The Office Gloryhole

[mGlottalstop]

Chapter Twenty-Four: The Twink, The Bear and The Beefcake

Morning spilled through the curtains in soft, golden threads, painting the hotel room in warm streaks, the air thick with a humid glow that clung to the sheets. Mark woke slow, eyes tracing the light as it danced over Tim’s svelte form, the blanket draped low across his hips, accentuating the lean curve of his waist, the red jockstrap peeking out like a secret. Tim curled tight against him, head nestled into Mark’s bicep, one leg slung possessive over his thigh, skin radiating heat, a furnace of sweat and breath and last night’s musk: glitter, cum, a faint spice that sank into Mark’s chest. His world felt new, cracked open, the grey shame of years with Sarah burned away by this, Tim’s solid weight, the quiet potential of it. A smile tugged his lips, soft and real, as he watched Tim sleep, lashes fanned dark against flushed cheeks, a content curl to his mouth, breath puffing gentle against Mark’s arm. He marvelled at it, this happiness, a world of warmth he hadn’t known he could claim.

Mark studied him, greedy for the details: the way Tim’s lips twitched faint in a dream, a half-smile that lit his face, the way he nuzzled closer in sleep, nose brushing Mark’s chest like he belonged there. One bare foot poked free from the sheet, toes flexing slight as if chasing cool air, and Mark’s chest swelled, a stupid, giddy ache at how human it made him, how close. His fingers moved, light and tentative, grazing Tim’s hip, tracing the dip where jockstrap met flesh, then bolder, sliding down to cup the pert swell of his arse, lazy and reverent. Tim stirred, a groggy hum rumbling deep, eyes cracking open, hazy with sleep but glinting sharp with want, and Mark grinned, genuinely happy, a lightness bubbling up he hadn’t felt in years. “Morning,” Tim mumbled, voice thick and warm, stretching long against him, his own dick hardening as it pressed into Mark’s side. Mark shifted, morning wood nudging Tim’s thigh, thick and insistent, and pressed a kiss to his shoulder, lips lingering on the salt, the heat, a quiet claim.

Tim’s grin turned playful, fingers circling Mark’s nipple slow, teasing the bud until it stiffened, a spark jolting down Mark’s spine. He trailed gentle kisses down Mark’s chest, soft pecks turning wet and deliberate, tongue flicking out as he slid lower, lips brushing the taut skin of Mark’s belly, then hovering hot over his cock. Tim took him in, mouth closing soft around the head, tongue swirling slow, and Mark groaned, low and wrecked, marvelling at the sight of Tim’s sleep-tousled quiff bobbing between his thighs, the golden light catching the mess of it. His hand found Tim’s head, fingers threading through that soft, chaotic hair, cradling gentle, guiding the pace as Tim sucked deeper, lips stretching wide, a wet, warm pull that made Mark’s hips twitch. He caught Tim’s eyes flicking up, then sideways, spotting Mark’s gaze snagging on his arse in the mirror, pert, framed perfect by the jockstrap, cheeks flexing as he moved. “If you wanted— Do you have any lube?” Tim rasped, pulling off with a wet pop, voice rough and eager, a filthy spark in his eye. Mark spluttered, heat rushing his cheeks, “Yeah, uh, with my toiletries, in the bag,” nodding clumsy at the duffel, heart thudding fast.

Tim sat up slow, slinging a leg over Mark and straddling his lap, his weight settling firm as he faced the mirror, eyes connecting with Mark’s through the reflection, a grin splitting his face. Mark’s dick slotted perfect between those pert, jockstrap-framed cheeks, a tight, delicious press that sent a sweet ache rippling through him. A gentle breeze wafted through the curtains, sending golden light spilling over Tim’s arse, accentuating the smooth curve; the red straps dug slight into his flesh, framing the muscle that flexed as he shifted, grinding subtly against the hard cock. Mark groaned low, hands twitching to grab, to knead, to finally hold the familiar curves that had haunted his dreams ever since he first glimpsed them through the hole, but he held back, allowing himself only to run his fingertips along Mark’s back, tracing the definition of his spine. The heat, the soft give of Tim’s skin, the way his cheeks hugged him, snug and teasing, felt a filthy promise he could sink into, never to resurface. His dick throbbed, thick and leaking, the pressure building as Tim leaned forward, stretching long to rummage in the bag at the foot of the bed, back arching, arse lifting just enough to drag a ragged breath from Mark’s chest. He marvelled at it, the sight, the feel, hands hovering an inch from Tim’s hips, wanting to pull him down, to rut up into that perfect heat, the morning’s glow turning it all golden and holy, a moment he could live in forever.

Then Tim’s fingers fumbled, brushing past toothpaste and razor, closing around something soft, pulling out something small, plush, button-eyed: Mr Bearnaby, threadbare from Jack’s love, stashed there by a kid scared his dad might face the dark alone. Tim froze, hand trembling faintly, eyes locking on the bear, and the golden glow drained cold, the room dimming sharp around them. His breath hitched, a tiny catch Mark barely caught, then stilled, his chest rising slow, deliberate, like he was forcing it. In the mirror, Mark watched the playful glint in his eyes snuff out, replaced by a sudden solemnity, a hardening edge creeping in: jaw tight, lips pressing thin, a mask snapping into place, emotionless and perfect, to shut Mark out. He set the bear down slow, deliberate, on the end of the bed, fingers lingering a beat too long, a quiet thud echoing loud in the hush, and rolled off Mark, sheets rustling harsh, a wall rising fast. “We should get moving,” he said, voice flat, final, stripped of warmth, a stranger’s tone. “Gotta pack up and go.” His shoulders squared, spine stiffening as he swung his legs off the bed, turning away, rebuilding the distance brick by brick, the heat of moments ago torched to ash. Mark’s gut sank, the ache blooming sharp and cold, happiness crumbling fast, a silent door slamming shut in his chest, Tim’s walls locking him out, step by icy step.

They dressed quick, Tim refusing eye contact as he tugged on jeans and a shirt, fingers yanking the zip up sharp, his movements clipped and cold, Mark fumbling clumsy with his own trousers and tee, buttons slipping through sweaty hands, the silence a heavy fog rolling thick between them, choking the air. Tim’s jaw stayed tight, a hard line under the morning light, dodging Mark’s every glance, eyes flicking to the floor, the wall, anywhere but him, a wall of distance building fast and firm. The teddy still squatted on the bed, small and accusing, button eyes glinting like a judge in the grey haze, the reality of Mark’s real life stitched inexorably into its worn fur, and Mark’s gut twisted, shame and frustration flaring hot until he snatched it up and threw it unceremoniously into his bag, the thud muffled but sharp, a desperate bid to bury it. Tim didn’t flinch, didn’t pause, just turned on his heel and headed for the door, strides long and stiff, not waiting for Mark, leaving him scrambling to catch up, the space between them stretching wide and cold.

They rode the lift up to Greg’s suite, the silence a chasm between them, Mark’s throat working as he tried to speak, “Tim, can we just—” but Tim cut him off, jabbing the floor button hard, again and again, metal creaking under his thumb, speeding their ascent like he could outrun the tension. The doors slid open, and they stepped out, knuckles rapping sharp on Greg’s door, the sound bouncing off the walls, no answer, just a dead, heavy quiet pressing back. Tim sighed, sharp and fed up, fished out his backup key, and shoved it in the lock, the click snapping loud as a gunshot in the hush. Inside, Greg sprawled massive across the bed, passed out face-down on top of the covers, a mountain of flesh and hair in the grey light, his open shirt hanging off one shoulder, twisted around his thick arms, cuffs snagging on his wrists like he’d fought it in his sleep and lost. Tim grunted, low and annoyed, kicking the door shut with a thud that rattled the frame. “Get him up, will you? We’re running late as it is,” he said, voice clipped, already heading off to the kitchenette in the next room, coffee pot clanking loud as he started it up, leaving Mark stranded by the bed, the air already shifting, thick with something primal pulling him in.

Greg lay there, a beast asleep, muscle-arse pointing towards the door, round and firm, flexing faint with each slow breath, the dark hair dusting his cheeks curling damp with sweat, trailing down to where his hairy balls hung heavy beneath, sagging low against the mattress, wrinkled and full. His cock, thick and hard with morning wood, ground slow into the sheets, a slab of meat rutting lazy in his dreams, the head flushed dark, leaking a steady drip that mingled with the sweat pooling underneath him, a slick, glossy puddle staining the bed, glistening in the dim glow. The shirt tangled tighter as he shifted, one arm flopping wide, the other pinned beneath his chest, fabric stretched taut across his broad back, seams straining against the bulk. The air hung heavy, musky, a hot fog of sweat and cum and raw testosterone that slammed straight into Mark’s gut, hotwiring his dick, making it twitch hard in his jeans, a painful jolt he couldn’t shake. Mark stood there, breath catching fast, eyes snagging on Greg’s sprawl, the heft of him, the smell, the animal weight of it all, and something twisted deep, shame and heat coiling tight, calling him closer, a moth to a filthy flame.

Mark moved stiffly, trying to anchor himself, grabbed Greg’s dirty laundry off the floor: socks, briefs, a stained tee, fingers fumbling as he bent to scoop them up, knees sinking into the carpet by the bed. The air here hit him thick and musky, sleep-heavy with Greg’s scent, a deep, earthy tang that tugged him in like a rope round his gut. He breathed deep, couldn’t stop, shame clawing his throat as he reached for the tangled shirt still clinging to Greg’s arms, half-on, half-off, the fabric twisted tight around his biceps, damp with sweat. Mark pulled it free, slow and careful, exposing the dark, matted hair of Greg’s armpits, a rich, sweet whiff flooding his nose: sweat and power, raw and unfiltered, beelining straight to his dick, making it twitch hard in his jeans. His hands shook, stuffing the shirt into Greg’s bag, but his eyes snagged on his bulk, face-down on the mattress, the chiselled muscles of his arse-cheeks pointing high, a hairy slab sprawled oblivious, and Mark edged closer, drawn magnetic, lust blurring sharp with depravity, a pull he couldn’t fight.

He knelt lower, picking up a stray sock between Greg’s spread legs, the carpet rough under his knees, and froze, nose inches from Greg’s balls, heavy and sagging beneath that thick arse, swaying faint as he rutted slow against the mattress in his sleep. The musk hit hardest here, sweat, pre-cum, and a primal ‘Greg’ scent that made Mark’s head swim, his breath hitching loudly as he stared, transfixed by the sack, wrinkled and full, golden downy hair curling soft over the skin, glinting in the dawn light. Each gentle thrust of Greg’s hips made his nuts rise and fall, a hypnotic bounce that dragged Mark in, his dick throbbing painful in his jeans, hand dropping to grip it tight through the denim, squeezing as he leaned closer, nose brushing the coarse hair, a faint graze that jolted him electric. Greg stirred, a low groan rumbling out, hips shifting slight, pumping out more of that filthy scent, but his snores rolled on, steady and deep, a beast asleep, oblivious to Mark’s worship, his face pressing in, huffing deep, stifled moans choking in his throat, shame screaming loud but drowned by want.

Then Greg moaned louder, legs twitching sudden, wrapping round Mark’s shoulders, and rolled over fast, pulling Mark with him, flipping him face-up on the bed. Greg’s arse slammed down heavy on his face, balls draping hot and loose over his nose and mouth. Mark’s senses sparked wild with the shock, the heat, the crushing weight of Greg’s bulk pinning him, that musky sack smothering him, wiry hair tickling his lips, the taste of salt and sweat flooding his tongue as he gasped, electric with want. He wriggled, struggling under the mass, hands clawing at the sheets, for escape, but Greg’s moans grew, deep and guttural, thighs flexing with the stimulation, rutting harder, his cock grinding against Mark’s forehead, a thick, leaking smear streaking his skin. Mark heard Tim’s steps, the creak of the door, and surged upright with a desperate shove, tipping Greg back, his face sliding rough along Greg’s taint and balls, dick dragging wet across his brow, a frantic scramble that only stoked the fire.

Greg let out a big, shuddering moan, thighs clamping tight around Mark’s head, and came wild, untouched, a thick rope bursting free, splattering hot across Mark’s face—stubble, lashes, lips—then another, arcing high, raining down sticky and warm, pooling in his jaw as Greg’s hand dropped heavy to hold him in place, fingers digging into his scalp. Mark froze, breath heaving, dick rock hard, awe and guilt crashing through him, cum dripping slow down his chin in tacky streaks as Greg’s snores rumbled back, oblivious and kingly. Tim stood in the doorway, coffee tray rattling in trembling hands, catching Mark mid-shower, face glazed and wrecked, and stood frozen, mouth tight, eyes dark with something unreadable, a silent thunder rolling loud between them. Mark scrambled, hands swiping frantic at his face, smearing the mess, shame burning hot, but his tongue tripped, blurting, “That one mine?” at one of the mugs, a dumb, desperate grab at nothing.

Tim’s jaw tightened, a hard clench rippling under his skin as the coffee tray clunked down on the dresser, the sound dull and mechanical, mugs rattling faint in the heavy air. “One for him, one for me. Dunno how you take yours,” he said, voice flat, cold as stone, eyes fixed on the wall, not Mark, each word a deliberate jab, a brick in the wall he was throwing up fast. The lie landed sharp; Tim had poured Mark’s coffee, ‘black with a whisper of sugar’, countless times before, steam curling up as he’d handed it over with a caring smile, that familiar gesture now torched to nothing in the wake of their aborted connection. Mark flinched, the dismissal slicing deep, a petty slap that stung worse than a shout; Greg’s cum felt tacky on his face, sticking in his stubble, a filthy mark Tim wouldn’t even glance at as his mask slammed back on, last night’s warmth snuffed out like a candle in the wind. Mark wiped his face with unsteady hands with the fabric in his hands, realising only when the scent hit him across the face that he was still clutching one of Greg’s worn socks, dropping it in shock and shame onto the bed, eyes catching the accusatory look on Tim’s face.

That steely gaze burned into him before he turned away slowly, fussing with Greg’s bag, shoulders stiff and squared, fingers yanking the zip shut with a harsh grind, every move screaming distance, a cold, calculated retreat. “There’s instant in there if you want to make yourself a coffee,” he added, voice dropping lower, harder, tossing the words over his shoulder like scraps, a final twist of the knife that made it clear Mark wasn’t worth the effort, not anymore. The air soured, thick with the rejection, Mark standing there, breath shallow, throat tight, words dead on his tongue, hands twitching useless at his sides. Cum flaked on his skin, a crusty reminder of the gulf between them, Tim’s back a slim yet unyielding wall, the closeness of hours ago, those sleepy kisses, that shared heat buried under ash, a severe, deliberate severing that left Mark reeling, alone in the stink of his own shame and Greg’s musk.

By the time Mark had fixed himself a coffee, Tim had finally roused Greg, stomping over and shaking him rough as his hands gripped his shoulders hard, jolting him ‘til he grunted awake, bleary and oblivious, eyes cracking open red-rimmed and confused. Greg rolled up slow, scratching his emptied ballsack with a yawn, muttering, “Fuck, what time is it?” as he tugged on last night’s trousers, fabric catching on his hairy thighs, oblivious to the tension lining Mark’s face, the unspoken words choking the room. Tim shoved Greg’s bag at him, all professional now, with a curt “Move it, we’re late,” voice clipped and sharp with no trace of the playful lilt from the morning. Mark lingered back, draining his cup and wiping at his chin with the sleeve of his shirt, face washed but somehow still feeling soiled, shame clotting thick in his chest. The three of them shuffled out, bags slung over shoulders, heading for the airport, Mark trailing behind, eyes fixed on Tim’s back, slight, tense, moving away fast, a silhouette cutting through the grey haze, untouchable now.

Mark’s throat worked, wanting to speak, to grab Tim’s arm, choke out, “Mate, wait, I didn’t mean—” but the words stuck, heavy and useless, shackled by Jack’s errant teddy bear, a small, plush weight dragging him down with every step. He rehearsed it in his head, ‘Tim, listen, we need to talk, I’m sorry,’ but his tongue stayed thick, silent, that unspeakable look in Tim’s eyes flashing back, that flicker of something raw behind the mask, and Mark couldn’t bridge it, couldn’t find the air. Greg lumbered ahead, muttering about a hangover, tugging at his ballsack through his trousers, and Tim didn’t look back, stride steady, cutting through the corridor like a blade, leaving Mark in his wake, the silence stretching between them like a cold, grey fog he couldn’t cut through, shame and want and loss tangling tight, a knot he couldn’t unravel.

 

[bmagic]

Chapter Twenty-Four: The Twink, The Bear and The Beefcake

Morning spilled through the curtains in soft, golden threads, painting the hotel room in warm streaks, the air thick with a humid glow that clung to the sheets. Mark woke slow, eyes tracing the light as it danced over Tim’s svelte form, the blanket draped low across his hips, accentuating the lean curve of his waist, the red jockstrap peeking out like a secret. Tim curled tight against him, head nestled into Mark’s bicep, one leg slung possessive over his thigh, skin radiating heat, a furnace of sweat and breath and last night’s musk: glitter, cum, a faint spice that sank into Mark’s chest. His world felt new, cracked open, the grey shame of years with Sarah burned away by this, Tim’s solid weight, the quiet potential of it. A smile tugged his lips, soft and real, as he watched Tim sleep, lashes fanned dark against flushed cheeks, a content curl to his mouth, breath puffing gentle against Mark’s arm. He marvelled at it, this happiness, a world of warmth he hadn’t known he could claim.

Mark studied him, greedy for the details: the way Tim’s lips twitched faint in a dream, a half-smile that lit his face, the way he nuzzled closer in sleep, nose brushing Mark’s chest like he belonged there. One bare foot poked free from the sheet, toes flexing slight as if chasing cool air, and Mark’s chest swelled, a stupid, giddy ache at how human it made him, how close. His fingers moved, light and tentative, grazing Tim’s hip, tracing the dip where jockstrap met flesh, then bolder, sliding down to cup the pert swell of his arse, lazy and reverent. Tim stirred, a groggy hum rumbling deep, eyes cracking open, hazy with sleep but glinting sharp with want, and Mark grinned, genuinely happy, a lightness bubbling up he hadn’t felt in years. “Morning,” Tim mumbled, voice thick and warm, stretching long against him, his own dick hardening as it pressed into Mark’s side. Mark shifted, morning wood nudging Tim’s thigh, thick and insistent, and pressed a kiss to his shoulder, lips lingering on the salt, the heat, a quiet claim.

Tim’s grin turned playful, fingers circling Mark’s nipple slow, teasing the bud until it stiffened, a spark jolting down Mark’s spine. He trailed gentle kisses down Mark’s chest, soft pecks turning wet and deliberate, tongue flicking out as he slid lower, lips brushing the taut skin of Mark’s belly, then hovering hot over his cock. Tim took him in, mouth closing soft around the head, tongue swirling slow, and Mark groaned, low and wrecked, marvelling at the sight of Tim’s sleep-tousled quiff bobbing between his thighs, the golden light catching the mess of it. His hand found Tim’s head, fingers threading through that soft, chaotic hair, cradling gentle, guiding the pace as Tim sucked deeper, lips stretching wide, a wet, warm pull that made Mark’s hips twitch. He caught Tim’s eyes flicking up, then sideways, spotting Mark’s gaze snagging on his arse in the mirror, pert, framed perfect by the jockstrap, cheeks flexing as he moved. “If you wanted— Do you have any lube?” Tim rasped, pulling off with a wet pop, voice rough and eager, a filthy spark in his eye. Mark spluttered, heat rushing his cheeks, “Yeah, uh, with my toiletries, in the bag,” nodding clumsy at the duffel, heart thudding fast.

