “Fuck it,” he muttered, “We’re doing it.” He grabbed his bag, voice lost under the hum of the office, and bolted, a curt “See you Monday” tossed at Dave as he fled, legs pumping towards the bathroom with shame burning hot on his heels.

The last cubicle loomed, sanctuary and sin; he locked it with a desperate click echoing too loud in the tiled silence and fumbled his slacks down to let his cock spring free: his tip already slick with pre-cum, leaking like a loose tap from days of pent-up need. He shoved it through the hole, breath shaking, expecting the usual wet lips and filthy taunts, but this time, Mark broke first, voice spilling out, low and unsteady. “I need this,” he said, words tumbling unscripted, raw as a wound. The mouth was there for him, warm and eager, sucking him in slow, tongue lapping softly at his slit, teasing out another generous bead of fluid with a greedy little slurp; “You don’t get it— it’s not just— uh, fuck, it’s more, now,” he rasped, thrusting shallowly, hips trembling as the confession poured. “Gives me purpose, you know? Makes me happy in a way I didn’t even know I was missing— shit, I’ve been numb, asleep, coasting through and, fuck, this— you— these wake me up.”

The suction deepened, a silent reply, lips clamping tighter and sliding halfway down his shaft before pulling back, spit coating his head in a glossy sheen. Mark’s hands braced the wall, nails scraping paint, his control a memory as he bared it all. “Work’s a fucking grind: spreadsheets, Greg’s fucking barking, it doesn’t end, and home— fuck, home’s worse! Sarah doesn’t look at me, doesn’t want me, just lies there like a corpse,” he said, voice cracking, the truth a knife he couldn’t stop from twisting in his gut. “But this— you? I crave it, every day, every fucking minute. It’s all I’ve got left, this dirty little pulse that keeps me going.” The mouth paused, listening, then resumed, slower, softer and wetter, like it understood. The tongue swirled under his foreskin, rolling it back with deliberate, decadent lapping that dragged a groan from his throat. He thrust deeper, lost in the rhythm, the confession stripping him to the core: shame, desperation, and a growing hollow ache he’d buried for too long.

Then it shifted, unexpected and electric; the mouth pulled off, leaving his cock throbbing, exposed and slick with pre-cum and spit, and before he could catch his breath, a new heat pressed against him through the hole. Soft, bubble-like ass cheeks, smoother than silk, hot and sweat-slick, cradled his dick in a tight, pert valley, His tip nudged between them, catching involuntarily with every primal thrust on a slick, hairless ring, warm and quivering: a tight pucker, unexplored, teasing him with its barest give each time his tip pulsed against it. Mark froze, mind spinning, heart slamming against his ribs; ‘must be a woman’s ass,’ he reasoned, chanting, forcing Lisa’s curves, Karen’s hips into focus, anything to keep it safe and familiar and louder that the voice whispering about Dave’s jawbreaker. ‘Not a guy,’ but his body didn’t care regardless; instinct took over, hips bucking, the sensitive ridge of his cockhead rubbing that hole, the friction sparking raw and wild through his shaft, a world away from the cold, unwelcome rutting against his wife just a few days prior. ‘Fuck— oh,fuck,’ he gasped, voice breaking, the sensation a jolt he couldn’t fight, his control shattered and a passenger to his own need.

The ass pressed harder, cheeks squeezing his length as the hairless ring kissed his tip with every shallow thrust. He studied it for a moment: smooth, pale skin, maybe a hint of pink beyond his own throbbing shaft, hole yielding just enough to taunt him like a decadent trap he didn’t want to resist. “So fucking good,” he groaned, words slurring as the heat built, his dick sliding slick between those cheeks as pre-cum smeared the pucker, making it glisten under the fluorescent light. The mouth had been greedy, skilled, but this? This was raw, uncharted, a new perversion that buried its hooks deep into his psyche. His balls tightened, heavy and aching, the pressure coiling unbearably. He thrust faster, chasing it, the ridge of his head catching the tight ring again and again, each snagged stretching a burst of pleasure-pain that shredded his last grip on sanity. ‘Fuck— man, woman, I don’t care anymore, just let me—”, as the pull of the hole drowned out his voice of reason.

“Gonna cum,” he rasped, a warning to no-one, and it hit him hard, sudden, a climax ripping through him like an oncoming whirlwind, His cock pulsed, jerking wild as he rutted mindlessly, cum blasting out in thick, scalding ropes, splashing against that hairless hole and coating those pert cheeks in a creamy flood. The vision seared into him: glistening white streaks dripping down unblemished, smooth skin, pooling at the tight ring, some even trickling inside; a filthy, flawless ruin. His knees buckled, a guttural grunt tearing free, raw and broken, as he milked the last spurts, dick hypersensitive in the slick valley of the cum-covered ass. The intensity blinded him, burned the image deep: those cheeks, that hole, his spunk claiming it; he stumbled back, pulling out as he yanked up his pants in a daze, bag slipping off his shoulder as he staggered from the bathroom.

His chest heaved, breathing heavy, the confession and the climax leaving him raw and exposed, aroused beyond reason despite his confusion over the arse, the shift in his dynamics, and the undeniable thrill. “What the fuck,” he muttered, voice hoarse, emotions tangling in another impenetrable knot as quick as he could unravel them: shame for spilling his soul, desperation for needing this so bad, a strange and hollow joy in his release. He’d bared it all: work’s tedium, Sarah’s distance, the hole’s grip; and it hadn’t pushed him away, it pulled him deeper, igniting a craving he couldn’t name, wouldn’t shake. He lurched out of the bathroom, the office building a blur, a cum-covered ass burned into his brain every time he closed his eyes. The gloryhole had deemed him worthy of a new obsession and sin; he stumbled to his car, hands shaking on the wheel; shame and exhilaration wrestled in him as the line between want and ruin blurred hopelessly. But for the first time in a long time, he felt curious tugging at his lips; a crooked, shaky spark of colour born of his rebellion against his grey life, spurred on by that cum-drenched ass.

Mark realised he was smiling.