Tim sat up slow, slinging a leg over Mark and straddling his lap, his weight settling firm as he faced the mirror, eyes connecting with Mark’s through the reflection, a grin splitting his face. Mark’s dick slotted perfect between those pert, jockstrap-framed cheeks, a tight, delicious press that sent a sweet ache rippling through him. A gentle breeze wafted through the curtains, sending golden light spilling over Tim’s arse, accentuating the smooth curve; the red straps dug slight into his flesh, framing the muscle that flexed as he shifted, grinding subtly against the hard cock. Mark groaned low, hands twitching to grab, to knead, to finally hold the familiar curves that had haunted his dreams ever since he first glimpsed them through the hole, but he held back, allowing himself only to run his fingertips along Mark’s back, tracing the definition of his spine. The heat, the soft give of Tim’s skin, the way his cheeks hugged him, snug and teasing, felt a filthy promise he could sink into, never to resurface. His dick throbbed, thick and leaking, the pressure building as Tim leaned forward, stretching long to rummage in the bag at the foot of the bed, back arching, arse lifting just enough to drag a ragged breath from Mark’s chest. He marvelled at it, the sight, the feel, hands hovering an inch from Tim’s hips, wanting to pull him down, to rut up into that perfect heat, the morning’s glow turning it all golden and holy, a moment he could live in forever.

Then Tim’s fingers fumbled, brushing past toothpaste and razor, closing around something soft, pulling out something small, plush, button-eyed: Mr Bearnaby, threadbare from Jack’s love, stashed there by a kid scared his dad might face the dark alone. Tim froze, hand trembling faintly, eyes locking on the bear, and the golden glow drained cold, the room dimming sharp around them. His breath hitched, a tiny catch Mark barely caught, then stilled, his chest rising slow, deliberate, like he was forcing it. In the mirror, Mark watched the playful glint in his eyes snuff out, replaced by a sudden solemnity, a hardening edge creeping in: jaw tight, lips pressing thin, a mask snapping into place, emotionless and perfect, to shut Mark out. He set the bear down slow, deliberate, on the end of the bed, fingers lingering a beat too long, a quiet thud echoing loud in the hush, and rolled off Mark, sheets rustling harsh, a wall rising fast. “We should get moving,” he said, voice flat, final, stripped of warmth, a stranger’s tone. “Gotta pack up and go.” His shoulders squared, spine stiffening as he swung his legs off the bed, turning away, rebuilding the distance brick by brick, the heat of moments ago torched to ash. Mark’s gut sank, the ache blooming sharp and cold, happiness crumbling fast, a silent door slamming shut in his chest, Tim’s walls locking him out, step by icy step.

They dressed quick, Tim refusing eye contact as he tugged on jeans and a shirt, fingers yanking the zip up sharp, his movements clipped and cold, Mark fumbling clumsy with his own trousers and tee, buttons slipping through sweaty hands, the silence a heavy fog rolling thick between them, choking the air. Tim’s jaw stayed tight, a hard line under the morning light, dodging Mark’s every glance, eyes flicking to the floor, the wall, anywhere but him, a wall of distance building fast and firm. The teddy still squatted on the bed, small and accusing, button eyes glinting like a judge in the grey haze, the reality of Mark’s real life stitched inexorably into its worn fur, and Mark’s gut twisted, shame and frustration flaring hot until he snatched it up and threw it unceremoniously into his bag, the thud muffled but sharp, a desperate bid to bury it. Tim didn’t flinch, didn’t pause, just turned on his heel and headed for the door, strides long and stiff, not waiting for Mark, leaving him scrambling to catch up, the space between them stretching wide and cold.

They rode the lift up to Greg’s suite, the silence a chasm between them, Mark’s throat working as he tried to speak, “Tim, can we just—” but Tim cut him off, jabbing the floor button hard, again and again, metal creaking under his thumb, speeding their ascent like he could outrun the tension. The doors slid open, and they stepped out, knuckles rapping sharp on Greg’s door, the sound bouncing off the walls, no answer, just a dead, heavy quiet pressing back. Tim sighed, sharp and fed up, fished out his backup key, and shoved it in the lock, the click snapping loud as a gunshot in the hush. Inside, Greg sprawled massive across the bed, passed out face-down on top of the covers, a mountain of flesh and hair in the grey light, his open shirt hanging off one shoulder, twisted around his thick arms, cuffs snagging on his wrists like he’d fought it in his sleep and lost. Tim grunted, low and annoyed, kicking the door shut with a thud that rattled the frame. “Get him up, will you? We’re running late as it is,” he said, voice clipped, already heading off to the kitchenette in the next room, coffee pot clanking loud as he started it up, leaving Mark stranded by the bed, the air already shifting, thick with something primal pulling him in.

Greg lay there, a beast asleep, muscle-arse pointing towards the door, round and firm, flexing faint with each slow breath, the dark hair dusting his cheeks curling damp with sweat, trailing down to where his hairy balls hung heavy beneath, sagging low against the mattress, wrinkled and full. His cock, thick and hard with morning wood, ground slow into the sheets, a slab of meat rutting lazy in his dreams, the head flushed dark, leaking a steady drip that mingled with the sweat pooling underneath him, a slick, glossy puddle staining the bed, glistening in the dim glow. The shirt tangled tighter as he shifted, one arm flopping wide, the other pinned beneath his chest, fabric stretched taut across his broad back, seams straining against the bulk. The air hung heavy, musky, a hot fog of sweat and cum and raw testosterone that slammed straight into Mark’s gut, hotwiring his dick, making it twitch hard in his jeans, a painful jolt he couldn’t shake. Mark stood there, breath catching fast, eyes snagging on Greg’s sprawl, the heft of him, the smell, the animal weight of it all, and something twisted deep, shame and heat coiling tight, calling him closer, a moth to a filthy flame.

Mark moved stiffly, trying to anchor himself, grabbed Greg’s dirty laundry off the floor: socks, briefs, a stained tee, fingers fumbling as he bent to scoop them up, knees sinking into the carpet by the bed. The air here hit him thick and musky, sleep-heavy with Greg’s scent, a deep, earthy tang that tugged him in like a rope round his gut. He breathed deep, couldn’t stop, shame clawing his throat as he reached for the tangled shirt still clinging to Greg’s arms, half-on, half-off, the fabric twisted tight around his biceps, damp with sweat. Mark pulled it free, slow and careful, exposing the dark, matted hair of Greg’s armpits, a rich, sweet whiff flooding his nose: sweat and power, raw and unfiltered, beelining straight to his dick, making it twitch hard in his jeans. His hands shook, stuffing the shirt into Greg’s bag, but his eyes snagged on his bulk, face-down on the mattress, the chiselled muscles of his arse-cheeks pointing high, a hairy slab sprawled oblivious, and Mark edged closer, drawn magnetic, lust blurring sharp with depravity, a pull he couldn’t fight.

He knelt lower, picking up a stray sock between Greg’s spread legs, the carpet rough under his knees, and froze, nose inches from Greg’s balls, heavy and sagging beneath that thick arse, swaying faint as he rutted slow against the mattress in his sleep. The musk hit hardest here, sweat, pre-cum, and a primal ‘Greg’ scent that made Mark’s head swim, his breath hitching loudly as he stared, transfixed by the sack, wrinkled and full, golden downy hair curling soft over the skin, glinting in the dawn light. Each gentle thrust of Greg’s hips made his nuts rise and fall, a hypnotic bounce that dragged Mark in, his dick throbbing painful in his jeans, hand dropping to grip it tight through the denim, squeezing as he leaned closer, nose brushing the coarse hair, a faint graze that jolted him electric. Greg stirred, a low groan rumbling out, hips shifting slight, pumping out more of that filthy scent, but his snores rolled on, steady and deep, a beast asleep, oblivious to Mark’s worship, his face pressing in, huffing deep, stifled moans choking in his throat, shame screaming loud but drowned by want.

Then Greg moaned louder, legs twitching sudden, wrapping round Mark’s shoulders, and rolled over fast, pulling Mark with him, flipping him face-up on the bed. Greg’s arse slammed down heavy on his face, balls draping hot and loose over his nose and mouth. Mark’s senses sparked wild with the shock, the heat, the crushing weight of Greg’s bulk pinning him, that musky sack smothering him, wiry hair tickling his lips, the taste of salt and sweat flooding his tongue as he gasped, electric with want. He wriggled, struggling under the mass, hands clawing at the sheets, for escape, but Greg’s moans grew, deep and guttural, thighs flexing with the stimulation, rutting harder, his cock grinding against Mark’s forehead, a thick, leaking smear streaking his skin. Mark heard Tim’s steps, the creak of the door, and surged upright with a desperate shove, tipping Greg back, his face sliding rough along Greg’s taint and balls, dick dragging wet across his brow, a frantic scramble that only stoked the fire.

Greg let out a big, shuddering moan, thighs clamping tight around Mark’s head, and came wild, untouched, a thick rope bursting free, splattering hot across Mark’s face—stubble, lashes, lips—then another, arcing high, raining down sticky and warm, pooling in his jaw as Greg’s hand dropped heavy to hold him in place, fingers digging into his scalp. Mark froze, breath heaving, dick rock hard, awe and guilt crashing through him, cum dripping slow down his chin in tacky streaks as Greg’s snores rumbled back, oblivious and kingly. Tim stood in the doorway, coffee tray rattling in trembling hands, catching Mark mid-shower, face glazed and wrecked, and stood frozen, mouth tight, eyes dark with something unreadable, a silent thunder rolling loud between them. Mark scrambled, hands swiping frantic at his face, smearing the mess, shame burning hot, but his tongue tripped, blurting, “That one mine?” at one of the mugs, a dumb, desperate grab at nothing.

Tim’s jaw tightened, a hard clench rippling under his skin as the coffee tray clunked down on the dresser, the sound dull and mechanical, mugs rattling faint in the heavy air. “One for him, one for me. Dunno how you take yours,” he said, voice flat, cold as stone, eyes fixed on the wall, not Mark, each word a deliberate jab, a brick in the wall he was throwing up fast. The lie landed sharp; Tim had poured Mark’s coffee, ‘black with a whisper of sugar’, countless times before, steam curling up as he’d handed it over with a caring smile, that familiar gesture now torched to nothing in the wake of their aborted connection. Mark flinched, the dismissal slicing deep, a petty slap that stung worse than a shout; Greg’s cum felt tacky on his face, sticking in his stubble, a filthy mark Tim wouldn’t even glance at as his mask slammed back on, last night’s warmth snuffed out like a candle in the wind. Mark wiped his face with unsteady hands with the fabric in his hands, realising only when the scent hit him across the face that he was still clutching one of Greg’s worn socks, dropping it in shock and shame onto the bed, eyes catching the accusatory look on Tim’s face.

That steely gaze burned into him before he turned away slowly, fussing with Greg’s bag, shoulders stiff and squared, fingers yanking the zip shut with a harsh grind, every move screaming distance, a cold, calculated retreat. “There’s instant in there if you want to make yourself a coffee,” he added, voice dropping lower, harder, tossing the words over his shoulder like scraps, a final twist of the knife that made it clear Mark wasn’t worth the effort, not anymore. The air soured, thick with the rejection, Mark standing there, breath shallow, throat tight, words dead on his tongue, hands twitching useless at his sides. Cum flaked on his skin, a crusty reminder of the gulf between them, Tim’s back a slim yet unyielding wall, the closeness of hours ago, those sleepy kisses, that shared heat buried under ash, a severe, deliberate severing that left Mark reeling, alone in the stink of his own shame and Greg’s musk.

By the time Mark had fixed himself a coffee, Tim had finally roused Greg, stomping over and shaking him rough as his hands gripped his shoulders hard, jolting him ‘til he grunted awake, bleary and oblivious, eyes cracking open red-rimmed and confused. Greg rolled up slow, scratching his emptied ballsack with a yawn, muttering, “Fuck, what time is it?” as he tugged on last night’s trousers, fabric catching on his hairy thighs, oblivious to the tension lining Mark’s face, the unspoken words choking the room. Tim shoved Greg’s bag at him, all professional now, with a curt “Move it, we’re late,” voice clipped and sharp with no trace of the playful lilt from the morning. Mark lingered back, draining his cup and wiping at his chin with the sleeve of his shirt, face washed but somehow still feeling soiled, shame clotting thick in his chest. The three of them shuffled out, bags slung over shoulders, heading for the airport, Mark trailing behind, eyes fixed on Tim’s back, slight, tense, moving away fast, a silhouette cutting through the grey haze, untouchable now.

Mark’s throat worked, wanting to speak, to grab Tim’s arm, choke out, “Mate, wait, I didn’t mean—” but the words stuck, heavy and useless, shackled by Jack’s errant teddy bear, a small, plush weight dragging him down with every step. He rehearsed it in his head, ‘Tim, listen, we need to talk, I’m sorry,’ but his tongue stayed thick, silent, that unspeakable look in Tim’s eyes flashing back, that flicker of something raw behind the mask, and Mark couldn’t bridge it, couldn’t find the air. Greg lumbered ahead, muttering about a hangover, tugging at his ballsack through his trousers, and Tim didn’t look back, stride steady, cutting through the corridor like a blade, leaving Mark in his wake, the silence stretching between them like a cold, grey fog he couldn’t cut through, shame and want and loss tangling tight, a knot he couldn’t unravel.

Wtf is Tim's problem?!

 

[mGlottalstop]

Wtf is Tim's problem?!

That’s a totally fair response, and it’s exactly what Mark’s thinking too!
Tim’s sudden coldness is jarring, and it’s meant to be. But it’s not random or unjustified; Tim and Mark just shared something emotionally and physically intimate. Then, Tim is reminded in a brutal, sudden way, that Mark still has a foot in another world. The teddy bear, the family, the secrecy, the way Mark needed time to steel his courage just to receive a handjob from Tim and then the next morning was face-deep in Greg’s balls…
That’s not just confusing for Tim, who isn't as polished and perfect as he likes to appear: it’s painful.

 

[mGlottalstop]

Chapter Twenty-Five: Turbulence

The plane hummed low, a steady drone cutting through the economy-plus cabin. Seats creaked under restless weight, grey clouds smearing past the small window in a dull, shapeless shroud, the post-security blur fading into the altitude. Greg slumped heavy in his aisle seat, a barnyard god felled by his own excess. His eye mask skewed over one brow, over-ear headphones blasting tinny static, his hangover a loud, theatrical beast. He muttered curses under his breath, “Fucking hell, head’s killing me,” voice gravel-rough, braying loud when the trolley clattered past, a sharp bellow that turned heads. Then he groaned deep as he twitched, thick fingers fumbling at his waistband, shifting his bulk like a restless bull, adjusting himself with a grunt, oblivious to the stares. Cabin lights glinted off the sweat beading his neck. His sprawl filled the row, a chaotic anchor to the quiet misery beside him, the air sour with his stale breath and last night’s booze.

Mark sat pinned in the middle seat, chest tight, the hum of the engines grinding into his skull. Every creak and jolt reminded him of the fracture he couldn’t mend. His eyes snagged on Tim, rigid beside him, and the memory clawed up sharp. Tim had curled into him just hours ago, soft and warm, head tucked against his bicep, a real, breathing thing that cracked Mark’s world open, now a ghost haunting the same row, a stranger in the next seat. His gut twisted, shame and want tangling thick. The closeness of last night torched to ash, leaving him hollow, a shadow grasping at smoke. He tried twice, voice low and rough, “You alright, mate?” Then his hand hovered near Tim’s arm, fingers trembling faint, but the space between them stretched cold, a chasm he couldn’t cross. The warmth he’d woken to slipped through his hands like sand, leaving only the ache, the bruise of it throbbing loud in his chest.

Tim sat rigid, spine locked tight, hands white-knuckled around the armrest as turbulence rattled the cabin. His jaw formed a hard, unyielding line, eyes boring straight ahead, unblinking, a wall of ice shutting Mark out. He recoiled at Mark’s voice, subtle but sharp, a flinch that screamed don’t. Shoulders hunched away, his body folded in tight like a trap snapping shut. “Thanks, Mark, but I’m fine,” he said, cold and clipped, formal as a clerk behind a desk, the words a slap that stung bitter. Mark shifted, tried again, “Look, we could just—” but Tim cut him off, “No need to make this awkward, yeah? Let’s just get home.” His voice stayed flat, final, a blade slicing through, dismissing Mark like a stranger, a seat number, nothing more. Mark’s breath caught, the rebuff a punch. The closeness of last night, Tim’s sleepy grin, his hands, now felt like a lie he couldn’t reach, torched to nothing, leaving him stranded in the grey.

Turbulence hit harder, the plane lurching sharp, a sudden drop jolting the cabin. Cups rattled loud in the galley, a tray crashing somewhere behind them, the noise slicing through the hum. Tim’s knuckles bleached whiter, gripping the armrest like it might snap. His breath caught faint, a crack splintering through the steel he’d wrapped himself in, his jaw clenching tighter with each dip. His eyes flickered, darting quick to the window, then back to the seat ahead, a twitch breaking the unblinking stare. Unease crept in, shoulders hunching slight, a shiver he tried to hide, the rigid mask starting to fray. He unclipped his belt quick, standing brisk, legs steady despite the tilt, a forced calm in the motion. “Need the bathroom,” he muttered, voice flat but clipped, too tight to pass for casual. He moved down the aisle like a blade, spine straight, steps too fast, too sharp, cutting through the scattered heads turning his way, vanishing into the cubicle at the rear, the door sliding shut with a dull thud.

Mark watched him go, eyes tracing the lean cut of Tim’s shoulders, the way his shirt tugged tight across his back. The faint red outline of his jockstrap under denim burned last night into his chest, a vivid flash of heat until Tim flickered out of sight. His heart thumped hard, a war kicking up, loud and messy in his skull. He told himself to leave it, let the dust settle and respect the distance, don’t chase a ghost when he’s made it clear he’s done. But his gut twisted, the ache too loud, a pull he couldn’t shake. Memories clawed up: Tim’s sleepy grin, his hands, the way he’d felt solid, real, a lifeline Mark hadn’t known he needed. Then came Sarah: years with her rolling through his head, the early days when her laugh lit him up, when they’d fucked with abandon in their tiny flat because that's just what couples in love do, all sparks and possibility stained like colouring-by-numbers. Now it was grey, drained, a life of obligation and consequence, no liberty, no choice, just routine, kids, bills, the colour leached out until he was sleepwalking through it, unseen, unalive. The hole had hit him like a punch to the gut, a jolt awake, a secret thrill that sharpened the edges, making him feel again, raw, wanted, alive. Waking up that morning, Tim curled into him, Mark felt it for maybe the first time ever: someone wanting him, not the role, not the duty, just him. He sat there, belt still clipped, hands flexing on his thighs. The cabin tilted faint, engine drone grinding into his skull, and he wrestled with it: stay put, tidy away the maelstrom and return to the monochrome tedium of parenthood, or chase the hole, chase that shock of colour that Tim had ushered in, that burning want? But what would he say, what could be said?

He couldn’t pin it down, the reason behind his urge to fight, just knew he couldn’t sit still, wouldn’t let it end in this cold, grey fog. Tim’s rebuff lingered, the bruise that wouldn’t fade, and his head spun, debating the cost. Life with Sarah stretched ahead: safe, steady, a trap of duty, kids tugging at him, her tired eyes meeting his over breakfast, no fire left, just echoes of a youth long gone, obligation chaining him to a script he didn’t write. The hole flipped everything when he stumbled on it by chance; a rush at first, then a hunger, an awakening, peeling back the numb to teach him want, choice, excitement he’d forgotten. He’d relished in the anonymity, allowing himself to sink into comfortable fantasies of painted lips and curvy hips, but all to quickly, the hole had become something more; comfort and confidant, the hole had drilled through his defences, exposing him to his darkest whims, listening without judgement to moan, and grunt, and revelation, secrets safe in the nameless dark.

Knowing it was Tim all long made it real, those quiet moments, his touch, feeling wanted not needed, not expected but desired, a prism of light in his monochrome world. Was it the release, the freedom, or, he swallowed, was it Tim himself he couldn’t lose? His hands moved before his head settled, belt clicking free loud in the hum, the sound a gunshot in his ears. His heart pounded hard, drowning out the engine’s drone, the distant chatter. He stood, unsteady, the cabin tilting slight, and followed, drawn tight like a wire, a moth to a flame he couldn’t name—apology, answers, something to hold onto before it slipped away for good. The ache roared, too loud to ignore, pushing him down the aisle, each step heavier, the bathroom door looming close, a threshold he wasn’t sure he could cross.

He waited by the bathroom, heartbeat drumming hard in his ears, a wild thud that drowned the plane’s low hum. One hand braced against the side panel, the plastic cool and slick under his palm, sweat beaded hot on his neck as the cabin rocked faint, turbulence a distant shiver. He stood frozen, breath shallow, mind racing, rehearsing a million things he could say, ‘Mate, I’m sorry, I didn’t know the bear was there,’ or wanted to, “Please don’t shut me out, not after that,” or shouldn’t, ‘What if I don’t go back, what then?’ The words tangled, a mess of need and fear piling up silent; he would tell him about the hole, how it woke him up, how knowing it was Tim made it more, how he’s terrified to lose it, lose him, but maybe it’s too late, maybe it’s nothing now. His chest ached, tight and sore, the weight of it pressing down. Every second stretched long, the hum buzzing through his bones, until the lock clicked sharp, a small, metallic snap jolting him still, the door ready to slide open.

The door slid back, Tim stepping out and freezing mid-stride, startled, face blotchy, eyes pink-rimmed, a raw crack in the mask hitting Mark like a punch to the ribs, stealing his breath. Tim’s mouth opened, a breath to protest, “Mark, what the—” but Mark moved silent, gentle but firm, easing them both back into the tiny space. His hand pushed the door shut behind them, the click locking them in tight, a final sound in the hush. The air hung hot, claustrophobic, walls pressing close. The plane’s growl vibrated through the floor, their bodies inches apart, Tim’s chest rising quick, shallow, Mark’s hands twitching at his sides. Sweat and breath tangled thick, the heat bleeding between them, tension a live wire, the ache roaring loud. A great divide yawned wide despite the cramped press, no air to dodge, no room to hide the weight, the fracture splitting them even as they stood so close.

They stood silent a beat, air thick with the unsaid, the tiny bathroom a hot, claustrophobic trap. Then they spoke at once, voices crashing messy, sharp-edged and tangled. “Tim, mate, I—” Mark started, ragged, desperate, words tumbling out, but Tim cut in, “No need for this, Mark,” his tone cool, corporate, slicing through like a memo stamped final, drowning Mark’s plea. Mark pushed on, “Just listen, I need—” and Tim snapped back, “Let’s not make it complicated, yeah?” Arms folded tight across his chest, a shield snapping up, his voice stayed steady but biting, talking over Mark’s stuttered, “But it’s not that simple, mate—” Tim straightened, cutting again, “You were knackered, pissed, overwhelmed, it happens,” each word a brick building a wall Mark couldn’t climb. Mark’s throat burned, “Don’t do that, don’t—” but Tim barrelled on, “You’re married, Mark, it doesn’t need to be more,” and the overlap broke. Mark’s hands clawed the air, chest heaving, Tim’s gaze dropping sharp, the awkward clash leaving them both raw, unheard, the space too small for the noise, the heat pressing in, sweat beading on their skin.

Mark shook his head hard, stepping closer, voice cracking loud, frantic, a mess spilling out, “No, don’t, don’t fucking box it up like that, mate, don’t shove it in some tidy little file and call it done.” He paced the tiny square of floor, boots scuffing, hands flexing wild, chest heaving like it might split. “I feel like I’m losing my fucking mind, here, mate. I thought I was doing alright, yeah? Stumbling along, grey days, grey nights, that was my life! It wasn’t fucking much, but I was happy enough.” Once he’d started, the momentum overtook him, words stumbling out, “Then I found the hole, it changed everything, mate, like seeing colours for the first time, bright and loud and mine. I won’t lie to you, it started as a quick release, shake off the stress, the bullshit, but it grew, gave me focus, want, something that wasn’t hers, or wasn’t theirs, something that was just mine. And you—” He stopped, breath ragged, eyes locking on Tim’s, pleading, scrambling, “It was you all along, mate? Making me feel like… like I could be more, not just some sad bastard sleepwalking through his fucking life.” He swallowed, throat dry. “I don’t want to go back to that, mate, I don’t think I can go back to enduring that empty shit.” His voice shook, a frantic edge cutting through, the confession a tangle of need and chaos spilling out sloppy, his mind a storm he couldn’t tame, Tim’s face a blur through the heat.

Tim dropped his gaze, jaw tightening, his voice low, almost a mutter. “You’ve got a whole life waiting for you. Wife. Kids. Normal shit.” He shook his head, eyes flicking toward the floor like he couldn’t bear to look at Mark. “This was fine when it was… nothing. A hole. A blowjob. A dumb hotel mistake. But it’s not that anymore, is it? Not for me.” He laughed once, bitter and quiet. “I can’t wrap my head around it being you. Always fucking you. Your voice, thanking me. Your moans. You, coming back time and time again. And last night? The way you looked at me like I’m—fuck.” He rubbed at his face, voice cracking at the edge. “I can’t do it, Mark. I can’t pretend this doesn’t matter, didn’t happen, and you can. You’ll go home and play husband and dad and maybe think about me when you’re having a wank in the shower, but I’ll be stuck in the dark again. Waiting behind a wall again, for someone who won’t even know my name.” Then, quieter still, “Straight bloke needs to blow off steam, and I’m left cleaning it up.” He looked up finally, and this time it landed sharp. “That’s always how it goes.”

Mark stepped closer, boots scuffing the floor, the tiny bathroom shrinking tighter, walls pressing in hot and close. His eyes stayed square on Tim’s, raw and searching, cutting through the haze of doubt and hurt like a blade through fog. His chest heaved, decision snapping sharp, a jolt that shook him loose. He wasn’t letting this go, not yet, not after the hole, not after Tim’s hands, his mouth, the way he’d cracked Mark open and left him spilling, exposed, alive. His hand reached for Tim’s belt, thumb snagging the waistband, fingers brushing the curve of Tim’s dick, not a grope, but a pull, deliberate, tugging Tim in sharp, close enough to feel the hitch in his breath, the faint tremble rippling under his skin, a live wire sparking wild between them. “Straight blokes don’t grab cocks in bogs, mate,” he said, rough and low, a nod to Neil’s old jab, voice thick with want and hurt, throwing it down hard, a line crossed he wouldn’t take back, a choice to claim something other than the straightjacket he’d worn too long. The air crackled, hot and heavy, the hum of the plane a low growl under his words. He leaned in, no more waiting, no more letting Tim slip away into the dark; this was his now, his move, his need.

Their mouths met hard, full-bodied, a crash of lips hungry and fierce, a maelstrom of want and desperation swirling chaotic, tasting salt and coffee and Tim, sharp, bitter, alive, a jolt that burned through Mark’s veins. His hands framed Tim’s face, thumbs brushing his jaw, pulling him deeper; the kiss stretched long, a messy tangle of apology and unspoken promise, tongues sliding wet and urgent, a filthy dance that drowned the ache, the years of grey restraint. Tim stiffened, muscles locking tight, resolve a brittle wall holding fast, then cracked, a shudder breaking through as his breath caught sharp, loud in the tiny space; his lips parted wider, yielding to the storm. Mark pressed in, chest to chest, the heat of their bodies bleeding together, sweat beading on their skin. The air hung hot, claustrophobic, a furnace stoking higher; his dick hardened fast against Tim’s hip, a throbbing pulse that screamed this wasn’t straight, wasn’t safe, was everything he’d buried too long. It overwhelmed him, the intensity, the choice: lips bruising, breath hitching, a massive moment splitting him wide, not just heat but a roar of something new, something his.

Tim kissed back, resolve shattering fully, a quiet, desperate edge breaking free; his tongue pushed back hard, a surrender that tasted like need, like breaking, like mouthwash and coffee. His hands twitched, hovering shaky, then clutched the sides of Mark’s jacket, fingers digging in fierce, pulling him closer, grounding the chaos. The kiss turned decadent, sloppy, reverent, a claim that swallowed them both: teeth grazing, lips swelling, Tim’s hands trembling as they slid lower, brushing Mark’s waist, nails scraping faint through his shirt. Their bodies ground close, hips rocking subtle, a friction that lit Mark up, raw and real. The world tilted wild, turbulence jolting the plane, but they didn’t stop, couldn’t; the maelstrom raged on, a fracture splitting wide open. Mark’s mind reeled; this was him choosing, instigating, wanting, not hiding anymore, the promise of more pressed into every messy swipe of Tim’s tongue, every ragged breath they shared, overwhelming, seismic, alive.

Tim broke it, breathless, eyes flickering uncertain, voice a whisper against Mark’s mouth, rough and low, “If I’ve only got you ‘til the plane lands, let’s make it count.” Mark nodded quick, “Yeah, mate, I’m all yours,” hands still framing Tim’s face, thumbs tracing the heat of his skin, but Tim was already moving, sinking to his knees. The jet dipped hard, turbulence jolting them sharp. His hands dropped deft, working Mark’s fly open, unzipping him fast, fingers brushing skin with a quiet, urgent need, pulling him free, hard and leaking. Mark bit down on a moan, bracing both hands on the sink; the metal stayed cold under his palms, the cabin shuddering as Tim took him in, mouth hot and wet, a silent release starting slow, deliberate, then deep. The hum roared on, the tilt steadying; Mark’s world narrowed to Tim’s heat, the ache thundering loud as they held the fracture tight.

 

[michaelnola]

Chapter Twenty-Five: Turbulence

The plane hummed low, a steady drone cutting through the economy-plus cabin. Seats creaked under restless weight, grey clouds smearing past the small window in a dull, shapeless shroud, the post-security blur fading into the altitude. Greg slumped heavy in his aisle seat, a barnyard god felled by his own excess. His eye mask skewed over one brow, over-ear headphones blasting tinny static, his hangover a loud, theatrical beast. He muttered curses under his breath, “Fucking hell, head’s killing me,” voice gravel-rough, braying loud when the trolley clattered past, a sharp bellow that turned heads. Then he groaned deep as he twitched, thick fingers fumbling at his waistband, shifting his bulk like a restless bull, adjusting himself with a grunt, oblivious to the stares. Cabin lights glinted off the sweat beading his neck. His sprawl filled the row, a chaotic anchor to the quiet misery beside him, the air sour with his stale breath and last night’s booze.

Mark sat pinned in the middle seat, chest tight, the hum of the engines grinding into his skull. Every creak and jolt reminded him of the fracture he couldn’t mend. His eyes snagged on Tim, rigid beside him, and the memory clawed up sharp. Tim had curled into him just hours ago, soft and warm, head tucked against his bicep, a real, breathing thing that cracked Mark’s world open, now a ghost haunting the same row, a stranger in the next seat. His gut twisted, shame and want tangling thick. The closeness of last night torched to ash, leaving him hollow, a shadow grasping at smoke. He tried twice, voice low and rough, “You alright, mate?” Then his hand hovered near Tim’s arm, fingers trembling faint, but the space between them stretched cold, a chasm he couldn’t cross. The warmth he’d woken to slipped through his hands like sand, leaving only the ache, the bruise of it throbbing loud in his chest.

Tim sat rigid, spine locked tight, hands white-knuckled around the armrest as turbulence rattled the cabin. His jaw formed a hard, unyielding line, eyes boring straight ahead, unblinking, a wall of ice shutting Mark out. He recoiled at Mark’s voice, subtle but sharp, a flinch that screamed don’t. Shoulders hunched away, his body folded in tight like a trap snapping shut. “Thanks, Mark, but I’m fine,” he said, cold and clipped, formal as a clerk behind a desk, the words a slap that stung bitter. Mark shifted, tried again, “Look, we could just—” but Tim cut him off, “No need to make this awkward, yeah? Let’s just get home.” His voice stayed flat, final, a blade slicing through, dismissing Mark like a stranger, a seat number, nothing more. Mark’s breath caught, the rebuff a punch. The closeness of last night, Tim’s sleepy grin, his hands, now felt like a lie he couldn’t reach, torched to nothing, leaving him stranded in the grey.

Turbulence hit harder, the plane lurching sharp, a sudden drop jolting the cabin. Cups rattled loud in the galley, a tray crashing somewhere behind them, the noise slicing through the hum. Tim’s knuckles bleached whiter, gripping the armrest like it might snap. His breath caught faint, a crack splintering through the steel he’d wrapped himself in, his jaw clenching tighter with each dip. His eyes flickered, darting quick to the window, then back to the seat ahead, a twitch breaking the unblinking stare. Unease crept in, shoulders hunching slight, a shiver he tried to hide, the rigid mask starting to fray. He unclipped his belt quick, standing brisk, legs steady despite the tilt, a forced calm in the motion. “Need the bathroom,” he muttered, voice flat but clipped, too tight to pass for casual. He moved down the aisle like a blade, spine straight, steps too fast, too sharp, cutting through the scattered heads turning his way, vanishing into the cubicle at the rear, the door sliding shut with a dull thud.

Mark watched him go, eyes tracing the lean cut of Tim’s shoulders, the way his shirt tugged tight across his back. The faint red outline of his jockstrap under denim burned last night into his chest, a vivid flash of heat until Tim flickered out of sight. His heart thumped hard, a war kicking up, loud and messy in his skull. He told himself to leave it, let the dust settle and respect the distance, don’t chase a ghost when he’s made it clear he’s done. But his gut twisted, the ache too loud, a pull he couldn’t shake. Memories clawed up: Tim’s sleepy grin, his hands, the way he’d felt solid, real, a lifeline Mark hadn’t known he needed. Then came Sarah: years with her rolling through his head, the early days when her laugh lit him up, when they’d fucked with abandon in their tiny flat because that's just what couples in love do, all sparks and possibility stained like colouring-by-numbers. Now it was grey, drained, a life of obligation and consequence, no liberty, no choice, just routine, kids, bills, the colour leached out until he was sleepwalking through it, unseen, unalive. The hole had hit him like a punch to the gut, a jolt awake, a secret thrill that sharpened the edges, making him feel again, raw, wanted, alive. Waking up that morning, Tim curled into him, Mark felt it for maybe the first time ever: someone wanting him, not the role, not the duty, just him. He sat there, belt still clipped, hands flexing on his thighs. The cabin tilted faint, engine drone grinding into his skull, and he wrestled with it: stay put, tidy away the maelstrom and return to the monochrome tedium of parenthood, or chase the hole, chase that shock of colour that Tim had ushered in, that burning want? But what would he say, what could be said?

He couldn’t pin it down, the reason behind his urge to fight, just knew he couldn’t sit still, wouldn’t let it end in this cold, grey fog. Tim’s rebuff lingered, the bruise that wouldn’t fade, and his head spun, debating the cost. Life with Sarah stretched ahead: safe, steady, a trap of duty, kids tugging at him, her tired eyes meeting his over breakfast, no fire left, just echoes of a youth long gone, obligation chaining him to a script he didn’t write. The hole flipped everything when he stumbled on it by chance; a rush at first, then a hunger, an awakening, peeling back the numb to teach him want, choice, excitement he’d forgotten. He’d relished in the anonymity, allowing himself to sink into comfortable fantasies of painted lips and curvy hips, but all to quickly, the hole had become something more; comfort and confidant, the hole had drilled through his defences, exposing him to his darkest whims, listening without judgement to moan, and grunt, and revelation, secrets safe in the nameless dark.

Knowing it was Tim all long made it real, those quiet moments, his touch, feeling wanted not needed, not expected but desired, a prism of light in his monochrome world. Was it the release, the freedom, or, he swallowed, was it Tim himself he couldn’t lose? His hands moved before his head settled, belt clicking free loud in the hum, the sound a gunshot in his ears. His heart pounded hard, drowning out the engine’s drone, the distant chatter. He stood, unsteady, the cabin tilting slight, and followed, drawn tight like a wire, a moth to a flame he couldn’t name—apology, answers, something to hold onto before it slipped away for good. The ache roared, too loud to ignore, pushing him down the aisle, each step heavier, the bathroom door looming close, a threshold he wasn’t sure he could cross.

He waited by the bathroom, heartbeat drumming hard in his ears, a wild thud that drowned the plane’s low hum. One hand braced against the side panel, the plastic cool and slick under his palm, sweat beaded hot on his neck as the cabin rocked faint, turbulence a distant shiver. He stood frozen, breath shallow, mind racing, rehearsing a million things he could say, ‘Mate, I’m sorry, I didn’t know the bear was there,’ or wanted to, “Please don’t shut me out, not after that,” or shouldn’t, ‘What if I don’t go back, what then?’ The words tangled, a mess of need and fear piling up silent; he would tell him about the hole, how it woke him up, how knowing it was Tim made it more, how he’s terrified to lose it, lose him, but maybe it’s too late, maybe it’s nothing now. His chest ached, tight and sore, the weight of it pressing down. Every second stretched long, the hum buzzing through his bones, until the lock clicked sharp, a small, metallic snap jolting him still, the door ready to slide open.

The door slid back, Tim stepping out and freezing mid-stride, startled, face blotchy, eyes pink-rimmed, a raw crack in the mask hitting Mark like a punch to the ribs, stealing his breath. Tim’s mouth opened, a breath to protest, “Mark, what the—” but Mark moved silent, gentle but firm, easing them both back into the tiny space. His hand pushed the door shut behind them, the click locking them in tight, a final sound in the hush. The air hung hot, claustrophobic, walls pressing close. The plane’s growl vibrated through the floor, their bodies inches apart, Tim’s chest rising quick, shallow, Mark’s hands twitching at his sides. Sweat and breath tangled thick, the heat bleeding between them, tension a live wire, the ache roaring loud. A great divide yawned wide despite the cramped press, no air to dodge, no room to hide the weight, the fracture splitting them even as they stood so close.