What a story--readers with hard cocks for sure...thanks

 

[bmagic]

Loving this story and I feel like Tim is the person from the glory hole

 

[mGlottalstop]

What a story--readers with hard cocks for sure...thanks

I'm really glad you (and your hard cock!) are enjoying it

 

[mGlottalstop]

Loving this story and I feel like Tim is the person from the glory hole

I'm glad you're enjoying it!
The mystery of the hole will be resolved soon, but Mark's story is not over yet!

 

[mGlottalstop]

I hope you like this one! One of the scenes in this chapter inspired me to write this whole work-trip arc, so let me know what you think of it!

--

Chapter Twenty-Two: A Little Night Music

The hotel corridor loomed long and shadowed, the carpet muffling their clumsy shuffle as Mark and Tim hauled Greg’s staggering, sweat-soaked bulk towards the suite. Glitter clung to his hairy chest like a shimmering rash, his shirt long gone, sacrificed to the strip club’s chaos. He stank of whisky and lust, voice slurring thick and loud. “Tassel’s tits, lads, fuckin’ unreal, yeah? Next time, I’m fuckin’ cuffing Chain, see how long he lasts for a change when I break out these on ‘im!” He flexed a meaty arm, biceps quivering with drunken pride, nearly toppling them into the wall. Mark grunted, shoulder screaming under the weight, sweat prickling his neck. Tim stayed cool, one arm hooked tight around Greg’s waist, the other steering his lolling head with a steady grip. “Easy now, shh…” Tim muttered, brushing glitter from Greg’s brow with a quick, calm swipe, his tone laced with fond exasperation. Mark watched, caught by how naturally Tim managed him, as if this sloppy, glittering wreck was just another Tuesday night.

Greg’s knees buckled at the threshold, and they wrestled him through, half-dragging the sagging trousers catching around his thighs, until he collapsed onto the bed in a sprawl of semi-naked glory. His thick thighs flopped wide, chest heaving, a glistening mess of hair and muscle sinking into the sheets. Tim fetched a damp towel from the bathroom, kneeling beside him, wiping the sweat and gel from Greg’s flushed face with slow, tender strokes. Greg stirred, eyes half-open, a sloppy grin cracking his lips. “There’s my little pup,” he mumbled, voice gravelly and slurred, “licking my face, good boy…” One hand flopped towards Tim’s head, fingers artlessly scratching beyond his ear, before dropping limp at his side. Tim snorted soft, unperturbed, and kept wiping, clearing the sticky sheen until Greg’s snores rattled the room. “’Night, big guy.” Mark lingered in the doorway, arms crossed, staring at the scene—Tim’s quiet care, Greg’s wrecked abandon. Something twisted in his gut, tender and sharp, at how easily Tim tended to men so undone. Tim glanced up, meeting his gaze with a small, weary nod, then flicked off the light.

The hotel room thrummed with stale heat, curtains snagging the night’s humidity as Mark kicked off his trainers, the carpet rough under his bare feet. He peeled his shirt free, sweat-soaked fabric clinging to his back before dropping in a damp heap, then shucked his trousers down, leaving him in nothing but a pair of faded grey boxers, the waistband sagging low on his hips. His skin prickled in the muggy air, chest still tight with the club’s lingering pulse, and he turned towards the bed, sheets rumpled and inviting. The bathroom door creaked open, and Tim stepped out, faintly lit by a slash of moonlight spilling through the window’s edge, his lean frame wrapped in a shocking-red jockstrap that hugged his arse and cradled his bulge in a brazen slash of colour against the gloom. His skin gleamed with a thin sheen, fresh from a quick rinse, and his eyes flicked to Mark, sharp and steady. Mark took a step towards the bed, hand brushing the mattress, but Tim’s fingers caught his arm, warm and firm, stopping him dead. They stood close, too close, Tim’s breath brushing Mark’s shoulder as he spoke, voice low and edged with quiet steel. “It’s my turn, Mark. I slept on the couch last night, and I’d like the bed tonight.” Mark froze, the heat of Tim’s grip sinking into his skin, his half-hard cock twitching under the boxers, caught between exhaustion and the electric pull of that touch.

Mark had no argument, Tim had sacrificed his own comfort to placate him the previous night, and, with a terse nod, stepped away from the bed, away from Tim’s soft fingers blistering his skin. Despite the small frame of the couch, once Mark had settled down under the blanket, sleep hit fast and beckoned him with a fevered dive into a dream where the air thickened with surreal heat, a decadent blur of smeared lights and writhing shadows. Tassels dangled like liquid gold, chains glinted wet and sharp, all swaying to a sexy, shapeless tune, half-heard, half-felt, a pulse that throbbed low in his bones. He was back in Tassels and Chains, alone in the velvet dark, the sole patron pinned to a booth, his work suit slick with phantom sweat. Greg loomed upstage, a grotesque god, stripping slow and self-indulgently, his bulk glistening with grease and glitter as he caressed his muscles with oil-slick fingers. He thrust his hips in exaggerated, sloppy fucks against the air, cock bobbing heavy, a grotesque ballet of excess that smeared the edges of Mark’s vision.

But it was Tim who slithered from the neon haze, lean and deliberate, skin glowing with a sheen of dream-sweat as he climbed into Mark’s lap. His thighs clamped tight, muscles flexing under taut flesh, and he rolled his hips in a grind so deep it dragged a guttural groan from Mark’s chest. He wore a tight black shirt at first, buttons straining over his chest, but as he swayed to the shapeless, pulsing tune, he popped them one by one, fingers deft and teasing, peeling the fabric back to reveal a slick expanse of skin, nipples hard and dark in the flickering light. “VIP treatment, courtesy of me,” Tim purred, voice dripping honey and heat, his breath a wet, sticky caress against Mark’s ear. He moaned low, richer than the dancer’s hum, more intimate, a sound that sank into Mark’s bones like molten lead. The shirt slipped off his shoulders, pooling at his elbows, and he shrugged it free, letting it fall to the dream-floor in a damp heap. His hips never stopped, grinding harder, the bulge in his trousers swelling as he shed his belt next, leather snapping loose with a sharp crack, leaving him bare save for clinging fabric that outlined every thick inch.