They stood silent a beat, air thick with the unsaid, the tiny bathroom a hot, claustrophobic trap. Then they spoke at once, voices crashing messy, sharp-edged and tangled. “Tim, mate, I—” Mark started, ragged, desperate, words tumbling out, but Tim cut in, “No need for this, Mark,” his tone cool, corporate, slicing through like a memo stamped final, drowning Mark’s plea. Mark pushed on, “Just listen, I need—” and Tim snapped back, “Let’s not make it complicated, yeah?” Arms folded tight across his chest, a shield snapping up, his voice stayed steady but biting, talking over Mark’s stuttered, “But it’s not that simple, mate—” Tim straightened, cutting again, “You were knackered, pissed, overwhelmed, it happens,” each word a brick building a wall Mark couldn’t climb. Mark’s throat burned, “Don’t do that, don’t—” but Tim barrelled on, “You’re married, Mark, it doesn’t need to be more,” and the overlap broke. Mark’s hands clawed the air, chest heaving, Tim’s gaze dropping sharp, the awkward clash leaving them both raw, unheard, the space too small for the noise, the heat pressing in, sweat beading on their skin.

Mark shook his head hard, stepping closer, voice cracking loud, frantic, a mess spilling out, “No, don’t, don’t fucking box it up like that, mate, don’t shove it in some tidy little file and call it done.” He paced the tiny square of floor, boots scuffing, hands flexing wild, chest heaving like it might split. “I feel like I’m losing my fucking mind, here, mate. I thought I was doing alright, yeah? Stumbling along, grey days, grey nights, that was my life! It wasn’t fucking much, but I was happy enough.” Once he’d started, the momentum overtook him, words stumbling out, “Then I found the hole, it changed everything, mate, like seeing colours for the first time, bright and loud and mine. I won’t lie to you, it started as a quick release, shake off the stress, the bullshit, but it grew, gave me focus, want, something that wasn’t hers, or wasn’t theirs, something that was just mine. And you—” He stopped, breath ragged, eyes locking on Tim’s, pleading, scrambling, “It was you all along, mate? Making me feel like… like I could be more, not just some sad bastard sleepwalking through his fucking life.” He swallowed, throat dry. “I don’t want to go back to that, mate, I don’t think I can go back to enduring that empty shit.” His voice shook, a frantic edge cutting through, the confession a tangle of need and chaos spilling out sloppy, his mind a storm he couldn’t tame, Tim’s face a blur through the heat.

Tim dropped his gaze, jaw tightening, his voice low, almost a mutter. “You’ve got a whole life waiting for you. Wife. Kids. Normal shit.” He shook his head, eyes flicking toward the floor like he couldn’t bear to look at Mark. “This was fine when it was… nothing. A hole. A blowjob. A dumb hotel mistake. But it’s not that anymore, is it? Not for me.” He laughed once, bitter and quiet. “I can’t wrap my head around it being you. Always fucking you. Your voice, thanking me. Your moans. You, coming back time and time again. And last night? The way you looked at me like I’m—fuck.” He rubbed at his face, voice cracking at the edge. “I can’t do it, Mark. I can’t pretend this doesn’t matter, didn’t happen, and you can. You’ll go home and play husband and dad and maybe think about me when you’re having a wank in the shower, but I’ll be stuck in the dark again. Waiting behind a wall again, for someone who won’t even know my name.” Then, quieter still, “Straight bloke needs to blow off steam, and I’m left cleaning it up.” He looked up finally, and this time it landed sharp. “That’s always how it goes.”

Mark stepped closer, boots scuffing the floor, the tiny bathroom shrinking tighter, walls pressing in hot and close. His eyes stayed square on Tim’s, raw and searching, cutting through the haze of doubt and hurt like a blade through fog. His chest heaved, decision snapping sharp, a jolt that shook him loose. He wasn’t letting this go, not yet, not after the hole, not after Tim’s hands, his mouth, the way he’d cracked Mark open and left him spilling, exposed, alive. His hand reached for Tim’s belt, thumb snagging the waistband, fingers brushing the curve of Tim’s dick, not a grope, but a pull, deliberate, tugging Tim in sharp, close enough to feel the hitch in his breath, the faint tremble rippling under his skin, a live wire sparking wild between them. “Straight blokes don’t grab cocks in bogs, mate,” he said, rough and low, a nod to Neil’s old jab, voice thick with want and hurt, throwing it down hard, a line crossed he wouldn’t take back, a choice to claim something other than the straightjacket he’d worn too long. The air crackled, hot and heavy, the hum of the plane a low growl under his words. He leaned in, no more waiting, no more letting Tim slip away into the dark; this was his now, his move, his need.

Their mouths met hard, full-bodied, a crash of lips hungry and fierce, a maelstrom of want and desperation swirling chaotic, tasting salt and coffee and Tim, sharp, bitter, alive, a jolt that burned through Mark’s veins. His hands framed Tim’s face, thumbs brushing his jaw, pulling him deeper; the kiss stretched long, a messy tangle of apology and unspoken promise, tongues sliding wet and urgent, a filthy dance that drowned the ache, the years of grey restraint. Tim stiffened, muscles locking tight, resolve a brittle wall holding fast, then cracked, a shudder breaking through as his breath caught sharp, loud in the tiny space; his lips parted wider, yielding to the storm. Mark pressed in, chest to chest, the heat of their bodies bleeding together, sweat beading on their skin. The air hung hot, claustrophobic, a furnace stoking higher; his dick hardened fast against Tim’s hip, a throbbing pulse that screamed this wasn’t straight, wasn’t safe, was everything he’d buried too long. It overwhelmed him, the intensity, the choice: lips bruising, breath hitching, a massive moment splitting him wide, not just heat but a roar of something new, something his.

Tim kissed back, resolve shattering fully, a quiet, desperate edge breaking free; his tongue pushed back hard, a surrender that tasted like need, like breaking, like mouthwash and coffee. His hands twitched, hovering shaky, then clutched the sides of Mark’s jacket, fingers digging in fierce, pulling him closer, grounding the chaos. The kiss turned decadent, sloppy, reverent, a claim that swallowed them both: teeth grazing, lips swelling, Tim’s hands trembling as they slid lower, brushing Mark’s waist, nails scraping faint through his shirt. Their bodies ground close, hips rocking subtle, a friction that lit Mark up, raw and real. The world tilted wild, turbulence jolting the plane, but they didn’t stop, couldn’t; the maelstrom raged on, a fracture splitting wide open. Mark’s mind reeled; this was him choosing, instigating, wanting, not hiding anymore, the promise of more pressed into every messy swipe of Tim’s tongue, every ragged breath they shared, overwhelming, seismic, alive.

Tim broke it, breathless, eyes flickering uncertain, voice a whisper against Mark’s mouth, rough and low, “If I’ve only got you ‘til the plane lands, let’s make it count.” Mark nodded quick, “Yeah, mate, I’m all yours,” hands still framing Tim’s face, thumbs tracing the heat of his skin, but Tim was already moving, sinking to his knees. The jet dipped hard, turbulence jolting them sharp. His hands dropped deft, working Mark’s fly open, unzipping him fast, fingers brushing skin with a quiet, urgent need, pulling him free, hard and leaking. Mark bit down on a moan, bracing both hands on the sink; the metal stayed cold under his palms, the cabin shuddering as Tim took him in, mouth hot and wet, a silent release starting slow, deliberate, then deep. The hum roared on, the tilt steadying; Mark’s world narrowed to Tim’s heat, the ache thundering loud as they held the fracture tight.

Awesome addition and update with Tim and Mark---this was also hot as hell...NICE

 

[mGlottalstop]

Awesome addition and update with Tim and Mark---this was also hot as hell...NICE

Thanks Michael! I'm glad you're enjoying it!

 

[Getwithgg]

I fear this love story is in danger of the fact that Greg may have planned all of this lmao

 

[mGlottalstop]

I fear this love story is in danger of the fact that Greg may have planned all of this lmao

The odd relationship between Greg and Tim is one of my favourite things about writing this. There's something there, but it's indefinable: equal parts fraternal, symbiotic, and then there's the "little pup"/"big guy" nicknames that they've got for one another. I'm looking forward to exploring more of that masculine bond, now that we're back in the office, and I'm grateful you're along for the ride

 

[mGlottalstop]

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX: Domestic Arrivals

The plane rattled fiercely as turbulence clawed at the cabin. Dim lights flickered while the hum sank into a growl, seats creaking under the strain. Mark glanced sideways, his chest tightening at the sight of Tim beside him, stiff with dread. Tim’s fingers dug into the armrest, knuckles bleached white, jaw clenched hard enough to crack. Without a word, Mark reached over gently, his hand closing over Tim’s, his rough thumb stroking slowly over the delicate knuckles to offer a quiet anchor in the shaking. Tim flinched quickly with a twitch but didn’t pull away. His breath held for a moment before slipping out softly, a subtle exhale easing his edges. He turned, eyes tired but real, offering a small, genuine smile with lips parting faintly. They stayed silent, hands locked through the jolts, a tether against the storm. The landing hit hard, wheels slamming tarmac to break the spell, and they filed into the arrivals lounge, bags heavy over shoulders. Greg barked hoarsely, “Need a bloody coffee,” before lumbering toward Starbucks, leaving Mark and Tim alone in the buzz.

Mark stood rooted in the arrivals lounge, the airport hum buzzing loudly around them as travellers swirled past with trolleys and tired eyes. He cleared his throat with a rough rasp, fumbling for something to hold the moment. “So, uh, mate, what’s next? After all that, where we at?” His words stumbled out clumsily, thick with unnameable weight, hands flexing restlessly by his sides. Tim shifted, eyes flicking away then back, his tone kind but guarded, rehearsed yet cracking with sad acceptance. “Look, Mark, it’s fine, yeah? Just a mad little thing we’ll laugh about someday. Was good up there, but, I get it, really, We’re back now, and I’m not thick— I know you’ve got your life, your family. Don’t think you’re about to ditch it all for me, and… I’m alright with that.” Mark’s throat burned, tongue stuck; he tried again, “No, Tim, I just—dunno, I meant it, I don’t wanna go—” but trailed off, grasping at nothing. He stepped forward instead, pulling Tim into a hug, arms clamping tightly around his shoulders to say what his mouth couldn’t.

Tim stiffened under the grip for a quick tense moment before easing faintly, letting it happen. His breath warmed Mark’s neck for a beat too long. When they parted slowly and reluctantly, Tim’s hands lingered a second on Mark’s arms before dropping. He tugged his hoodie down sharply to hide the bulge swelling under his jeans, eyes dodging Mark’s, flicking to the floor, the crowd, anywhere else. “Gotta grab Greg before he eats the sugar packets,” he mumbled lowly, then forced a flicker of charm with a half-smile. “I’ll nab you a coffee for the road, yeah?” Mark opened his mouth, “Cheers, mate, but—” only for Tim to cut in, “Nah, I owe you one after this morning. ‘Black, with a whisper of sugar’, I’m on it.” A wink and smirk followed, but they didn’t reach his eyes, tinged with quiet ache. He backed off with slow steps at first, as if he might turn back, then faster, melting into the swarm of bodies before Mark could find more words, leaving him stranded with a hollow chest, hands twitching where Tim had been.

Mark drove home alone after quick, tired goodbyes in the office car park, just a nod and wave before the lads split into the dusk. The motorway stretched ahead, a scarlet blur of rear lights doubled in the wet tarmac’s reflection. His headlights sliced through the dark, engine humming low under his grip. He sank into a warm fantasy: Sarah waiting by the door with a soft, familiar smile, hair tucked behind her ear; the kids in mismatched pyjamas tumbling over him, all giggles and sticky hands, shouting “Dad’s back!” over each other. He pictured the kitchen glowing warmly, dinner reheating in the oven, perhaps shepherd’s pie or lasagna bubbling under foil, its smell curling around him as he kicked off his boots, slippers waiting by the radiator to wrap him in safety like a blanket. The glow from that morning lingered faintly: Tim’s heat, his hands, the way he’d dropped to his knees in an aeroplane bathroom. It fuelled a hope this could carry him through, stitching colour back into his grey days. He clung to it, knuckles easing on the wheel, letting the road hum him into that dream of a life that might still hold him.

The house loomed darkly when he pulled into the drive, no flicker of light in the windows or waft of lasagna drifting out. Silence pressed thickly against the glass, cold and unyielding. He sat for a beat, engine ticking off, before stepping inside where keys clattered loudly on the counter, the sound bouncing off empty walls. A note stuck to the fridge caught his eye: “Spending the night at Mum’s with the kids. S x”. He stared too long, fingers brushing the paper’s edge as the biro scrawl blurred faintly under the kitchen bulb. No welcome or clatter of small feet greeted him; only the fridge’s hum filled the void. He turned, fished leftovers from the fridge, reheated them in the microwave’s dull glow, and ate alone at the table, fork scraping the plate in sharp, lonely jabs. Each step upstairs bled the warmth out, boots heavy on the creaking stairs. The glow faded to grey, Tim’s ember snuffed by the quiet, his fantasy deflating into a hollow ache as the house swallowed him whole.

Mark unpacked slowly in the bedroom, unzipping his bag on the floor, hands moving methodically against the quiet as the house’s silence pressed in heavily. First out was Mr Bearnaby, threadbare and small, its button eyes glinting dully in the lamplight. He sank onto the bed’s edge, teddy resting lightly in his lap, a token of his vow of paternal obligation, stitched with love, a grubby hug from toddler hands, a tether to home. But it stung differently now, twisting in his chest. That bear had cockblocked him, making an unexpected appearance when he’d been ready to fuck Tim, skin buzzing and breath hot, only to jar him cold with a reminder of who he was supposed to be. He stared into its blank gaze, feeling judged, and muttered hoarsely, “Alright, Mr B, don’t give me that look. Wasn’t planned, just happened, yeah?” He imagined the bear’s reply, stern and cutting, ‘Oh, so it just slipped in there, did it?’ Mark’s breath rasped shakily, fingers tightening around its worn fur. “Look, mate, I didn’t mean to—honestly. I just—you don’t know what it’s like!”

Sighing and wiping his sleeve across his brow, he dug back into the bag, laundry piling as he sorted with creased shirts and socks spilling over the floor, the mundane pulling him back. Then his fingers snagged on something soft and purple: Tim’s boxer briefs tangled in his shirt, a jolt sparking sharply through him. The air grew heavy and thick, his breath stuttering, caught tightly in his throat while his heart kicked hard against his ribs. Mr Bearnaby’s stare burned from the bed, silently accusing, but Mark’s mind flipped to Tim’s grin, his hands, that morning’s heat flooding back to drown the guilt in a rush of need. He lifted the briefs, fabric dangling limply, and after a millisecond of hesitation, pressed them to his face, inhaling deeply; a raw gasp punched out. The scent hit softly yet fiercely: cinnamon-scented aftershave, faded detergent, a heady trace of Tim his body knew too well now. His cock twitched, hardening quickly, shame tangling with hunger as the bear’s judgement faded under the pull. He muttered, “Don’t start, Mr B. This ain’t your business—I need this, you don't understand.”

Sweat slicked Mark’s skin already, a thin sheen prickling hotly as he sprawled back on the bed, briefs clutched tightly in one hand, the other wrapping slowly around his cock, still half-hard from the scent alone. He pressed the purple fabric tight to his face, nose and mouth smothered, inhaling deeply; each breath flooded his senses with memories of the boy, the way he’d caressed Mark’s body, worshipping him, the way he’d whimpered when Mark’s dick finally breached his mouth, lighting up like an unbroken circuit. His chest heaved, a low moan rumbling out raggedly and quietly, the shame that had gnawed him earlier shrinking under the roar of need swelling loudly in his gut. His fingers tightened, stroking deliberately to tease himself stiff while the room’s silence amplified every hitch in his breath, every rustle of sheets under his shifting weight. The briefs stayed pinned, dampening faintly with spit as his tongue brushed the fabric unthinking, tasting Tim’s ghost to ignite a spark low within him. His hips twitched with a restless kick, mind flickering to that morning of Tim’s heat and hands, letting it take him as his eyes fluttered shut, the haze creeping in slowly.

The walls blurred quickly, fading as his mind ignited vividly and wildly, pulling him deeply into a fantasy sharpening with every stroke. Tim loomed above him, straddling his chest in that red jock, thighs taut and warm, laughing brightly with eyes glinting filthy promise. Mark’s hand sped up, grip firming as he recalled the feeling of Tim’s cheeks, that perfect bubble framed in scarlet straps, bouncing against this thick, leaking shaft, the rim of his smooth hole snaring his throbbing tip with every thrust, a tease making his mouth water. His head spun with shallow breaths, picturing Tim now: naked, sweat-slick, flat on his back, eyes wide in wonder, guiding him in with long, soft fingers while his own twitching bulge lay hidden constrained in its jockstrap prison. He groaned louder, hips bucking up sharply; the briefs sopped now with spit and sweat, the obscene worship of his face buried in them, each inhale yanking Tim closer and sharper, a scent luring him in, tethering him to the edge. His free hand clawed the sheets, nails digging in; his body trembled as the fantasy thickened with Tim’s weight pinning him, taste flooding his tongue, a need so fierce it drowned the room, leaving only heat and want.

It escalated hard, a tide he couldn’t stem; his strokes turned frantic, slick with precum while the briefs became a wet mask he couldn’t peel away. Images flashed vividly: Tim’s thighs flexing, muscle bunching as he rocked down, hands tugging Mark’s hair to pull him tighter, that grin splitting wide, promising more, promising everything. His balls tightened, a coil winding fast; he pictured Tim’s cock pulsing wildly behind the cotton, his moans escalating to a loud whine as Tim’s load soaked through the fabric, untouched but undeterred, unravelling wholly under Mark’s expert rhythm. His hips jerked wildly, bed creaking loudly under him in a desperate rhythm he couldn’t slow; he chased it, panting hard into the fabric, spit dripping down his chin, the scent searing his lungs. His whole body burned, taut and shaking, the fantasy peaking with Tim’s arse rippling around his length, still lost in the ecstasy that Mark had deigned to bestow, hips snapping while Mark himself begged wordlessly with every thrust, lost in the heat, filth, and need to take, to claim, to own. The swell hit sharply and uncontrollably, a white-hot rush he couldn’t hold back, teetering on the brink with every nerve screaming as he tipped over.

He cried out raw, voice breaking loudly as he came thickly and hard, body seizing tightly in a shuddering jolt; cum splashed hotly across his chest, streaking his belly and splattering his thighs. His hand kept moving, dragging it out slickly and messily, milking every pulse as his hips bucked through the tremors, briefs pressed tightly over his mouth to muffle the groans ripping free. The release shook him loose, a flood leaving him trembling; his chest heaved raggedly, sweat pooling in the dip of his collarbone while cum cooled stickily on his skin. It stayed loud with grunts echoing and the bed frame rattling, far from tidy—the briefs soaked through with spit and sweat, his hand smeared with spunk and relief, thighs twitching faintly as the last waves faded. His eyes remained squeezed shut, breath slowing in gasps; the fantasy dissolved slowly, Tim’s grin, tightness, and heat lingering like smoke. It felt perfect, raw and messy, a climax cracking him wide to drain him hollow, leaving him sprawled and spent, the ache thundering down to a hum as he sank into the sheets, briefs still clutched limply in his fist.

Mark lay sprawled across the bed, breathing hard, chest rising and falling in heavy gusts; the briefs clutched limply in one hand stayed damp and warm against his palm. His heart pounded like a war drum, a wild thud slowing gradually while blood still hummed hotly in his veins from the rush. A smile crept up slow and wide, warm and stunned, curling Mark’s lips as a rough, breathless laugh broke out, echoing in the quiet room. He felt light, giddy even, as if the air itself lifted him: no guilt, no weight, just the glow of release still humming through him, orgasmic and real. He groaned, wiped his chest with the edge of his shirt, the fabric sticking to the tacky mess with a squelch that made him chuckle again. God, he was a state: a beautiful, blissed-out fucking state.

He reached down and scooped Mr Bearnaby from the floor, the bear’s face-down flop by the nightstand somehow comical, button eyes catching the light like he'd been watching. “Well, Mr B,” Mark rasped, elation thick in his voice, “caught the whole show, didn’t you? Front row.” He propped the bear against the pillow, still grinning, high and dumb and happy. The bear, blank as ever, said nothing. Mark kept talking anyway. “I don’t understand it either, mate,” he murmured. “But he’s in my head now and—I dunno… can’t remember the last time I felt this fuckin’ alive.”

He paused, suddenly aware he was discussing the concept of ‘being alive’ with a teddy bear. Rolling his eyes, he forced himself to his feet, staring into the bear’s button eyes as he crossed the landing to Jack’s bedroom. “I’m counting on you, Bearnaby,” he whispered, setting it down atop Jack’s pillow and patting its head. “Our little secret, right, mate?.” The bear stared on, unblinking, staring out at Mark’s retreating form.

As he closed the door to his bedroom, Mark chuckled, calling out, “And stop judging. I earned this!” He stripped, wiping off the remnants of his load with his shirt, and slid beneath the covers, smiling. He clicked the lamp off with a snap, body loose and humming, as he tucked the discarded purple underwear beneath his pillow. Sleep came fast, cinnamon-scented and generous, curling round him like breath, like forgiveness, like Tim’s mouth still wrapped around him...

 

[michaelnola]

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX: Domestic Arrivals

The plane rattled fiercely as turbulence clawed at the cabin. Dim lights flickered while the hum sank into a growl, seats creaking under the strain. Mark glanced sideways, his chest tightening at the sight of Tim beside him, stiff with dread. Tim’s fingers dug into the armrest, knuckles bleached white, jaw clenched hard enough to crack. Without a word, Mark reached over gently, his hand closing over Tim’s, his rough thumb stroking slowly over the delicate knuckles to offer a quiet anchor in the shaking. Tim flinched quickly with a twitch but didn’t pull away. His breath held for a moment before slipping out softly, a subtle exhale easing his edges. He turned, eyes tired but real, offering a small, genuine smile with lips parting faintly. They stayed silent, hands locked through the jolts, a tether against the storm. The landing hit hard, wheels slamming tarmac to break the spell, and they filed into the arrivals lounge, bags heavy over shoulders. Greg barked hoarsely, “Need a bloody coffee,” before lumbering toward Starbucks, leaving Mark and Tim alone in the buzz.

Mark stood rooted in the arrivals lounge, the airport hum buzzing loudly around them as travellers swirled past with trolleys and tired eyes. He cleared his throat with a rough rasp, fumbling for something to hold the moment. “So, uh, mate, what’s next? After all that, where we at?” His words stumbled out clumsily, thick with unnameable weight, hands flexing restlessly by his sides. Tim shifted, eyes flicking away then back, his tone kind but guarded, rehearsed yet cracking with sad acceptance. “Look, Mark, it’s fine, yeah? Just a mad little thing we’ll laugh about someday. Was good up there, but, I get it, really, We’re back now, and I’m not thick— I know you’ve got your life, your family. Don’t think you’re about to ditch it all for me, and… I’m alright with that.” Mark’s throat burned, tongue stuck; he tried again, “No, Tim, I just—dunno, I meant it, I don’t wanna go—” but trailed off, grasping at nothing. He stepped forward instead, pulling Tim into a hug, arms clamping tightly around his shoulders to say what his mouth couldn’t.

Tim stiffened under the grip for a quick tense moment before easing faintly, letting it happen. His breath warmed Mark’s neck for a beat too long. When they parted slowly and reluctantly, Tim’s hands lingered a second on Mark’s arms before dropping. He tugged his hoodie down sharply to hide the bulge swelling under his jeans, eyes dodging Mark’s, flicking to the floor, the crowd, anywhere else. “Gotta grab Greg before he eats the sugar packets,” he mumbled lowly, then forced a flicker of charm with a half-smile. “I’ll nab you a coffee for the road, yeah?” Mark opened his mouth, “Cheers, mate, but—” only for Tim to cut in, “Nah, I owe you one after this morning. ‘Black, with a whisper of sugar’, I’m on it.” A wink and smirk followed, but they didn’t reach his eyes, tinged with quiet ache. He backed off with slow steps at first, as if he might turn back, then faster, melting into the swarm of bodies before Mark could find more words, leaving him stranded with a hollow chest, hands twitching where Tim had been.

Mark drove home alone after quick, tired goodbyes in the office car park, just a nod and wave before the lads split into the dusk. The motorway stretched ahead, a scarlet blur of rear lights doubled in the wet tarmac’s reflection. His headlights sliced through the dark, engine humming low under his grip. He sank into a warm fantasy: Sarah waiting by the door with a soft, familiar smile, hair tucked behind her ear; the kids in mismatched pyjamas tumbling over him, all giggles and sticky hands, shouting “Dad’s back!” over each other. He pictured the kitchen glowing warmly, dinner reheating in the oven, perhaps shepherd’s pie or lasagna bubbling under foil, its smell curling around him as he kicked off his boots, slippers waiting by the radiator to wrap him in safety like a blanket. The glow from that morning lingered faintly: Tim’s heat, his hands, the way he’d dropped to his knees in an aeroplane bathroom. It fuelled a hope this could carry him through, stitching colour back into his grey days. He clung to it, knuckles easing on the wheel, letting the road hum him into that dream of a life that might still hold him.

The house loomed darkly when he pulled into the drive, no flicker of light in the windows or waft of lasagna drifting out. Silence pressed thickly against the glass, cold and unyielding. He sat for a beat, engine ticking off, before stepping inside where keys clattered loudly on the counter, the sound bouncing off empty walls. A note stuck to the fridge caught his eye: “Spending the night at Mum’s with the kids. S x”. He stared too long, fingers brushing the paper’s edge as the biro scrawl blurred faintly under the kitchen bulb. No welcome or clatter of small feet greeted him; only the fridge’s hum filled the void. He turned, fished leftovers from the fridge, reheated them in the microwave’s dull glow, and ate alone at the table, fork scraping the plate in sharp, lonely jabs. Each step upstairs bled the warmth out, boots heavy on the creaking stairs. The glow faded to grey, Tim’s ember snuffed by the quiet, his fantasy deflating into a hollow ache as the house swallowed him whole.

Mark unpacked slowly in the bedroom, unzipping his bag on the floor, hands moving methodically against the quiet as the house’s silence pressed in heavily. First out was Mr Bearnaby, threadbare and small, its button eyes glinting dully in the lamplight. He sank onto the bed’s edge, teddy resting lightly in his lap, a token of his vow of paternal obligation, stitched with love, a grubby hug from toddler hands, a tether to home. But it stung differently now, twisting in his chest. That bear had cockblocked him, making an unexpected appearance when he’d been ready to fuck Tim, skin buzzing and breath hot, only to jar him cold with a reminder of who he was supposed to be. He stared into its blank gaze, feeling judged, and muttered hoarsely, “Alright, Mr B, don’t give me that look. Wasn’t planned, just happened, yeah?” He imagined the bear’s reply, stern and cutting, ‘Oh, so it just slipped in there, did it?’ Mark’s breath rasped shakily, fingers tightening around its worn fur. “Look, mate, I didn’t mean to—honestly. I just—you don’t know what it’s like!”

Sighing and wiping his sleeve across his brow, he dug back into the bag, laundry piling as he sorted with creased shirts and socks spilling over the floor, the mundane pulling him back. Then his fingers snagged on something soft and purple: Tim’s boxer briefs tangled in his shirt, a jolt sparking sharply through him. The air grew heavy and thick, his breath stuttering, caught tightly in his throat while his heart kicked hard against his ribs. Mr Bearnaby’s stare burned from the bed, silently accusing, but Mark’s mind flipped to Tim’s grin, his hands, that morning’s heat flooding back to drown the guilt in a rush of need. He lifted the briefs, fabric dangling limply, and after a millisecond of hesitation, pressed them to his face, inhaling deeply; a raw gasp punched out. The scent hit softly yet fiercely: cinnamon-scented aftershave, faded detergent, a heady trace of Tim his body knew too well now. His cock twitched, hardening quickly, shame tangling with hunger as the bear’s judgement faded under the pull. He muttered, “Don’t start, Mr B. This ain’t your business—I need this, you don't understand.”

Sweat slicked Mark’s skin already, a thin sheen prickling hotly as he sprawled back on the bed, briefs clutched tightly in one hand, the other wrapping slowly around his cock, still half-hard from the scent alone. He pressed the purple fabric tight to his face, nose and mouth smothered, inhaling deeply; each breath flooded his senses with memories of the boy, the way he’d caressed Mark’s body, worshipping him, the way he’d whimpered when Mark’s dick finally breached his mouth, lighting up like an unbroken circuit. His chest heaved, a low moan rumbling out raggedly and quietly, the shame that had gnawed him earlier shrinking under the roar of need swelling loudly in his gut. His fingers tightened, stroking deliberately to tease himself stiff while the room’s silence amplified every hitch in his breath, every rustle of sheets under his shifting weight. The briefs stayed pinned, dampening faintly with spit as his tongue brushed the fabric unthinking, tasting Tim’s ghost to ignite a spark low within him. His hips twitched with a restless kick, mind flickering to that morning of Tim’s heat and hands, letting it take him as his eyes fluttered shut, the haze creeping in slowly.

The walls blurred quickly, fading as his mind ignited vividly and wildly, pulling him deeply into a fantasy sharpening with every stroke. Tim loomed above him, straddling his chest in that red jock, thighs taut and warm, laughing brightly with eyes glinting filthy promise. Mark’s hand sped up, grip firming as he recalled the feeling of Tim’s cheeks, that perfect bubble framed in scarlet straps, bouncing against this thick, leaking shaft, the rim of his smooth hole snaring his throbbing tip with every thrust, a tease making his mouth water. His head spun with shallow breaths, picturing Tim now: naked, sweat-slick, flat on his back, eyes wide in wonder, guiding him in with long, soft fingers while his own twitching bulge lay hidden constrained in its jockstrap prison. He groaned louder, hips bucking up sharply; the briefs sopped now with spit and sweat, the obscene worship of his face buried in them, each inhale yanking Tim closer and sharper, a scent luring him in, tethering him to the edge. His free hand clawed the sheets, nails digging in; his body trembled as the fantasy thickened with Tim’s weight pinning him, taste flooding his tongue, a need so fierce it drowned the room, leaving only heat and want.

It escalated hard, a tide he couldn’t stem; his strokes turned frantic, slick with precum while the briefs became a wet mask he couldn’t peel away. Images flashed vividly: Tim’s thighs flexing, muscle bunching as he rocked down, hands tugging Mark’s hair to pull him tighter, that grin splitting wide, promising more, promising everything. His balls tightened, a coil winding fast; he pictured Tim’s cock pulsing wildly behind the cotton, his moans escalating to a loud whine as Tim’s load soaked through the fabric, untouched but undeterred, unravelling wholly under Mark’s expert rhythm. His hips jerked wildly, bed creaking loudly under him in a desperate rhythm he couldn’t slow; he chased it, panting hard into the fabric, spit dripping down his chin, the scent searing his lungs. His whole body burned, taut and shaking, the fantasy peaking with Tim’s arse rippling around his length, still lost in the ecstasy that Mark had deigned to bestow, hips snapping while Mark himself begged wordlessly with every thrust, lost in the heat, filth, and need to take, to claim, to own. The swell hit sharply and uncontrollably, a white-hot rush he couldn’t hold back, teetering on the brink with every nerve screaming as he tipped over.

He cried out raw, voice breaking loudly as he came thickly and hard, body seizing tightly in a shuddering jolt; cum splashed hotly across his chest, streaking his belly and splattering his thighs. His hand kept moving, dragging it out slickly and messily, milking every pulse as his hips bucked through the tremors, briefs pressed tightly over his mouth to muffle the groans ripping free. The release shook him loose, a flood leaving him trembling; his chest heaved raggedly, sweat pooling in the dip of his collarbone while cum cooled stickily on his skin. It stayed loud with grunts echoing and the bed frame rattling, far from tidy—the briefs soaked through with spit and sweat, his hand smeared with spunk and relief, thighs twitching faintly as the last waves faded. His eyes remained squeezed shut, breath slowing in gasps; the fantasy dissolved slowly, Tim’s grin, tightness, and heat lingering like smoke. It felt perfect, raw and messy, a climax cracking him wide to drain him hollow, leaving him sprawled and spent, the ache thundering down to a hum as he sank into the sheets, briefs still clutched limply in his fist.

Mark lay sprawled across the bed, breathing hard, chest rising and falling in heavy gusts; the briefs clutched limply in one hand stayed damp and warm against his palm. His heart pounded like a war drum, a wild thud slowing gradually while blood still hummed hotly in his veins from the rush. A smile crept up slow and wide, warm and stunned, curling Mark’s lips as a rough, breathless laugh broke out, echoing in the quiet room. He felt light, giddy even, as if the air itself lifted him: no guilt, no weight, just the glow of release still humming through him, orgasmic and real. He groaned, wiped his chest with the edge of his shirt, the fabric sticking to the tacky mess with a squelch that made him chuckle again. God, he was a state: a beautiful, blissed-out fucking state.

He reached down and scooped Mr Bearnaby from the floor, the bear’s face-down flop by the nightstand somehow comical, button eyes catching the light like he'd been watching. “Well, Mr B,” Mark rasped, elation thick in his voice, “caught the whole show, didn’t you? Front row.” He propped the bear against the pillow, still grinning, high and dumb and happy. The bear, blank as ever, said nothing. Mark kept talking anyway. “I don’t understand it either, mate,” he murmured. “But he’s in my head now and—I dunno… can’t remember the last time I felt this fuckin’ alive.”

He paused, suddenly aware he was discussing the concept of ‘being alive’ with a teddy bear. Rolling his eyes, he forced himself to his feet, staring into the bear’s button eyes as he crossed the landing to Jack’s bedroom. “I’m counting on you, Bearnaby,” he whispered, setting it down atop Jack’s pillow and patting its head. “Our little secret, right, mate?.” The bear stared on, unblinking, staring out at Mark’s retreating form.

As he closed the door to his bedroom, Mark chuckled, calling out, “And stop judging. I earned this!” He stripped, wiping off the remnants of his load with his shirt, and slid beneath the covers, smiling. He clicked the lamp off with a snap, body loose and humming, as he tucked the discarded purple underwear beneath his pillow. Sleep came fast, cinnamon-scented and generous, curling round him like breath, like forgiveness, like Tim’s mouth still wrapped around him...

Awesome update and excellent writing and prose. Very detailed character development---Thank!!!

 

[Hungreceiver]

as he tucked the discarded purple underwear beneath his pillow.

Oh...that purple underwear as a ticking bomb.......By the way @mGlottalstop , thanks for the "entertaining" story. read every chapter and hoping for the next Cheers Mate!

 

[HungNerd86]

Great story!

 

[mGlottalstop]

Thanks for all the lovely feedback, guys! I really appreciate that and hope that you enjoy this next chapter.

--

Chapter Twenty-Seven: A Shift in Tone

Mark stepped into the office, the low buzz of fluorescent lights humming overhead, a grey drone of keyboards clacking and tepid coffee swirling in chipped mugs. He carried two cups from the café downstairs, one black with a touch of sugar for Tim and the other his own, hoping the gesture might steady him after the trip. But Tim’s desk sat empty, chair tucked in too neatly, a Post-it stuck to the monitor reading, 'Tim's off sick.' A stab of disorientation hit hard. He’d come to lean on Tim’s steady rhythm without noticing, and now its absence left him untethered, adrift in the familiar grind. He set Tim’s coffee down, steam curling uselessly, and slumped into his own chair, skin feeling older and stretched tight with fatigue. The trip’s glow had guttered out overnight, leaving him heavier and out of step, the sterile normalcy snapping back like a rubber band stretched too far.

He tried to dive into routine, fingers hovering over the keyboard, but the login screen stared back blankly. His password, something with the kids’ names, slipped his mind, each guess locking him out further until the system flashed red with a warning to contact IT for support. A groan rasped out as he rubbed his temples, the tedium clawing at him. He grabbed for a pen to jot a note, but his desk drawer yielded only chewed stubs and a cracked ruler. His mind skirted last night, Tim’s briefs and the frantic release, unsure how to sit with it now, the memory jarring against the dull hum of copier whirs and murmured calls. He needed to focus and get his head straight, but the office felt alien, a machine he’d forgotten how to work. Coffee cooled untouched beside him, the faint ache of Tim’s absence gnawing louder, his edge fraying with every stalled attempt to restart.

Mark finally cobbled together his business trip write-up, a dry recap of meetings and numbers, and sent it to the printer across the hall, craving a tangible win. The machine whirred to life and then stuttered, a red light blinking to signal it was jammed again, bloody typical. He stood with a sigh, shoulders sagging under the weight of fatigue, and shuffled towards the printer room, the air thick with ink and dust as he stepped inside. He’d meant to deliver the report to his boss by lunch to prove he still had his grip, but the snag felt personal, another thread unravelling. Tim would’ve had it sorted in a flash with a quip on his lips, but without him, Mark fumbled alone, the routine a slog he couldn’t shake. The write-up mattered as proof the trip wasn’t just chaos, but now it was trapped in the guts of a machine, leaving him stranded and on edge, the grey day grinding him down.

He crouched by the printer, his fingers fumbling at the jammed tray as the red light blinked mockingly. He muttered under his breath, “Come on, you bastard,” and tugged the staple holder free, a clunky metal chunk studded with bent pins, setting it atop the machine with a clatter. No luck followed; the whirring stayed stuck. He dug deeper, pulling out shreds of paper, crumpled and torn, their edges smudged black, piling them beside the holder in a messy heap. His shirt clung damp to his back, frustration coiling tight. He yanked at the waste toner collector next, a plastic box sloshing with gritty powder, and balanced it precariously on the stack, toner dusting his knuckles. The printer groaned, unmoved, its innards a puzzle he couldn’t crack. He stood, wiping sweat from his brow, the write-up still trapped inside, and gave the side a sharp kick, the thud echoing dully. “Bloody useless,” he spat, chest heaving, the morning’s tedium boiling over into something jagged, his hands flexing uselessly by his sides.