Tim’s hands roamed, fingers digging into Mark’s thighs with bruising intent, then sliding up, nails grazing the bulge in his trousers until Mark twitched beneath him. “Let’s get you sorted,” Tim murmured, voice a velvet tease as he leaned in, lips brushing Mark’s jaw, tongue darting out to lap at the sweat beading there, hot and fleeting. His fingers found Mark’s shirt buttons, popping them slow and deliberate. “First this one, sliding free, showing me that chest,” he narrated, breath hitching as he bared Mark’s skin, palms splaying wide to knead the muscle, thumbs circling nipples until they pebbled under his touch. “Then these, down your abs, tight and trembling,” he continued, unfastening Mark’s trousers next, zip rasping open as his hands dipped inside, stroking the hard line of Mark’s cock through his boxers, fabric damp with precum. “And here, fuck, so ready for me,” he growled, peeling the boxers down, freeing Mark’s cock to bob heavy and slick in the neon glow. Tim wrapped his hand around it, stroking with a rhythm that pulsed like the music, languid, then fierce, then languid again. Each pump coaxed a wet bead from the tip, smearing it down the shaft until Mark’s hips bucked, desperate and trapped, a whimper clawing up his throat.

Tim leaned closer still, shirtless now, his own cock pressing thick through his trousers against Mark’s thigh, grinding with relentless heat. “Ask me, Mark,” he whispered, voice a velvet command, lips hovering millimetres from Mark’s, so close their breaths tangled in a humid swirl. His free hand snaked up, snagging the Grayson & Sons lanyard looped around Dream-Mark’s neck, tugging it tight until the cord bit into flesh, pulling harder as Mark gasped, air thinning, arousal spiking sharp and wild. Tim’s other hand kept stroking, slick and relentless, thumb swiping the slit as Mark teetered on the edge, cock pulsing hot in his grip. “Beg for me, Mark,” Tim rasped, tightening the lanyard further, Mark’s gasps turning ragged, eyes watering as he choked out a broken “Please.” Tim’s lips curled, hovering still, and he pressed on, voice dark and thick. “Tell me what you need.” Mark’s throat seized, arousal crashing into dread, body pinned under Tim’s weight: cherished, dominated, a trembling wreck. His mouth opened, plea clawing up, “I need to cum, Tim, fuck, please,” and Tim’s hand quickened, the lanyard digging deeper, pressure building thick and unbearable as the dream swelled to a shattering peak. But a real moan, wet, rhythmic, and desperately urgent, sliced through the haze, yanking him awake.

The room hung dark and humid, early morning clotting the air, the couch creaking under Mark as he stirred, groggy, cock throbbing hard under the sheet. A sound hooked him: soft, slick, and insistent, like flesh meeting flesh with a hushed, decadent rhythm. Moaning followed, low and raw, paired with a faint shuffle of movement. He turned his head, slow and heavy, eyes adjusting to the gloom, and saw Tim. Shirtless, barefoot, he leaned against the dresser, body taut yet loose, skin gleaming faint in the streetlamp’s glow slipping through the blinds. Kneeling between his legs, head bobbing slow and deep, a stranger’s lips stretched wide around Tim’s cock. Mark’s eyes widened, adjusting slowly to the twilight casting the room in shades of midnight blue; his vision, fighting the pull futilely, tracing the ethereal glow of Tim’s torso downward, eyebrows raising as he appraised the surprising definition, counting abs two, four, six. He lingered on the wild tangle of pubes, red, almost purple in the twilight, which sprung unabashed from the trail below his naval, before his eyes drifted onward to assess the mysterious figure. A dark tracksuit over a wiry form, face obscured by the cap slung backwards on his head. New York Mets. Mark swallowed, mouth dry, as he recognised the figure worshipping his roommate: Tim was being swallowed, expertly, by the driver of the yellow cab. The undoubtably male driver. Mark’s head swam, heartbeat pounding in his ears, unable to tear his eyes away from the real-life porno a few feet away from him.

Tim wasn’t a distant or passive lover, Mark learned. His hand rested on the cabbie’s cheek, stroking tender, thumb tracing the jaw’s curve with a lover’s care, while the other gripped the edge of his backwards cap, guiding him with a gentle tug. His mouth hung slack, eyes fluttering half-shut in bliss, a quiet groan spilling from his throat as his hips rolled, slow and deliberate, feeding his cock deeper into the eager mouth. The driver worked with wet, filthy precision, tongue flicking along the underside, spit gleaming on his chin as he took Tim to the hilt, a soft, obscene slurp cutting the silence each time he pulled back. Tim’s cock shone in the dim light, long and slick with saliva, veins bulging between stretched lips, the head flushed a dark, angry red, weeping a pearlescent bead that smeared across the taxi driver’s tongue before sinking back in. Mark couldn’t look away, breath trapped in his chest, hand slipping under the sheet to clutch his own cock, stroking slow and firm, mirroring the rhythm of the bobbing head.

Tim’s pleasure swelled, hips rocking faster, a murmur slipping out, too soft to decipher but soaked in desperate need. His fingers tightened on the cap, thumb brushing the nape of the cabbie’s neck, and his breath hitched, chest rising sharp as he chased the brink. Theman hummed low, the vibration shuddering through Tim’s cock, spit dripping in thin, glistening threads to puddle on the carpet. Then, with a chuckle, he dipped lower, lips parting wide to suckle Tim’s balls, tongue laving the taut, wrinkled skin with sloppy reverence, leaving them slick and gleaming in the faint glow. Tim’s cock quivered free, jutting proud and unattended, slick with spit and precum, twitching with every wet swipe of the mouth below, as he gasped, mind reeling with sensation. Mark’s eyes widened, locked on that glistening shaft, the way it pulsed and bobbed, a raw, decadent sight that dragged a stifled groan from his own throat, his hand pumping faster under the sheet.

The taxi driver’s hand slid up Tim’s bare torso, fingers splaying over the lean muscle before finding a nipple, pinching it light and teasing. Tim whined, a needy, broken sound that cracked the air, his body arching into the touch. His free hand, the one not stroking the man’s cheek, shot up to grab his palm, fingers entwining tight, locking their hands together in a trembling grip. The cabbie rolled the nipple harder, tongue still swirling over Tim’s balls, spit dripping down his chin as he worshipped every inch, oblivious to the tension spiking above him. Tim’s cock throbbed harder, a fat drop of precum spilling from the tip to streak down the shaft, and his breath came in ragged gasps, hips bucking slight and frantic. Tim’s eyes flicked open, catching Mark’s dead-on. “Oh, Mark—!” he gasped, voice breaking soft and stunned. His face flushed pink, lips quivering as his orgasm crashed through him, hips jerking sharp and wild. Maybe it was already building, maybe Mark’s gaze pushed him over, impossible to say, but their eyes locked, raw and unguarded, and Tim’s moan spilled quiet yet gutted, a sound that sliced the dark. The driver kept going, unaware, sliding back up to milk Tim’s cock with gentle, greedy pulls, draining every shuddering pulse, spit and cum smearing his lips as Tim’s thighs trembled, utterly undone.

Mark’s hand froze, cock pulsing hot in his grip, on the very precipice of release, too stunned to move, too full of shame and reverence to tear his eyes away, staring at Tim’s wrecked beauty. The cabbie stood, wiping his mouth with a cocky grin, zipping up as he rambled in a thick New Yorker drawl, just shy of caricature. “Fuckin’ hot, right? Ain’t every night I get a fare this tasty, man. Been too long since I had a go this good.” Tim’s eyes stayed on Mark, answers vague, nods and low hums, while the driver chuckled. “You called me Mark, yo,” the driver went on, “it’s Malik, easy mix-up, my man.” He glanced down, clocking Tim still hard, and smirked. “Round two, huh? Got more in ya, horndog?” Tim shook his head, voice flat. “Nah, I’m done.” Malik shrugged, unfazed. “Hit me up next time you’re in the city, aight? And maybe ditch the roommate next time, yo, freaked me out when he stopped his snorin’.” He swaggered out, door clicking shut, leaving the room steeped in silence.

Mark didn’t budge, hand still wrapped around his dick, pulse thudding loud in his ears. The intimacy had crumbled into something frail, exposed. Tim stood shirtless, flushed, breath slowing, skin slick with a faint sheen. He looked at Mark again, softer now, not pulling back but not stepping closer either. A beat stretched, thick and quiet, then Tim spoke, voice low and steady. “You need a hand with that?” No jest, no bite, just a real offer, tender and terrified, dangling in the air. Mark swallowed, throat dry, and the silence held, unanswered.

--

If you have any feedback or suggestions for what you'd like to see Mark explore in later chapters, please get in touch! This is my first proper story, and I'm learning as I go along; your feedback helps me improve, and it really turns me on to learn how much you guys are enjoying Mark's journey!

 

[mGlottalstop]

Chapter Twenty-Three: The Present

The silence choked the room, thick and muggy, Mark’s hand still clamped around his cock, sweaty palm slick against the shaft, pulse pounding loud in his ears. Tim’s offer, “You need a hand with that?” hung low and bare, a hot thread slicing through the haze of Malik’s exit. Mark stayed mute, throat a dry knot, breath catching short, his eyes darting quick, Tim’s face, the floor, back again, fingers flexing on his dick, still hard from watching Tim spill, skin flushed and prickling. Tim’s gaze held him, steady, dark, a glint of want simmering under the quiet, his chest rising slow in that red jockstrap, cum-streaked thighs a faint sheen in the gloom. Mark’s gut twisted, shame and heat warring, his cock twitching alive, betraying him.

Tim stepped closer, cautious, knees bending as he sank towards the couch, hands hovering like he’d already decided. Mark flinched hard, shoulders jerking back, a sharp jolt of fear spiking hot through his chest, breath hitching loud in the dark. Tim froze mid-motion, hands shooting up, palms out, eyes widening quick. “Shit, sorry, Mark, I fucked up, thought you—” His voice cracked, rough and low, stumbling fast as he rocked back, nearly tipping onto his heels, giving Mark a wide berth. “Didn’t mean to push, swear it, I just, fuck, I misread you, yeah? I’ll back off, no harm, just, Christ, please don’t tell—” He rambled, words spilling sloppy, hands flailing wild, then dropping limp, his face flushing red, panic cutting through the calm he’d worn all night. He shuffled back another step, bare feet scuffing the carpet, jockstrap shifting with the move, and his eyes flicked down, then up, searching Mark’s face, waiting, almost pleading for a sign, his breath shaky now, uneven. Mark’s chest heaved, the retreat slamming into him, Tim’s care, the way he scrambled to fix it, not forcing, not taking, just wanting Mark to want this too. That broke the dam, flipped the switch hard. “Tim,” Mark rasped, voice a gravel scrape, loud in the quiet, slicing through Tim’s apologies, “yes.” He watched as Tim blinked, processing, a long beat stretching thin. “Okay,” he breathed, barely audible. Another pause, then softer, “Let me know if you want to stop, okay?” Mark nodded, sharp and shaky. “Yeah.”

Tim dropped to his knees, slow, like he was bowing to some filthy god, hands trembling faint as they slid under the blanket. His fingers grazed Mark’s foot, rough and ticklish, making him twitch, then dragged up his calf, warm, firm, over the tight muscle of his thigh. Mark stiffened, skin sparking, breath catching as Tim’s touch crept higher, teasing the soft, pale inside with a light graze that burned hot. Then those fingers cupped his balls, gentle, reverent, rolling them slow in his palm like they might break. Mark jolted, a sharp gasp ripping free, hips bucking once, his dick pulsing harder under his own grip. Tim’s hand slid up, wrapped around his cock, slow and sure, fingers curling tight, tracing every pulsing inch like he was committing it to memory. Mark’s head tipped back, eyes squeezing shut, then cracking open, chest heaving fast, sweat beading on his brow. Sarah’s dry, half-arsed tugs flashed quick: chafing, grudging, a chore that left him raw, not wrecked; Tim’s grip was different, warm, adaptive, wanting. Their eyes locked on one another, Tim’s expression was soft, steady, his characteristic smirk replaced by raw focus, locked in on the here and now. Mark groaned, low and ragged, and Tim’s lips twitched faint, a smile curling. “There you go,” he murmured, voice a dirty whisper, sinking deep into the heat.