A voice sliced through the haze with a lazy drawl, “Alright, old man? Struggling already?” Ryan swaggered into the printer room, all cocky grin and designer polo stretched tight over a sculpted chest, his youth a loud taunt cutting through the ink-thick air. He’d been foisted on the team a few weeks back, the new intern fresh from uni, dumped into the grunt work of fetching coffees, filing reports, and dodging anything that smelled like effort. Mark had clocked him straight off as too loud and too flash, always lounging at his desk with a smirk, cracking pervy jabs about Lisa in marketing that the lads let slide because of his cheeky charm and gym-honed frame. The kid oozed casual dominance, a rich boy’s disinterested slump in his stride, like he’d rather be anywhere else but knew he owned the room anyway. Mark flinched at “old man,” forcing a weak, “Yeah, cheers, mate,” but the jab sank deep, pricking at his frayed nerves, a reminder of the years piling on while Ryan strutted through, untouched by the grind.

Mark stood there, toner-streaked and rattled, the printer’s hum mocking him as Ryan sighed dramatically, crouching to yank open the lower panel, his arse jutting out, briefs waistband peeking over low-slung jeans, skin smooth and golden under the harsh light. He found Ryan insufferable half the time, cocky as hell and lazy when it suited him, with that “better than you” glint in his eye that made Mark’s jaw tighten. But the kid was young and sharp when he bothered, his hands quick with tech where Mark’s fumbled; maybe he could sort this bloody mess where Mark couldn’t. The team tolerated him and even liked him for his brash edge, the way he’d swagger in late with a grin and still charm his way out of a bollocking. Mark’s frustration simmered, the write-up still jammed, but a flicker of hope sparked; maybe this smug little git, for all his attitude, could pull through and save him from looking a total prat.

He stood frozen as Ryan fiddled with the printer gears, the kid’s frame filling the cramped room with a heat that prickled Mark’s skin, sharp and unbidden. Ryan’s designer polo clung tight, outlining a chest carved from hours at the gym, broad pecs flexing faintly with each twist of his wrist, the fabric straining over shoulders that tapered into thick, corded arms, veins snaking under golden skin kissed by a sun Mark hadn’t seen in months. His breath hitched, eyes trailing lower, caught by the way Ryan’s jeans hugged his hips, low enough to tease the waistband of briefs, black and stark against the warm tan of his lower back, a sliver of muscle dipping into shadow. The air thickened, heavy with ink and something hotter. Mark leaned closer, almost unthinking, drawn by the curve of Ryan’s spine, the faint sheen of sweat glistening at his nape where dark hair curled damply. His own body warmed, a flush creeping up his neck as he clocked the raw maleness of it, broad and solid, a man’s form rather than some vague shape, the realisation jolting him, decadent and dizzying, his pulse thudding loud in his ears.

He edged nearer still, hips shifting unconsciously, the heat coiling tighter in his gut as he drank in the details, Ryan’s arse now round and firm, pushing against the denim with every crouch, the briefs’ elastic cutting a sharp line across taut flesh, a hint of hair shadowing the dip above. Mark’s mouth dried, his gaze lingering on the flex of thighs, thick and powerful, straining the jeans’ seams, a body built to command attention and taunt without trying. The shock hit harder; he was checking out a bloke, not just a figure, and the thought seared through him, lush and forbidden, stoking a fire he hadn’t named. His cock stiffened, a semi swelling fast, and as Ryan shifted, Mark’s hips tilted forward, too close now. His bulge brushed Ryan’s arse, a clumsy, electric graze that snapped the haze. Ryan jolted upright, smacking his head on the tray, toner exploding black across his shirt in a chaotic burst. He spun, furious, toner-streaked, eyes locking on Mark’s obvious erection, wide and silent, the air crackling between them.

Ryan shoved Mark back hard, a toner-stained palm slamming against his chest with a dull thud, leaving a stark black handprint smudged across his shirt like a slap made permanent. “What the fuck, mate?” he snapped, voice slicing sharp with outrage, his toner-streaked hands brushing frantically at the powder coating his arms, smearing it into dark streaks over golden skin. Mark stumbled, catching himself on the printer’s edge, his face flushing red-hot as the air crackled between them. “Sorry, didn’t mean it—” he muttered, words tripping over each other, but Ryan cut him off, eyes blazing, “Yeah, well, you fucking did, didn’t you? Get me something clean, yeah? Now.” His tone brooked no argument, all lazy charm burned away by fury, leaving a raw edge that made Mark’s gut twist. Ryan stood there, chest heaving, black dust clinging to his polo, a ruined statue of arrogance demanding repair. Mark nodded mutely, shame curling tight in his throat, the confrontation hanging heavy as he turned to obey.

Mark trudged across the open-plan office, the handprint blazing on his chest like a brand, feeling like a dark accusation was shouting what he couldn’t voice. Heads turned, Lisa from marketing smirked, Greg chuckled into his mug, stifled sniggers rippling through the hum of keyboards and phones, each one a needle in his skin. He wondered why he’d gotten hard, Ryan’s arse flexing under denim, the briefs’ tease, Tim’s echo still thrumming in his blood, and the question spun his shame into a spiral, hot and nauseous. What if they’d clocked it? The bulge, the graze, the whole bloody mess? His shirt clung damp to his back, the toner’s faint chemical stink rising with every step, the walk stretching surreal, a ritual of humiliation under the fluorescent glare. He grabbed his gym jacket from his desk, fingers trembling as he clutched the worn fabric, praying no one asked, “What’s that about, mate?” The risk gnawed at him, caught and exposed, a fool in his thirties, and by the time he shuffled back, the shame had knotted tight with a flicker of dread, the handprint a shadow he couldn’t shake.

Ryan snatched the jacket with a smirk, peeling off his toner-smeared polo slowly, abs flexing arrogantly under the harsh light as he stretched, all sculpted lines and cocky ease. Mark’s eyes snagged on the ripple of muscle, hard ridges of stomach, a faint trail of dark hair dipping below the briefs’ edge, and heat flared again, unbidden, his gaze lingering too long. Ryan caught it, mid-motion, shirt halfway off, and grinned sharp, “What, you looking to snap a pic, old man?” His voice dipped low, chuckling, “Fuck’s sake, don’t cream yourself over it, that wasn't an offer!” Mark stammered, “N-no, just—looking at the mess,” and forced himself to turn away, heat crawling up his neck, the lie flimsy as his pulse thudded loud. Ryan shrugged into the jacket like he owned it, zipping it up with a flourish, then balled the ruined polo and tossed it at Mark’s face, the fabric smacking soft but firm. “Wash that, yeah? Back tomorrow, clean,” he ordered, stepping back. His eyes flicked down, catching Mark’s still-semi bulge straining against his trousers, and with a quick, incredulous snort, he swatted it with the back of his hand, a sharp, casual smack, before muttering, “Christ, mate, you've got issues,” and striding out, leaving Mark clutching the polo, red-faced and reeling, the air thick with unspoken weight.

Hours later, Mark stepped into the house, the clatter of kids’ voices hitting him warm and bright after the office’s cold sting, a balm against the day’s jagged edges. He’d chucked Ryan’s toner-streaked polo and his own shamefully marked shirt into the washing machine on his way in, barely a thought spared as he kicked off his shoes and hung his jacket. Jack barrelled over, thrusting a messy painting into his hands, green and red streaks smeared wild. “Look, Dad, it’s a dinosaur!” Mark grinned, pinning it to the fridge with a magnet, ruffling his hair. “Proper artist, you are, mate—should get that framed.” Ellie tugged his sleeve, bouncing, “I got a gold star today, Dad!” He crouched to her level, eyes crinkling, “That’s my girl, smashing it,” the joy real and sharp, cutting through the haze of printer toner and shame. Sarah moved in the kitchen, stirring a pot on the hob, her hair catching the light as she glanced over with a small smile. “Smells good, love,” he said, leaning against the counter, the normalcy wrapping around him, predictable and almost comforting, yet a distant ache gnawed beneath it. He sank into the moment, helping Jack stack blocks, tickling Ellie till she squealed, the warmth grounding him after the trip’s chaos.

Later, Sarah fished the laundry from the machine, pulling out Ryan’s polo and then pausing, her favourite dress, pale blue and soft cotton, now splotched black with toner stains, ruined beyond saving. She froze, fingers gripping the wet fabric, and Mark caught the shift, stomach sinking. “Oh, shit, love, I didn’t check—I’m so sorry,” he stammered, stepping closer, hands flapping uselessly as he tried to explain, “It was that bloody intern’s shirt, got toner all over it, didn’t think it’d bleed like that.” Sarah turned, her face blank for a beat, then cracked into a thin, tight smile, eyes glassy with something Mark read as tired relief. “Oh, it’s just a dress, love,” she said, voice lilting oddly and hollow like a script rehearsed, “I’m just happy you’re home, that’s all that matters.” He nodded, scratching his neck, “Yeah, still, I’ll grab you a new one,” the offer hanging as she shook her head gently, folding the ruined dress with careful, albeit tremoring, hands. “No bother, really, it’s fine,” she added, her tone steady, a quiet brightness that felt oddly flat against the words. He lingered in the doorway, scratching his neck, uneasy without knowing why. She kept stirring; he kept pretending not to notice.

 

[ZkellZara]

Would be kinda hot, and a nice development, if Tim stays out sick a day or two longer, causing the pent up need to drive Mark to once again visit the other side of the hole, and this time get a taste of freedom he was longing for, but did not expect to crave…

 

[mGlottalstop]

Would be kinda hot, and a nice development, if Tim stays out sick a day or two longer, causing the pent up need to drive Mark to once again visit the other side of the hole, and this time get a taste of freedom he was longing for, but did not expect to crave…

Thank you for the suggestion! Mark will definitely be returning to the gloryhole in the near future, but will things go the way he plans'?

 

[mitchellk]

Chapter Thirteen: The Gospel According To Mark

Monday slunk into the office like a hangover, unwanted and heavy, the weekend’s doldrum still clinging to Mark as he trudged to his desk; the couch’s sag had knotted his neck, Sarah’s icy exile an ongoing punishment, and the forthcoming business trip tightening around his ribs like a vice. He slumped into his chair, slogging through emails and wincing at Greg’s terse jabs about his recent Q4 projections performance, but the hole lurked in the murky recesses of his mind, that cum-slick arse from Friday burned into his skull, its smooth cheeks dripping his spunk like a perverse medal. Coffee scorches his tongue, the inbox glowered, and the day dragged its heels.

Mid-morning, Dave swaggered in, ruddy mug split with a smirk as he crashed into his chair, groaning, “Oi, Stroker, what’s this about you being out on some business trip shite?” Mark nodded, pen clicking like a nervous tic; “Tomorrow, back again by the end of the week.” Dave leaned over the partition voice low, smirk widening into a lecherous grin; “Perfect, that leaves the hole all mine, yeah? Gonna ram my prick through it so much while you’re gone, mate, that mouth’ll be gagging on me non-fucking-stop— been saving up a heavy load over the weekend, and plan on making a deposit, you get it?” Mark’s gut twisted, jealousy and heat coiling tight under Dave’s dirty chuckle; his dick twitched, picturing Dave’s jawbreaker girth stretching those lips, spunk drowning the unseen throat. “Yeah?” he croaked, voice thick, leaning closer; “You reckon it’ll keep up with you?” Dave’s chuckle deepened, rumbling in his chest; “Oh, it’ll take it, Stroker, don’t you worry, mate. Choking on me, drooling, proper fucked out— might knacker it out before you’re back!”

“Morning, Mark— ready for the trip?” Tim set a coffee on Mark’s desk, again, black with just a whisper of sugar, cutting off his half-formed comeback to Dave before it even left his lips. The sight of Tim, memories of last night, hit him like static under the skin: pressed slacks; shirt sleeves rolled up in an effortless, cool way; an aura of corporate cheeriness that didn’t quite hide the twinkle of a fierce intelligence in his eyes. Mark looked away, nodding stiffly as he reached for the cup. “Better watch this one, Timmy,” Dave cut in before Mark could mumble his thanks, clasping a meaty hand on his shoulder. “Stroker here’s a menace if you don’t keep an eye on him—guess what he got up to at O’Malley’s?” Mark’s stomach dropped, ears burning, heat rising as the urinal incident flashed in his mind: his hand working fast, eyes locked on Dave’s jawbreaker as it fired thick ropes into the trough.

The scald from his coffee, spilling over his shaking hand, yanked him back to the present. He hissed, jerking back with a stammer, “Piss off, Dave, don’t—” Tim leaned against the partition, head tilting, curiosity sparked, “’Stroker’?” he repeated, lips quirking into a slow, conspiratorial smile. Mark’s face flared red, shame spiking sharp and instant. “Just Dave being a twat,” he muttered darkly, scrubbing at his hands with a napkin, mortified. Tim’s brow lifted, eyes narrowing slightly before he turned around and walked off, Dave’s laughter trailing behind him like a taunt. Mark sat, simmering, burned by the memory, the sharing of the nickname, and the unmistakeable smugness in Dave’s voice.

By 6 p.m., the office was a ghost town, fluorescents humming over empty desks, distant traffic a faint growl; Mark lingered, his last minute preparations for the trip blurring as his mind recalled the earlier incident, Dave’s taunts, the hole’s allure, that arse he couldn’t unsee. His resolve teetered, the itch clawing relentless, when a shadow loomed: Jamal, broad and solid, uniform stretched tight over thick arms, filling the cubicle’s entrance. “Hammond,” he rumbled, voice gravelly; “Last one again— thought I’d nab you before locking up,” Mark nodded, expecting the shove out, but Jamal stayed put, shifting his weight. “About the other night— that room, the… cock-up. I didn’t mean to rattle you, sticking my prick through. Saw you duck in there; I got the wrong idea.” His tone was rough but straight, an apology with no fluff.

Mark’s throat tightened, Jamal’s cut beast flashing back: thrusting, dripping, his own panicked babble in response. “Yeah, uh, no both,” he mumbled, pen twirling too fast, clicking loudly. Jamal leaned against the wall, arms crossed; “Used to hit that hole myself, back when I worked the day shift. The mouth— fuck me, it’s unreal. I didn’t care who was sucking, just so long as they can take whatever I give.” He chuckled, low and easy, and Mark’s head snapped up, blindsided; “You didn’t care?” His voice was small, shaky, Dave’s ‘hairy bastard’ jab still echoing. Jamal simply shrugged; “A hole’s a hole, lad. Good’s good, and it doesn’t need a name or skirt.” Mark swallowed, dick stirring despite himself, pressing hard against his zip; he’d always pegged it a woman, with Lisa’s curves or Karen’s lips; but Jamal’s bluntness cracked that wide open. “What if it’s… a bloke, though?” he rasped, barely audible, testing the abyss.

Jamal’s eyes flicked down, clocking the bulge, and smirking, not cruel, just canny. “Didn’t faze me when I thought it was you, did it? Would’ve let you suck on Jamal Jr. all night long. Swear down, it feels the same, mate.” Jamal’s eyes trailed down, raking over him till they landed on the swell of his hard-on, visibly straining against the zipper, “You, uh, want a hand with that, or—?” Mark flinched like he’d been scalded, “No!”, but then softened it, flustered; “No, cheers, you’ve given me enough to mull over.” Jamal nodded, shrugging without fuss, ”Suit yourself, man; light’s out in 15 minutes— don’t get caught with your pants down.” His boots thudded off, leaving Mark reeling, dick throbbing; Jamal’s words looping, ”a hole is a hole,”; prying past the defences he’d nailed shut, a restless night ahead of him.

Tuesday morning crept in like a damp chill, the kitchen thick with an unspoken rot. Mark stood at the counter, buttering toast, tie loose round his neck. The kids slurped cereal at the table: Ellie humming, Jack kicking the chair leg under Mr Bearnaby’s watchful button eyes, while Sarah hovered near the sink: her silence felt like a loaded gun. He cleared his throat, buttery crumbs rolling between his anxious fingers; “Sarah, about tomorrow—” her head snapped round, eyes blazing, teaspoon clattering into the sink; “I don’t want to hear it, Mark,” she sneered, voice sharp as broken glass, “what a shock, the Magical Mark, vanishing when I need him; now you see him, now you fucking don’t! Work, is it, or drinks with the lads? Or just another fucking excuse to be anywhere but here with me and your fucking children?”

He stiffened, her words stoking a fire in him; “It’s my job, Sarah. I don’t have a choice!” She stepped closer, hands on her hips, venom dripping; “You’re barely here, drifting in and out like some useless prick who can’t keep his house in order. Look at you: half-arsing your wife, half-arsing your responsibilities; a pathetic, limp-dicked little boy more in love with his fucking spreadsheets than with his family.” Her voice rose, cruel and cutting, a low blow slicing deep in front of their children. Ellie’s humming stopped; Jack’s spoon froze, Mr Bearnaby watching in cuddly silence: witnesses to her scalpel-sharp emasculation of him.

His chest burned, shame and rage flaring hot. “Fuck you,” he snapped, slamming his butterknife down on the counter, toast skidding; “You’re a spiteful, vindictive bitch who sucks the happiness out of every room. If you weren’t such a miserable cow, maybe I’d want to be here!” The words flew, hasty, untrue, but chosen to wound, as she had. Sarah’s face twisted, Ellie whimpered and Jack began to cry, hugging his bear close to his chest, tears streaming down his milk-sodden cheeks; but Mark grabbed his bag, jaw tight. “I’m done sleeping on that couch, Sarah; I’m in that bed tonight, whether you are or not, that’s up to you. Frankly,” he paused, squeezing his keys until the teeth bit into his palm, “I don’t give a shit what you decide.”

The drive to work was a jagged mess, the Toyota’s engine growling as Mark gripped the wheel; Sarah’s “limp-dicked little boy” and his snarled “miserable cow” ricocheting in his skull. Traffic snarled, a lorry’s horn blared, but all he felt was the sting: her barb shredding his manhood, his retort a cheap shot that hit too hard. His knuckles bleached; breath unsteady. Was he that prick, absent and neglectful? Or was she the leech, draining him dry of happiness and self-worth, punishing him for how they’d grown apart with age?

The thought of the hole flickered, momentarily; its wet heat promising a salve. But still her words clawed deeper, his own venom soured in his gut. He swerved, tyres screeching as a cyclist swore, shaking a fist at his meandering path. The kids’ faces rose in his mind: Ellie’s worry, Jack’s fear. Their reactions haunted him, and by the time he reached the office car park, he was shaking, a raw nerve unravelling in the cold.

The workday dragged, the office a grey slog of humming monitors and stale coffee. Mark slumped at his desk, papers strewn. Greg’s voice cut through the static like a distant growl, “Hammond, make sure you sort your shit before tomorrow!” while his leg jittered, fingers drumming, and Sarah’s jab festered like a bruise. Mid-morning, Tim breezed in: poised and polished, all eager bounce; “Mark! I’ll drive us to the airport tomorrow; company car’s all sorted. You just get yourself here early, yeah?”