Tim started slow, strokes long and deliberate, fingers tugging Mark’s foreskin back, thumb smearing precum over the slit, slick and thick, working it down the shaft until it gleamed wet in the gloom. He didn’t rush, watched Mark’s face close, tracked every shudder, every bitten-off grunt, slowing when his hips bucked too wild, tightening when his breath turned sharp. His other hand rolled Mark’s balls, knuckles nudging back, brushing the sweaty skin behind, and Mark’s whole body jerked, a choked “Shit—!” spilling out, legs trembling hard; Tim’s eyes flashed, dark and certain, so he pressed there again, firmer, fingers digging into the perineum, unravelling him twitch by twitch. Mark panted fast, chest burning, his face twisting tight, need clawing up his spine.

Halfway in, it snapped, raw and urgent. Mark ripped the blanket off, voice a shaky wreck. “I want, fuck, I need to see you.” Tim shifted quick, kneeling tall between Mark’s thighs, red jockstrap stretched tight, cock bulging thick under it, a damp patch spreading where he leaked. Two hands now, one stroking the shaft, slick and steady, the other cupping beneath, cradling his balls, warm and possessive. Mark slumped back, thighs splaying wide, bare and open, dick throbbing under Tim’s grip, shame and want a hot, sticky mess in his gut.

Those twinkling eyes roamed, hungry and drinking in Mark’s sprawl: his thighs thick and tense, quivering faint under the touch, dark hair curling damp with sweat, leading up to his cock, hard and flushed, jutting proud from the tangle of pubes. Mark felt heat creeping up his cheeks, shame flaring under Tim’s appraisal; he felt the urge to apologise for his body, to explain the ravages of thirty-hood to the trim young man before him. “I, uh, I’m—” Tim interrupted, voice low and reverent, “Fucking gorgeous.”

His hands slowed as he stared, thumb tracing the vein pulsing along Mark’s shaft, a worshipful drag that made Mark’s hips twitch hard. His fingers tightened, stroking firmer now, slick with precum, eyes flicking up to Mark’s face, then down again, locked on his dick like it was a prize, a treasure he’d earned. He leaned closer, breath hot on Mark’s skin, lips parted faint, and his free hand slid up Mark’s thigh, kneading the muscle, nails grazing light, a tease that sparked goosebumps, Mark’s breath hitching louder, chest heaving as Tim’s adoration sank in, filthy and pure.

The pace quickened, Tim’s hand pumping steady, slick and relentless, precum dripping fast and glossy, pooling at Mark’s base as his other hand rolled his balls, squeezing light, then firm, then light again, a rhythm that dragged Mark’s groans out raw and deep. Tim’s face softened, awe breaking through; his eyes traced the way Mark’s cock swelled, the head flushing darker, weeping thick beads that smeared under his thumb, his grip slicker with every stroke. “So fucking perfect,” he breathed, filthy prayer and sacred vow, as he leaned in until his breath ghosted Mark’s tip.

His mouth hovered, so close, but restraint prevailed, lips never touching. Instead, he worshipped with his hands: every move deliberate, every squeeze a sacrament. Mark’s thighs shook, hips bucking wild, hands clawing at the couch, knuckles white. Sweat streaked his chest, pooling in the dip of his navel. Tim’s gaze held him—open, steady—as though he saw everything Mark was and chose to stay: every broken piece, every hidden hunger, witnessed and somehow still welcomed. Peace bloomed in his eyes, soft and reverent, as though the act of giving had unmade him and made him whole all at once. Sarah’s disinterested Christmas wanks flickered bitterly in Mark’s mind, dry and disinterested rubs doled out reluctantly between cold sheets, obligation rather than attraction, but he had never felt anything like this: Tim’s hands were alive, greedy, worshipping every inch.

Tim stayed close, breath hot and jagged, lips parted inches from Mark’s cock, hands moving with practiced ease, teasing with the restraint, the nearness of it. His fingers slid slick, thumb circling the head, precum dripping in sticky threads, pooling at the base as he pumped slow, then firm, then slow again. Mark’s hips twitched, a groan tearing loose, his face flushed and wrecked, eyes locked on Tim’s, desperate. Tim’s eyes flicked up, dark and searching, and Mark’s chest caved, breath a mess of gasps and grunts, overwhelmed, unmoored. His dick pulsed harder, heat coiling tight, and he moaned, voice cracking raw. “I’m, Tim, I’m gonna, please, fuck—” Tim’s eyebrow quirked, a filthy grin tugging his mouth. “I know, Mark,” he said, low and rough, “and I want you to,” then opened his lips wide, slow and deliberate, an unspoken invitation, waiting for Mark to take it. Mark’s hips lifted, shaky, hesitant, then surged forward, sinking his cock into Tim’s mouth, the head brushing past those lips, hot and wet, Tim’s tongue flat and ready beneath.

The head grazing along Tim’s tongue, slick and warm, then deeper; his mouth open and yielding, lips parted wide, not closing, letting Mark push, choose, claim it. The heat hit hard, wet and tight, Tim’s breath huffing hot around him, and Mark’s eyes widened in recognition, a jolt slamming through his gut, the hole’s memory crashing back: vivid, electric, filthy, that exact tongue, that same slick drag, that unmistakeable need to serve him. “Fuck, Tim, you—?” he choked, half-word, half-moan, voice breaking as his hips bucked wild, driving deeper. Tim’s mouth was a perfect, waiting hollow, tongue flicking light under the ridge, teasing the slit with a deft, familiar swipe that sent Mark reeling. His balls tightened, heat spiking sharp, and he thrust again, desperate, and Mark’s groan ripped out, raw and wrecked, his cock pulsing thick, the edge rushing up fast, unstoppable. Tim’s eyes flicking up, locked on his, wide and steady, ready for it, waiting, wanting...

Mark came hard, a visceral, sticky explosion, his cock jerking wild in Tim’s open mouth, thick ropes of cum bursting hot and fast, splattering across Tim’s tongue, flooding the back of his throat with a salty, musky rush that spilled over, dripping down his chin in glossy streaks. His hips bucked, uncontrollable, shoving deeper, Tim’s lips still parted, spit and cum mixing wet and messy, a choked grunt breaking from Tim’s chest as he took it, eyes squeezing shut for a split second, then snapping back to Mark’s, locked tight, burning with heat. Mark’s whole body seized, thighs quaking, a guttural roar tearing free, chest heaving as sweat poured down, soaking his abs, his dick pulsing relentless, spilling more, wet, heavy spurts that streaked Tim’s tongue, pooled in his mouth, overflowed to dribble down his jaw, his throat bobbing hard as he swallowed what he could, the rest smearing filthy and thick. The aftershock hit, Mark’s legs trembling limp, breath a wrecked sob, vision blurring white, every nerve screaming with the shattering, sticky peak, Tim’s mouth still open, cum-streaked and glistening, a filthy altar Mark had claimed.

Mark slumped there, wrecked, cum-streaked sheets tangled around his legs, head buzzing loud, chest heaving as the afterglow sank in, soft, warm, no panic, just a slow melt. Tim pulled back slow, cum dripping from his chin, and grinned up at Mark, a genuine, joyful beam, pure and precious, his eyes crinkling soft, not a hint of cockiness, just earnest delight that punched Mark’s gut, adorable, raw, a man lit up by giving. He licked his lips, swallowing slow and savouring it, then rasped, “I’d know that taste anywh—” his voice a warm, filthy tease interrupted by a wide yawn breaking the moment, exhaustion crashing through from the wild night, his shoulders slumping faint. Mark’s voice broke out, hoarse, stumbling, “But, you—? The hole—? Why, fuck, how—?” but Tim’s grin softened, sleepy now, and he stood, swaying slight, all lean muscle and quiet heat in that red jockstrap, dick still half-hard, a damp stain spreading wider. “Tim, wait, serious now, the hole, when—?” Mark pressed, voice cracking, questions tumbling sloppy as he staggered up, legs jelly, reaching out, needing answers, but Tim shook his head slow, yawned again, louder, eyes half-lidded.

“I’m knackered, Mark,” Tim mumbled, voice thick with sleep, grabbing Mark’s hand, tugging him gentle, coaxing, not a yank, towards the bed. “Was it always you? How’d you—?” Mark tried again, words slurring, desperate, but Tim flopped back first onto the mattress, yawning a third time, a groan stretching out, pulling Mark down beside him. “Stay with me tonight, please,” he muttered, voice fading, teasing soft, “Won’t bite, swear it.” Mark crashed in, easy, their bodies slotting close, Tim’s head burrowing into his bicep, warm breath on his skin, Mark’s arm slinging over, fingers pressing Tim’s bare waist, solid and real under his touch. “Tim, c’mon, just tell me—” Mark slurred, voice heavy, but Tim sighed, a slow, heavy sound, cutting him off. “Sleep, Mark. Questions can wait.”

Mark’s eyes fluttered, lids weighted like lead, as he conceded. Tim was a furnace against him, skin radiating heat, the slow rise and fall of his chest syncing with Mark’s own breath until they shared a rhythm. He inhaled deep, enveloped in Tim’s scent; shampoo and sweat and something warmer, sweet like cinnamon but undeniably more primal, easing the tension from his spent muscles. Contentment wrapped round him like a second blanket though Sarah’s face threatened to cloud his mind, disapproving and slicked in her clay masks, but reality afforded her no purchase. Tim was here: breathing, alive, and inviting, and Mark, as he sank once more into exhausted slumber, was happy at last.

--

So the truth is finally revealed! Mark still has a million questions, but does he have the courage to ask them? The story is far from over, but thank you to everyone who has read along so far, I hope you continue to do so!

 

[michaelnola]

Excellent writing---Thanks....

 

[mGlottalstop]

Excellent writing---Thanks....

Thanks Michael, there's still plenty more to come so I hope you want to continue reading along!

 

[bmagic]

Chapter Twenty-Three: The Present

The silence choked the room, thick and muggy, Mark’s hand still clamped around his cock, sweaty palm slick against the shaft, pulse pounding loud in his ears. Tim’s offer, “You need a hand with that?” hung low and bare, a hot thread slicing through the haze of Malik’s exit. Mark stayed mute, throat a dry knot, breath catching short, his eyes darting quick, Tim’s face, the floor, back again, fingers flexing on his dick, still hard from watching Tim spill, skin flushed and prickling. Tim’s gaze held him, steady, dark, a glint of want simmering under the quiet, his chest rising slow in that red jockstrap, cum-streaked thighs a faint sheen in the gloom. Mark’s gut twisted, shame and heat warring, his cock twitching alive, betraying him.

Tim stepped closer, cautious, knees bending as he sank towards the couch, hands hovering like he’d already decided. Mark flinched hard, shoulders jerking back, a sharp jolt of fear spiking hot through his chest, breath hitching loud in the dark. Tim froze mid-motion, hands shooting up, palms out, eyes widening quick. “Shit, sorry, Mark, I fucked up, thought you—” His voice cracked, rough and low, stumbling fast as he rocked back, nearly tipping onto his heels, giving Mark a wide berth. “Didn’t mean to push, swear it, I just, fuck, I misread you, yeah? I’ll back off, no harm, just, Christ, please don’t tell—” He rambled, words spilling sloppy, hands flailing wild, then dropping limp, his face flushing red, panic cutting through the calm he’d worn all night. He shuffled back another step, bare feet scuffing the carpet, jockstrap shifting with the move, and his eyes flicked down, then up, searching Mark’s face, waiting, almost pleading for a sign, his breath shaky now, uneven. Mark’s chest heaved, the retreat slamming into him, Tim’s care, the way he scrambled to fix it, not forcing, not taking, just wanting Mark to want this too. That broke the dam, flipped the switch hard. “Tim,” Mark rasped, voice a gravel scrape, loud in the quiet, slicing through Tim’s apologies, “yes.” He watched as Tim blinked, processing, a long beat stretching thin. “Okay,” he breathed, barely audible. Another pause, then softer, “Let me know if you want to stop, okay?” Mark nodded, sharp and shaky. “Yeah.”