Mark nodded, distracted, voice flat; “Ta, sounds good.” Tim grinned, leaning in, eyes glinting; “See you in the morning then… Stroker!” He winked, playful, sauntering out the office with a chuckle, leaving Mark stunned, ears pink and throbbing with his heartbeat, Dave’s teasing nickname clinging like molasses. The call of the hole pulsed louder, however, a filthy lifeline through the drudgery; and by lunch, his dick ached, twitchy energy coiling tight. He bolted for the bathroom, last cubicle his haven, locking it with trembling hands.

He sank onto the seat, head tipped back, staring at the hole. A flicker stirred, shadow or breath, and his control shattered. Trousers down, cock out; thick, uncut, and sacramental, he shoved it through, desperate to return to the one place he still found peace. The mouth greeted him like a prayer, warm and ravenous, lips clamping around him with a sloppy, reverent zeal that snatched the breath from his lungs. It sucked deep, wet with spit, tongue slathering his slit and guzzling pre-cum with a greed that buckled his knees, smearing it across its face in a glistening, lewd anointing. Mark felt it, his leaking tip painting its lips, chin, cheeks, marking the mystery as his, and he groaned, raw and wrecked; “Fuck, yes— take me— show me—"

The mouth worshipped him, a decadent frenzy of lips stretching wide, tongue rolling back his foreskin to lave the tender tip with a sloppy, unholy swirl that split him apart. A hand gripped his shaft, stroking slow and slick, pre-cum greasing the motion as the mouth dove lower. It sucked his balls through the hole, an offering on its altar, rolling them wet and heavy on its tongue with crude, echoing slurps. In supplication, it dipped beneath, tracing his taint with the probing tip of its tongue, licking the sweaty seam with a devotion that sparked a deep, primal throb behind his sack, a sacred pulse shaking his core.

“More— fuck, I need more—"

The words rumbled out of him, unbidden, hips twitching as he let the mouth feast. A second hand joined, fingers fussing his sack like a postulant counting the rosary, spit-slick and relentless. He felt the mouth retreat, its moan low, cut off early, returning to his tip with a wet smack. It traced its way back down the shaft, sucking his balls and tonguing his taint in a filthy trinity of worship.

He thrust shallowly, lost in its excess, the throb swelling like a cresting tidal wave. The mouth worked harder, as if desperate to prove itself: lips sealing tight, hands pumping, tongue lashing his taint till his vision blurred. Every inch of him adored, exalted. “You want me?” he rasped, voice breaking, chest heaving. “Please— I need you to want me...” The wall shook with each thrust, a bass-line psalm, and the hole responded. It sucked his tip, jerked him slick, tongued his balls as those rose up in salvation; he came, sudden and fierce.

Like a thick flood bursting, ropes of spunk blasted hot and heavy. He panted, ragged, as the first shot fired wildly, a consecration across the mystery sucker’s face before it guzzled him, tongue swirling across his twitching tip and its hands milked him through it. Each pulse brought a gut-wrenching release, the throb behind his balls exploding, draining him raw.

Lost in the haze, need flipped into gratitude, hunger, a soul-deep ache. He slid down the wall, dropping to his knees, a man undone, and pressed his lips to the hole. A kiss, desperate, seeking: his breath hot against the wood, chasing the mouth that had given him everything. His loneliness screamed, need exposed, craving the one soul reaching back to him. A heartbeat later, it met him: soft lips, trembling, then fierce, smashing against his in a wet, salty clash that shook his bones with desperation, with gratitude, with mirrored need that broke him wide open. Mark’s chest heaved. His tongue darted out to wrestle with the hole’s own, tasting for the first time his spunk and its warmth, worshipping the hole back.

Lips crashing, breath tangling, a frantic outpouring of need and connection. It was sloppy, urgent. His groan was swallowed by its ferocity, a tether forged in filth and belonging. He kissed as hard as he’d been sucked, reverent and shattered, giving as good as he got. Enlightened, he pulled back, dazed and trembling; the hole was no longer a fix, he knew that now…

It was spiritual reclamation.

Amen.

I didn't want to comment and interrupt the story flow, but this is a truly epic tale. Better than any soap opera or detective show I've seen in years!!! The rosary...my goodness...yes.

 

[mGlottalstop]

I didn't want to comment and interrupt the story flow, but this is a truly epic tale. Better than any soap opera or detective show I've seen in years!!! The rosary...my goodness...yes.

Thank you! That's very very kind of you!

 

[michaelnola]

Thanks for all the lovely feedback, guys! I really appreciate that and hope that you enjoy this next chapter.

--

Chapter Twenty-Seven: A Shift in Tone

Mark stepped into the office, the low buzz of fluorescent lights humming overhead, a grey drone of keyboards clacking and tepid coffee swirling in chipped mugs. He carried two cups from the café downstairs, one black with a touch of sugar for Tim and the other his own, hoping the gesture might steady him after the trip. But Tim’s desk sat empty, chair tucked in too neatly, a Post-it stuck to the monitor reading, 'Tim's off sick.' A stab of disorientation hit hard. He’d come to lean on Tim’s steady rhythm without noticing, and now its absence left him untethered, adrift in the familiar grind. He set Tim’s coffee down, steam curling uselessly, and slumped into his own chair, skin feeling older and stretched tight with fatigue. The trip’s glow had guttered out overnight, leaving him heavier and out of step, the sterile normalcy snapping back like a rubber band stretched too far.

He tried to dive into routine, fingers hovering over the keyboard, but the login screen stared back blankly. His password, something with the kids’ names, slipped his mind, each guess locking him out further until the system flashed red with a warning to contact IT for support. A groan rasped out as he rubbed his temples, the tedium clawing at him. He grabbed for a pen to jot a note, but his desk drawer yielded only chewed stubs and a cracked ruler. His mind skirted last night, Tim’s briefs and the frantic release, unsure how to sit with it now, the memory jarring against the dull hum of copier whirs and murmured calls. He needed to focus and get his head straight, but the office felt alien, a machine he’d forgotten how to work. Coffee cooled untouched beside him, the faint ache of Tim’s absence gnawing louder, his edge fraying with every stalled attempt to restart.

Mark finally cobbled together his business trip write-up, a dry recap of meetings and numbers, and sent it to the printer across the hall, craving a tangible win. The machine whirred to life and then stuttered, a red light blinking to signal it was jammed again, bloody typical. He stood with a sigh, shoulders sagging under the weight of fatigue, and shuffled towards the printer room, the air thick with ink and dust as he stepped inside. He’d meant to deliver the report to his boss by lunch to prove he still had his grip, but the snag felt personal, another thread unravelling. Tim would’ve had it sorted in a flash with a quip on his lips, but without him, Mark fumbled alone, the routine a slog he couldn’t shake. The write-up mattered as proof the trip wasn’t just chaos, but now it was trapped in the guts of a machine, leaving him stranded and on edge, the grey day grinding him down.

He crouched by the printer, his fingers fumbling at the jammed tray as the red light blinked mockingly. He muttered under his breath, “Come on, you bastard,” and tugged the staple holder free, a clunky metal chunk studded with bent pins, setting it atop the machine with a clatter. No luck followed; the whirring stayed stuck. He dug deeper, pulling out shreds of paper, crumpled and torn, their edges smudged black, piling them beside the holder in a messy heap. His shirt clung damp to his back, frustration coiling tight. He yanked at the waste toner collector next, a plastic box sloshing with gritty powder, and balanced it precariously on the stack, toner dusting his knuckles. The printer groaned, unmoved, its innards a puzzle he couldn’t crack. He stood, wiping sweat from his brow, the write-up still trapped inside, and gave the side a sharp kick, the thud echoing dully. “Bloody useless,” he spat, chest heaving, the morning’s tedium boiling over into something jagged, his hands flexing uselessly by his sides.

A voice sliced through the haze with a lazy drawl, “Alright, old man? Struggling already?” Ryan swaggered into the printer room, all cocky grin and designer polo stretched tight over a sculpted chest, his youth a loud taunt cutting through the ink-thick air. He’d been foisted on the team a few weeks back, the new intern fresh from uni, dumped into the grunt work of fetching coffees, filing reports, and dodging anything that smelled like effort. Mark had clocked him straight off as too loud and too flash, always lounging at his desk with a smirk, cracking pervy jabs about Lisa in marketing that the lads let slide because of his cheeky charm and gym-honed frame. The kid oozed casual dominance, a rich boy’s disinterested slump in his stride, like he’d rather be anywhere else but knew he owned the room anyway. Mark flinched at “old man,” forcing a weak, “Yeah, cheers, mate,” but the jab sank deep, pricking at his frayed nerves, a reminder of the years piling on while Ryan strutted through, untouched by the grind.

Mark stood there, toner-streaked and rattled, the printer’s hum mocking him as Ryan sighed dramatically, crouching to yank open the lower panel, his arse jutting out, briefs waistband peeking over low-slung jeans, skin smooth and golden under the harsh light. He found Ryan insufferable half the time, cocky as hell and lazy when it suited him, with that “better than you” glint in his eye that made Mark’s jaw tighten. But the kid was young and sharp when he bothered, his hands quick with tech where Mark’s fumbled; maybe he could sort this bloody mess where Mark couldn’t. The team tolerated him and even liked him for his brash edge, the way he’d swagger in late with a grin and still charm his way out of a bollocking. Mark’s frustration simmered, the write-up still jammed, but a flicker of hope sparked; maybe this smug little git, for all his attitude, could pull through and save him from looking a total prat.

He stood frozen as Ryan fiddled with the printer gears, the kid’s frame filling the cramped room with a heat that prickled Mark’s skin, sharp and unbidden. Ryan’s designer polo clung tight, outlining a chest carved from hours at the gym, broad pecs flexing faintly with each twist of his wrist, the fabric straining over shoulders that tapered into thick, corded arms, veins snaking under golden skin kissed by a sun Mark hadn’t seen in months. His breath hitched, eyes trailing lower, caught by the way Ryan’s jeans hugged his hips, low enough to tease the waistband of briefs, black and stark against the warm tan of his lower back, a sliver of muscle dipping into shadow. The air thickened, heavy with ink and something hotter. Mark leaned closer, almost unthinking, drawn by the curve of Ryan’s spine, the faint sheen of sweat glistening at his nape where dark hair curled damply. His own body warmed, a flush creeping up his neck as he clocked the raw maleness of it, broad and solid, a man’s form rather than some vague shape, the realisation jolting him, decadent and dizzying, his pulse thudding loud in his ears.

He edged nearer still, hips shifting unconsciously, the heat coiling tighter in his gut as he drank in the details, Ryan’s arse now round and firm, pushing against the denim with every crouch, the briefs’ elastic cutting a sharp line across taut flesh, a hint of hair shadowing the dip above. Mark’s mouth dried, his gaze lingering on the flex of thighs, thick and powerful, straining the jeans’ seams, a body built to command attention and taunt without trying. The shock hit harder; he was checking out a bloke, not just a figure, and the thought seared through him, lush and forbidden, stoking a fire he hadn’t named. His cock stiffened, a semi swelling fast, and as Ryan shifted, Mark’s hips tilted forward, too close now. His bulge brushed Ryan’s arse, a clumsy, electric graze that snapped the haze. Ryan jolted upright, smacking his head on the tray, toner exploding black across his shirt in a chaotic burst. He spun, furious, toner-streaked, eyes locking on Mark’s obvious erection, wide and silent, the air crackling between them.

Ryan shoved Mark back hard, a toner-stained palm slamming against his chest with a dull thud, leaving a stark black handprint smudged across his shirt like a slap made permanent. “What the fuck, mate?” he snapped, voice slicing sharp with outrage, his toner-streaked hands brushing frantically at the powder coating his arms, smearing it into dark streaks over golden skin. Mark stumbled, catching himself on the printer’s edge, his face flushing red-hot as the air crackled between them. “Sorry, didn’t mean it—” he muttered, words tripping over each other, but Ryan cut him off, eyes blazing, “Yeah, well, you fucking did, didn’t you? Get me something clean, yeah? Now.” His tone brooked no argument, all lazy charm burned away by fury, leaving a raw edge that made Mark’s gut twist. Ryan stood there, chest heaving, black dust clinging to his polo, a ruined statue of arrogance demanding repair. Mark nodded mutely, shame curling tight in his throat, the confrontation hanging heavy as he turned to obey.

Mark trudged across the open-plan office, the handprint blazing on his chest like a brand, feeling like a dark accusation was shouting what he couldn’t voice. Heads turned, Lisa from marketing smirked, Greg chuckled into his mug, stifled sniggers rippling through the hum of keyboards and phones, each one a needle in his skin. He wondered why he’d gotten hard, Ryan’s arse flexing under denim, the briefs’ tease, Tim’s echo still thrumming in his blood, and the question spun his shame into a spiral, hot and nauseous. What if they’d clocked it? The bulge, the graze, the whole bloody mess? His shirt clung damp to his back, the toner’s faint chemical stink rising with every step, the walk stretching surreal, a ritual of humiliation under the fluorescent glare. He grabbed his gym jacket from his desk, fingers trembling as he clutched the worn fabric, praying no one asked, “What’s that about, mate?” The risk gnawed at him, caught and exposed, a fool in his thirties, and by the time he shuffled back, the shame had knotted tight with a flicker of dread, the handprint a shadow he couldn’t shake.

Ryan snatched the jacket with a smirk, peeling off his toner-smeared polo slowly, abs flexing arrogantly under the harsh light as he stretched, all sculpted lines and cocky ease. Mark’s eyes snagged on the ripple of muscle, hard ridges of stomach, a faint trail of dark hair dipping below the briefs’ edge, and heat flared again, unbidden, his gaze lingering too long. Ryan caught it, mid-motion, shirt halfway off, and grinned sharp, “What, you looking to snap a pic, old man?” His voice dipped low, chuckling, “Fuck’s sake, don’t cream yourself over it, that wasn't an offer!” Mark stammered, “N-no, just—looking at the mess,” and forced himself to turn away, heat crawling up his neck, the lie flimsy as his pulse thudded loud. Ryan shrugged into the jacket like he owned it, zipping it up with a flourish, then balled the ruined polo and tossed it at Mark’s face, the fabric smacking soft but firm. “Wash that, yeah? Back tomorrow, clean,” he ordered, stepping back. His eyes flicked down, catching Mark’s still-semi bulge straining against his trousers, and with a quick, incredulous snort, he swatted it with the back of his hand, a sharp, casual smack, before muttering, “Christ, mate, you've got issues,” and striding out, leaving Mark clutching the polo, red-faced and reeling, the air thick with unspoken weight.

Hours later, Mark stepped into the house, the clatter of kids’ voices hitting him warm and bright after the office’s cold sting, a balm against the day’s jagged edges. He’d chucked Ryan’s toner-streaked polo and his own shamefully marked shirt into the washing machine on his way in, barely a thought spared as he kicked off his shoes and hung his jacket. Jack barrelled over, thrusting a messy painting into his hands, green and red streaks smeared wild. “Look, Dad, it’s a dinosaur!” Mark grinned, pinning it to the fridge with a magnet, ruffling his hair. “Proper artist, you are, mate—should get that framed.” Ellie tugged his sleeve, bouncing, “I got a gold star today, Dad!” He crouched to her level, eyes crinkling, “That’s my girl, smashing it,” the joy real and sharp, cutting through the haze of printer toner and shame. Sarah moved in the kitchen, stirring a pot on the hob, her hair catching the light as she glanced over with a small smile. “Smells good, love,” he said, leaning against the counter, the normalcy wrapping around him, predictable and almost comforting, yet a distant ache gnawed beneath it. He sank into the moment, helping Jack stack blocks, tickling Ellie till she squealed, the warmth grounding him after the trip’s chaos.

Later, Sarah fished the laundry from the machine, pulling out Ryan’s polo and then pausing, her favourite dress, pale blue and soft cotton, now splotched black with toner stains, ruined beyond saving. She froze, fingers gripping the wet fabric, and Mark caught the shift, stomach sinking. “Oh, shit, love, I didn’t check—I’m so sorry,” he stammered, stepping closer, hands flapping uselessly as he tried to explain, “It was that bloody intern’s shirt, got toner all over it, didn’t think it’d bleed like that.” Sarah turned, her face blank for a beat, then cracked into a thin, tight smile, eyes glassy with something Mark read as tired relief. “Oh, it’s just a dress, love,” she said, voice lilting oddly and hollow like a script rehearsed, “I’m just happy you’re home, that’s all that matters.” He nodded, scratching his neck, “Yeah, still, I’ll grab you a new one,” the offer hanging as she shook her head gently, folding the ruined dress with careful, albeit tremoring, hands. “No bother, really, it’s fine,” she added, her tone steady, a quiet brightness that felt oddly flat against the words. He lingered in the doorway, scratching his neck, uneasy without knowing why. She kept stirring; he kept pretending not to notice.

Excellent addition Hot new character--thanks

 

[bmagic]

Thanks for all the lovely feedback, guys! I really appreciate that and hope that you enjoy this next chapter.

--

Chapter Twenty-Seven: A Shift in Tone

Mark stepped into the office, the low buzz of fluorescent lights humming overhead, a grey drone of keyboards clacking and tepid coffee swirling in chipped mugs. He carried two cups from the café downstairs, one black with a touch of sugar for Tim and the other his own, hoping the gesture might steady him after the trip. But Tim’s desk sat empty, chair tucked in too neatly, a Post-it stuck to the monitor reading, 'Tim's off sick.' A stab of disorientation hit hard. He’d come to lean on Tim’s steady rhythm without noticing, and now its absence left him untethered, adrift in the familiar grind. He set Tim’s coffee down, steam curling uselessly, and slumped into his own chair, skin feeling older and stretched tight with fatigue. The trip’s glow had guttered out overnight, leaving him heavier and out of step, the sterile normalcy snapping back like a rubber band stretched too far.

He tried to dive into routine, fingers hovering over the keyboard, but the login screen stared back blankly. His password, something with the kids’ names, slipped his mind, each guess locking him out further until the system flashed red with a warning to contact IT for support. A groan rasped out as he rubbed his temples, the tedium clawing at him. He grabbed for a pen to jot a note, but his desk drawer yielded only chewed stubs and a cracked ruler. His mind skirted last night, Tim’s briefs and the frantic release, unsure how to sit with it now, the memory jarring against the dull hum of copier whirs and murmured calls. He needed to focus and get his head straight, but the office felt alien, a machine he’d forgotten how to work. Coffee cooled untouched beside him, the faint ache of Tim’s absence gnawing louder, his edge fraying with every stalled attempt to restart.

Mark finally cobbled together his business trip write-up, a dry recap of meetings and numbers, and sent it to the printer across the hall, craving a tangible win. The machine whirred to life and then stuttered, a red light blinking to signal it was jammed again, bloody typical. He stood with a sigh, shoulders sagging under the weight of fatigue, and shuffled towards the printer room, the air thick with ink and dust as he stepped inside. He’d meant to deliver the report to his boss by lunch to prove he still had his grip, but the snag felt personal, another thread unravelling. Tim would’ve had it sorted in a flash with a quip on his lips, but without him, Mark fumbled alone, the routine a slog he couldn’t shake. The write-up mattered as proof the trip wasn’t just chaos, but now it was trapped in the guts of a machine, leaving him stranded and on edge, the grey day grinding him down.