Tim dropped to his knees, slow, like he was bowing to some filthy god, hands trembling faint as they slid under the blanket. His fingers grazed Mark’s foot, rough and ticklish, making him twitch, then dragged up his calf, warm, firm, over the tight muscle of his thigh. Mark stiffened, skin sparking, breath catching as Tim’s touch crept higher, teasing the soft, pale inside with a light graze that burned hot. Then those fingers cupped his balls, gentle, reverent, rolling them slow in his palm like they might break. Mark jolted, a sharp gasp ripping free, hips bucking once, his dick pulsing harder under his own grip. Tim’s hand slid up, wrapped around his cock, slow and sure, fingers curling tight, tracing every pulsing inch like he was committing it to memory. Mark’s head tipped back, eyes squeezing shut, then cracking open, chest heaving fast, sweat beading on his brow. Sarah’s dry, half-arsed tugs flashed quick: chafing, grudging, a chore that left him raw, not wrecked; Tim’s grip was different, warm, adaptive, wanting. Their eyes locked on one another, Tim’s expression was soft, steady, his characteristic smirk replaced by raw focus, locked in on the here and now. Mark groaned, low and ragged, and Tim’s lips twitched faint, a smile curling. “There you go,” he murmured, voice a dirty whisper, sinking deep into the heat.

Tim started slow, strokes long and deliberate, fingers tugging Mark’s foreskin back, thumb smearing precum over the slit, slick and thick, working it down the shaft until it gleamed wet in the gloom. He didn’t rush, watched Mark’s face close, tracked every shudder, every bitten-off grunt, slowing when his hips bucked too wild, tightening when his breath turned sharp. His other hand rolled Mark’s balls, knuckles nudging back, brushing the sweaty skin behind, and Mark’s whole body jerked, a choked “Shit—!” spilling out, legs trembling hard; Tim’s eyes flashed, dark and certain, so he pressed there again, firmer, fingers digging into the perineum, unravelling him twitch by twitch. Mark panted fast, chest burning, his face twisting tight, need clawing up his spine.

Halfway in, it snapped, raw and urgent. Mark ripped the blanket off, voice a shaky wreck. “I want, fuck, I need to see you.” Tim shifted quick, kneeling tall between Mark’s thighs, red jockstrap stretched tight, cock bulging thick under it, a damp patch spreading where he leaked. Two hands now, one stroking the shaft, slick and steady, the other cupping beneath, cradling his balls, warm and possessive. Mark slumped back, thighs splaying wide, bare and open, dick throbbing under Tim’s grip, shame and want a hot, sticky mess in his gut.

Those twinkling eyes roamed, hungry and drinking in Mark’s sprawl: his thighs thick and tense, quivering faint under the touch, dark hair curling damp with sweat, leading up to his cock, hard and flushed, jutting proud from the tangle of pubes. Mark felt heat creeping up his cheeks, shame flaring under Tim’s appraisal; he felt the urge to apologise for his body, to explain the ravages of thirty-hood to the trim young man before him. “I, uh, I’m—” Tim interrupted, voice low and reverent, “Fucking gorgeous.”

His hands slowed as he stared, thumb tracing the vein pulsing along Mark’s shaft, a worshipful drag that made Mark’s hips twitch hard. His fingers tightened, stroking firmer now, slick with precum, eyes flicking up to Mark’s face, then down again, locked on his dick like it was a prize, a treasure he’d earned. He leaned closer, breath hot on Mark’s skin, lips parted faint, and his free hand slid up Mark’s thigh, kneading the muscle, nails grazing light, a tease that sparked goosebumps, Mark’s breath hitching louder, chest heaving as Tim’s adoration sank in, filthy and pure.

The pace quickened, Tim’s hand pumping steady, slick and relentless, precum dripping fast and glossy, pooling at Mark’s base as his other hand rolled his balls, squeezing light, then firm, then light again, a rhythm that dragged Mark’s groans out raw and deep. Tim’s face softened, awe breaking through; his eyes traced the way Mark’s cock swelled, the head flushing darker, weeping thick beads that smeared under his thumb, his grip slicker with every stroke. “So fucking perfect,” he breathed, filthy prayer and sacred vow, as he leaned in until his breath ghosted Mark’s tip.

His mouth hovered, so close, but restraint prevailed, lips never touching. Instead, he worshipped with his hands: every move deliberate, every squeeze a sacrament. Mark’s thighs shook, hips bucking wild, hands clawing at the couch, knuckles white. Sweat streaked his chest, pooling in the dip of his navel. Tim’s gaze held him—open, steady—as though he saw everything Mark was and chose to stay: every broken piece, every hidden hunger, witnessed and somehow still welcomed. Peace bloomed in his eyes, soft and reverent, as though the act of giving had unmade him and made him whole all at once. Sarah’s disinterested Christmas wanks flickered bitterly in Mark’s mind, dry and disinterested rubs doled out reluctantly between cold sheets, obligation rather than attraction, but he had never felt anything like this: Tim’s hands were alive, greedy, worshipping every inch.

Tim stayed close, breath hot and jagged, lips parted inches from Mark’s cock, hands moving with practiced ease, teasing with the restraint, the nearness of it. His fingers slid slick, thumb circling the head, precum dripping in sticky threads, pooling at the base as he pumped slow, then firm, then slow again. Mark’s hips twitched, a groan tearing loose, his face flushed and wrecked, eyes locked on Tim’s, desperate. Tim’s eyes flicked up, dark and searching, and Mark’s chest caved, breath a mess of gasps and grunts, overwhelmed, unmoored. His dick pulsed harder, heat coiling tight, and he moaned, voice cracking raw. “I’m, Tim, I’m gonna, please, fuck—” Tim’s eyebrow quirked, a filthy grin tugging his mouth. “I know, Mark,” he said, low and rough, “and I want you to,” then opened his lips wide, slow and deliberate, an unspoken invitation, waiting for Mark to take it. Mark’s hips lifted, shaky, hesitant, then surged forward, sinking his cock into Tim’s mouth, the head brushing past those lips, hot and wet, Tim’s tongue flat and ready beneath.

The head grazing along Tim’s tongue, slick and warm, then deeper; his mouth open and yielding, lips parted wide, not closing, letting Mark push, choose, claim it. The heat hit hard, wet and tight, Tim’s breath huffing hot around him, and Mark’s eyes widened in recognition, a jolt slamming through his gut, the hole’s memory crashing back: vivid, electric, filthy, that exact tongue, that same slick drag, that unmistakeable need to serve him. “Fuck, Tim, you—?” he choked, half-word, half-moan, voice breaking as his hips bucked wild, driving deeper. Tim’s mouth was a perfect, waiting hollow, tongue flicking light under the ridge, teasing the slit with a deft, familiar swipe that sent Mark reeling. His balls tightened, heat spiking sharp, and he thrust again, desperate, and Mark’s groan ripped out, raw and wrecked, his cock pulsing thick, the edge rushing up fast, unstoppable. Tim’s eyes flicking up, locked on his, wide and steady, ready for it, waiting, wanting...

Mark came hard, a visceral, sticky explosion, his cock jerking wild in Tim’s open mouth, thick ropes of cum bursting hot and fast, splattering across Tim’s tongue, flooding the back of his throat with a salty, musky rush that spilled over, dripping down his chin in glossy streaks. His hips bucked, uncontrollable, shoving deeper, Tim’s lips still parted, spit and cum mixing wet and messy, a choked grunt breaking from Tim’s chest as he took it, eyes squeezing shut for a split second, then snapping back to Mark’s, locked tight, burning with heat. Mark’s whole body seized, thighs quaking, a guttural roar tearing free, chest heaving as sweat poured down, soaking his abs, his dick pulsing relentless, spilling more, wet, heavy spurts that streaked Tim’s tongue, pooled in his mouth, overflowed to dribble down his jaw, his throat bobbing hard as he swallowed what he could, the rest smearing filthy and thick. The aftershock hit, Mark’s legs trembling limp, breath a wrecked sob, vision blurring white, every nerve screaming with the shattering, sticky peak, Tim’s mouth still open, cum-streaked and glistening, a filthy altar Mark had claimed.

Mark slumped there, wrecked, cum-streaked sheets tangled around his legs, head buzzing loud, chest heaving as the afterglow sank in, soft, warm, no panic, just a slow melt. Tim pulled back slow, cum dripping from his chin, and grinned up at Mark, a genuine, joyful beam, pure and precious, his eyes crinkling soft, not a hint of cockiness, just earnest delight that punched Mark’s gut, adorable, raw, a man lit up by giving. He licked his lips, swallowing slow and savouring it, then rasped, “I’d know that taste anywh—” his voice a warm, filthy tease interrupted by a wide yawn breaking the moment, exhaustion crashing through from the wild night, his shoulders slumping faint. Mark’s voice broke out, hoarse, stumbling, “But, you—? The hole—? Why, fuck, how—?” but Tim’s grin softened, sleepy now, and he stood, swaying slight, all lean muscle and quiet heat in that red jockstrap, dick still half-hard, a damp stain spreading wider. “Tim, wait, serious now, the hole, when—?” Mark pressed, voice cracking, questions tumbling sloppy as he staggered up, legs jelly, reaching out, needing answers, but Tim shook his head slow, yawned again, louder, eyes half-lidded.

“I’m knackered, Mark,” Tim mumbled, voice thick with sleep, grabbing Mark’s hand, tugging him gentle, coaxing, not a yank, towards the bed. “Was it always you? How’d you—?” Mark tried again, words slurring, desperate, but Tim flopped back first onto the mattress, yawning a third time, a groan stretching out, pulling Mark down beside him. “Stay with me tonight, please,” he muttered, voice fading, teasing soft, “Won’t bite, swear it.” Mark crashed in, easy, their bodies slotting close, Tim’s head burrowing into his bicep, warm breath on his skin, Mark’s arm slinging over, fingers pressing Tim’s bare waist, solid and real under his touch. “Tim, c’mon, just tell me—” Mark slurred, voice heavy, but Tim sighed, a slow, heavy sound, cutting him off. “Sleep, Mark. Questions can wait.”

Mark’s eyes fluttered, lids weighted like lead, as he conceded. Tim was a furnace against him, skin radiating heat, the slow rise and fall of his chest syncing with Mark’s own breath until they shared a rhythm. He inhaled deep, enveloped in Tim’s scent; shampoo and sweat and something warmer, sweet like cinnamon but undeniably more primal, easing the tension from his spent muscles. Contentment wrapped round him like a second blanket though Sarah’s face threatened to cloud his mind, disapproving and slicked in her clay masks, but reality afforded her no purchase. Tim was here: breathing, alive, and inviting, and Mark, as he sank once more into exhausted slumber, was happy at last.

--

So the truth is finally revealed! Mark still has a million questions, but does he have the courage to ask them? The story is far from over, but thank you to everyone who has read along so far, I hope you continue to do so!

I knew it! Lol now mark needs to rearrange Tim guts

 

[mGlottalstop]

I knew it! Lol now mark needs to rearrange Tim guts

For sure! Mark has got a lot to learn

 

[alialjebori3]

Hot

 

[mGlottalstop]

Hot

Thank you!

 

[michaelnola]

Thanks Michael, there's still plenty more to come so I hope you want to continue reading along!

No doubt man---along for this ride with you all the way.--Thanks for sharing your writing with us.