He crouched by the printer, his fingers fumbling at the jammed tray as the red light blinked mockingly. He muttered under his breath, “Come on, you bastard,” and tugged the staple holder free, a clunky metal chunk studded with bent pins, setting it atop the machine with a clatter. No luck followed; the whirring stayed stuck. He dug deeper, pulling out shreds of paper, crumpled and torn, their edges smudged black, piling them beside the holder in a messy heap. His shirt clung damp to his back, frustration coiling tight. He yanked at the waste toner collector next, a plastic box sloshing with gritty powder, and balanced it precariously on the stack, toner dusting his knuckles. The printer groaned, unmoved, its innards a puzzle he couldn’t crack. He stood, wiping sweat from his brow, the write-up still trapped inside, and gave the side a sharp kick, the thud echoing dully. “Bloody useless,” he spat, chest heaving, the morning’s tedium boiling over into something jagged, his hands flexing uselessly by his sides.

A voice sliced through the haze with a lazy drawl, “Alright, old man? Struggling already?” Ryan swaggered into the printer room, all cocky grin and designer polo stretched tight over a sculpted chest, his youth a loud taunt cutting through the ink-thick air. He’d been foisted on the team a few weeks back, the new intern fresh from uni, dumped into the grunt work of fetching coffees, filing reports, and dodging anything that smelled like effort. Mark had clocked him straight off as too loud and too flash, always lounging at his desk with a smirk, cracking pervy jabs about Lisa in marketing that the lads let slide because of his cheeky charm and gym-honed frame. The kid oozed casual dominance, a rich boy’s disinterested slump in his stride, like he’d rather be anywhere else but knew he owned the room anyway. Mark flinched at “old man,” forcing a weak, “Yeah, cheers, mate,” but the jab sank deep, pricking at his frayed nerves, a reminder of the years piling on while Ryan strutted through, untouched by the grind.

Mark stood there, toner-streaked and rattled, the printer’s hum mocking him as Ryan sighed dramatically, crouching to yank open the lower panel, his arse jutting out, briefs waistband peeking over low-slung jeans, skin smooth and golden under the harsh light. He found Ryan insufferable half the time, cocky as hell and lazy when it suited him, with that “better than you” glint in his eye that made Mark’s jaw tighten. But the kid was young and sharp when he bothered, his hands quick with tech where Mark’s fumbled; maybe he could sort this bloody mess where Mark couldn’t. The team tolerated him and even liked him for his brash edge, the way he’d swagger in late with a grin and still charm his way out of a bollocking. Mark’s frustration simmered, the write-up still jammed, but a flicker of hope sparked; maybe this smug little git, for all his attitude, could pull through and save him from looking a total prat.

He stood frozen as Ryan fiddled with the printer gears, the kid’s frame filling the cramped room with a heat that prickled Mark’s skin, sharp and unbidden. Ryan’s designer polo clung tight, outlining a chest carved from hours at the gym, broad pecs flexing faintly with each twist of his wrist, the fabric straining over shoulders that tapered into thick, corded arms, veins snaking under golden skin kissed by a sun Mark hadn’t seen in months. His breath hitched, eyes trailing lower, caught by the way Ryan’s jeans hugged his hips, low enough to tease the waistband of briefs, black and stark against the warm tan of his lower back, a sliver of muscle dipping into shadow. The air thickened, heavy with ink and something hotter. Mark leaned closer, almost unthinking, drawn by the curve of Ryan’s spine, the faint sheen of sweat glistening at his nape where dark hair curled damply. His own body warmed, a flush creeping up his neck as he clocked the raw maleness of it, broad and solid, a man’s form rather than some vague shape, the realisation jolting him, decadent and dizzying, his pulse thudding loud in his ears.

He edged nearer still, hips shifting unconsciously, the heat coiling tighter in his gut as he drank in the details, Ryan’s arse now round and firm, pushing against the denim with every crouch, the briefs’ elastic cutting a sharp line across taut flesh, a hint of hair shadowing the dip above. Mark’s mouth dried, his gaze lingering on the flex of thighs, thick and powerful, straining the jeans’ seams, a body built to command attention and taunt without trying. The shock hit harder; he was checking out a bloke, not just a figure, and the thought seared through him, lush and forbidden, stoking a fire he hadn’t named. His cock stiffened, a semi swelling fast, and as Ryan shifted, Mark’s hips tilted forward, too close now. His bulge brushed Ryan’s arse, a clumsy, electric graze that snapped the haze. Ryan jolted upright, smacking his head on the tray, toner exploding black across his shirt in a chaotic burst. He spun, furious, toner-streaked, eyes locking on Mark’s obvious erection, wide and silent, the air crackling between them.

Ryan shoved Mark back hard, a toner-stained palm slamming against his chest with a dull thud, leaving a stark black handprint smudged across his shirt like a slap made permanent. “What the fuck, mate?” he snapped, voice slicing sharp with outrage, his toner-streaked hands brushing frantically at the powder coating his arms, smearing it into dark streaks over golden skin. Mark stumbled, catching himself on the printer’s edge, his face flushing red-hot as the air crackled between them. “Sorry, didn’t mean it—” he muttered, words tripping over each other, but Ryan cut him off, eyes blazing, “Yeah, well, you fucking did, didn’t you? Get me something clean, yeah? Now.” His tone brooked no argument, all lazy charm burned away by fury, leaving a raw edge that made Mark’s gut twist. Ryan stood there, chest heaving, black dust clinging to his polo, a ruined statue of arrogance demanding repair. Mark nodded mutely, shame curling tight in his throat, the confrontation hanging heavy as he turned to obey.

Mark trudged across the open-plan office, the handprint blazing on his chest like a brand, feeling like a dark accusation was shouting what he couldn’t voice. Heads turned, Lisa from marketing smirked, Greg chuckled into his mug, stifled sniggers rippling through the hum of keyboards and phones, each one a needle in his skin. He wondered why he’d gotten hard, Ryan’s arse flexing under denim, the briefs’ tease, Tim’s echo still thrumming in his blood, and the question spun his shame into a spiral, hot and nauseous. What if they’d clocked it? The bulge, the graze, the whole bloody mess? His shirt clung damp to his back, the toner’s faint chemical stink rising with every step, the walk stretching surreal, a ritual of humiliation under the fluorescent glare. He grabbed his gym jacket from his desk, fingers trembling as he clutched the worn fabric, praying no one asked, “What’s that about, mate?” The risk gnawed at him, caught and exposed, a fool in his thirties, and by the time he shuffled back, the shame had knotted tight with a flicker of dread, the handprint a shadow he couldn’t shake.

Ryan snatched the jacket with a smirk, peeling off his toner-smeared polo slowly, abs flexing arrogantly under the harsh light as he stretched, all sculpted lines and cocky ease. Mark’s eyes snagged on the ripple of muscle, hard ridges of stomach, a faint trail of dark hair dipping below the briefs’ edge, and heat flared again, unbidden, his gaze lingering too long. Ryan caught it, mid-motion, shirt halfway off, and grinned sharp, “What, you looking to snap a pic, old man?” His voice dipped low, chuckling, “Fuck’s sake, don’t cream yourself over it, that wasn't an offer!” Mark stammered, “N-no, just—looking at the mess,” and forced himself to turn away, heat crawling up his neck, the lie flimsy as his pulse thudded loud. Ryan shrugged into the jacket like he owned it, zipping it up with a flourish, then balled the ruined polo and tossed it at Mark’s face, the fabric smacking soft but firm. “Wash that, yeah? Back tomorrow, clean,” he ordered, stepping back. His eyes flicked down, catching Mark’s still-semi bulge straining against his trousers, and with a quick, incredulous snort, he swatted it with the back of his hand, a sharp, casual smack, before muttering, “Christ, mate, you've got issues,” and striding out, leaving Mark clutching the polo, red-faced and reeling, the air thick with unspoken weight.

Hours later, Mark stepped into the house, the clatter of kids’ voices hitting him warm and bright after the office’s cold sting, a balm against the day’s jagged edges. He’d chucked Ryan’s toner-streaked polo and his own shamefully marked shirt into the washing machine on his way in, barely a thought spared as he kicked off his shoes and hung his jacket. Jack barrelled over, thrusting a messy painting into his hands, green and red streaks smeared wild. “Look, Dad, it’s a dinosaur!” Mark grinned, pinning it to the fridge with a magnet, ruffling his hair. “Proper artist, you are, mate—should get that framed.” Ellie tugged his sleeve, bouncing, “I got a gold star today, Dad!” He crouched to her level, eyes crinkling, “That’s my girl, smashing it,” the joy real and sharp, cutting through the haze of printer toner and shame. Sarah moved in the kitchen, stirring a pot on the hob, her hair catching the light as she glanced over with a small smile. “Smells good, love,” he said, leaning against the counter, the normalcy wrapping around him, predictable and almost comforting, yet a distant ache gnawed beneath it. He sank into the moment, helping Jack stack blocks, tickling Ellie till she squealed, the warmth grounding him after the trip’s chaos.

Later, Sarah fished the laundry from the machine, pulling out Ryan’s polo and then pausing, her favourite dress, pale blue and soft cotton, now splotched black with toner stains, ruined beyond saving. She froze, fingers gripping the wet fabric, and Mark caught the shift, stomach sinking. “Oh, shit, love, I didn’t check—I’m so sorry,” he stammered, stepping closer, hands flapping uselessly as he tried to explain, “It was that bloody intern’s shirt, got toner all over it, didn’t think it’d bleed like that.” Sarah turned, her face blank for a beat, then cracked into a thin, tight smile, eyes glassy with something Mark read as tired relief. “Oh, it’s just a dress, love,” she said, voice lilting oddly and hollow like a script rehearsed, “I’m just happy you’re home, that’s all that matters.” He nodded, scratching his neck, “Yeah, still, I’ll grab you a new one,” the offer hanging as she shook her head gently, folding the ruined dress with careful, albeit tremoring, hands. “No bother, really, it’s fine,” she added, her tone steady, a quiet brightness that felt oddly flat against the words. He lingered in the doorway, scratching his neck, uneasy without knowing why. She kept stirring; he kept pretending not to notice.

Uh oh...is his wife seeing another man...or woman?

 

[mGlottalstop]

Chapter Twenty-Eight: Reflections

The house settled into the quiet hum of night routine, a gentle warmth softening the day’s jagged edges as Mark knelt by Ellie’s bed, guiding her small hands through the buttons of her pyjamas. The bedside lamp glowed soft, casting gold and blue shadows across her unicorn duvet, its faded pink edges curling from countless washes, a relic of simpler nights. Her breath carried a faint whiff of strawberry toothpaste, sweet and grounding. “I missed you, Daddy,” she mumbled, her hug fierce and warm, arms tight before she flopped back, eyes heavy, a stray curl stuck to her cheek. He kissed her forehead, chest swelling, and tucked the duvet under her chin, lingering on the lavender scent of her pillow, the fabric worn soft by years of her sleep. “Missed you too, love,” he whispered, voice catching, a flicker of something pure cutting through the day’s grime. Jack shuffled in, clutching Mr Bearnaby, the teddy’s fur matted, one button eye dangling loose. “Did you have fun with Daddy?” he asked, voice small, holding the bear up like a sacred offering. Mark’s smile warmed, low and fond, though a hollow edge crept in. “Yeah, mate, we had loads of fun—we’re best mates now,” he said, ruffling Jack’s hair, the lie soft but heavy. Jack giggled, climbing into his own bed, dinosaur lamp flickering as Mark adjusted the shade, its green glow pooling on the carpet. He pulled the covers to Jack’s chin, brushing his fringe aside, soaking in fatherhood’s familiar weight, a moment where everything slotted into place. Down the hall, Sarah’s silhouette flickered behind the en-suite’s frosted glass, steam curling out with the shower’s hiss, her movements slow, almost detached, like a figure in a dream. The scene felt like home: stable, a snapshot of what he’d always wanted, or at least told himself he did. He stood in the doorway, watching their chests rise and fall, soft snores syncing with the house’s creaks, the trip’s ache dulled by this borrowed peace. The hallway stretched long under his socks, each step peeling away Ryan’s smirk, the toner’s sting, Tim’s echo, but not quite erasing them, the bedroom air heavy with lavender from Sarah’s diffuser, the day’s bruise lingering beneath the calm.

Mark slid into bed in boxers and a faded tee, the mattress creaking under his weight as he propped himself against the headboard, the sheets cool and crisp against his bare legs. He grabbed a dog-eared novel from the bedside table, its pages yellowed, but the words swam, refusing to stick. His mind churned, caught in the office’s afterburn—Ryan’s sharp swat on his bulge, the sting of it blooming hot, the black handprint smudged across his chest like a brand he couldn’t scrub. Tim’s purple briefs, still hidden under the pillow, pulsed in his thoughts, a guilty weight that tugged harder than it should. The day clung to him, a film of shame and hunger: Ryan’s arse flexing in low-slung jeans, Tim’s grin flashing behind his eyes, the toner-stained polo that ruined Sarah’s dress, each a splinter under his skin. He shifted, the bedframe groaning, and tried to focus on the room, the lavender hum of Sarah’s diffuser, the faint tick of the radiator, but the guilt coiled tighter, a mix of dread and want, whispering he was already slipping from the man he meant to be. He set the book down, rubbing his eyes, the silence of the house pressing in, heavy with what he couldn’t confess.

Sarah stepped out of the bathroom, towel wrapped loosely around her, damp hair clinging to her shoulders, the faint scent of coconut shampoo trailing her like a ghost. Her face glowed from her phone’s screen, lips curling in a smile—some daft text, Mark reckoned, maybe a mate’s meme or a work chat, nothing to make a fuss over—but her eyes stayed glued to it, fingers tapping softly as she lingered by the dresser. The clink of her setting the phone down cut the quiet, sharp and careless, and she slid under the duvet, her warmth radiating but distant, like a fire behind glass. Mark watched her settle, her movements automatic, her gaze flicking back to the phone’s black screen as if it might light up again. He reached out, tentative, fingers grazing her arm, then settling on her hip, testing the air between them. “Missed this, love,” he murmured, voice low, trying to bridge the gap, to play the husband he’d promised to be. His touch lingered, heavier now, sliding along her waist, but her nod was faint, her smile thin, like she was humouring him, her mind still tethered to the glow of that screen. Guilt churned—Ryan’s smirk, Tim’s shadow, the dress he’d ruined—and he leaned closer, desperate to stitch them back, to prove he was still hers, even as his pulse betrayed him, quickening for someone else.

Sarah sighed, soft but resigned, and turned to him, her body relaxing, yielding in a way that caught him off guard. It’d been months since she’d eased into his touch, since their nights hadn’t felt like a box to tick. Her skin was warm, pliant under his hands, and she let the towel slip, baring herself without fanfare, a silent acquiescence that felt more like permission than desire. Mark kissed her collarbone, slow and deliberate, echoing Tim’s rhythm from that fevered morning, his lips trailing lower, grazing the soft curve of her thighs, fingers circling her nipples with a featherlight touch, trembling slightly as he fought to stay present. She gasped, wet already, her response sharp and sudden, hips twitching under his palms, but it jarred him; her moans came too quick, too loud, like she was chasing a feeling he wasn’t giving. He pressed on, tasting faint soap, his tongue tracing her skin, but his mind snagged on Tim’s grin, the briefs’ weight just inches away, a filthy pull he couldn’t shake. The air thickened, charged with something off, her eagerness a performance that didn’t match his faltering spark, guilt shoving him deeper into a role that felt half-stolen, his hands moving by rote while his thoughts burned elsewhere.

Mark eased over Sarah, settling between her legs, his body sliding into the familiar groove of their old rhythm, thrusting slow and steady, each movement a quiet echo of nights when this was enough. Her warmth wrapped around him, a known comfort that felt just out of reach, but he leaned into it, aiming to be the attentive husband she deserved after weeks apart, his hips finding a cadence etched from years together. Sarah’s legs curled around him, ankles hooking at his lower back, her arms looping loosely around his shoulders, pulling him closer with a soft moan that hummed through the dim room. He let himself sink into the routine, each thrust a tether to their past, to mornings when her breath on his neck meant love, not just habit. Her skin was smooth under his hands, her curves a map he could trace blind, and for a fleeting moment, he believed he could mend them, stitch back the frayed seams of their life with this steady, deliberate act. The bed creaked gently, the headboard tapping the wall like a pulse, and he clung to it, willing himself to fit the shape of the man she used to want.

Her moans sharpened, louder than usual, and Mark’s chest swelled with a flicker of pride; he was nailing this, wasn’t he? Her nails grazed his shoulders, a familiar spark that urged him faster, and he obliged, breath catching as he leaned into the role of lover, a cocky edge creeping into his grin. Maybe he still had it, could still pull her back from the distance that had crept between them, each thrust a claim on their shared history. He felt solid, in command, his body moving with a sureness that buried the day’s shame: Ryan’s swat, Tim’s briefs, the toner’s stain; his ego fed by her rising moans, proving to him she was his again. Her hips rocked to meet him, and he let himself believe this was real, that he was enough. But then his eyes drifted sideways, catching a glint in the dresser mirror: a faint glow behind his shoulder, her phone’s screen flickering, held low in her hand where she thought he’d never see, a secret she hadn’t meant to spill. The sight pierced his confidence, a cold jolt that cracked his swagger, his grin fading as the reflection sharpened.

The mirror showed it clear: Sarah’s phone, angled in her grip behind his shoulder, a quick flash of one man, or a passable horse, thighs taut, thrusting at the camera in a rhythm that wasn’t Mark’s, a private glimpse she’d never meant him to catch. His throat seized, hips faltering as the image burned into him, a betrayal bared in the glass, cold and sharp like a blade he couldn’t duck. “What’s that?” he rasped, voice low, dread choking his gut. Sarah froze, eyes snapping open, and fumbled the phone, tapping it off with a quick thumb, the screen going dark as she tucked it under the sheet, her face calm but caught, a deer in headlights. “It’s nothing, love, just a silly notification,” she said, voice smooth, almost bored, but with a faint edge, like she’d been snagged and hated it, before closing her eyes and moaning again, head tilting back, neck taut as if to erase the moment. The dismissal gutted him, her nonchalance a slap that left him small, emasculated, a man who couldn’t hold her gaze, let alone her desire. Her arms tightened, urging him back, and he thrust again, trying to claw back the rhythm, but it rang hollow, mechanical, each move heavy with doubt. The mirror’s truth lingered, a splinter in his mind, her moans now a mockery, echoing a scene he wasn’t part of, his pride crumbling into shame, the act a duty he couldn’t feel, weighed down by what he’d never be for her.

The warmth drained fast, shame coiling tight as Mark pushed harder, chasing a ghost of desire in a sterile, emotionless rhythm that felt like punching a clock. He was about to falter, the act crumbling, when his hand slipped under the pillow, fingers catching on soft fabric: Tim’s purple briefs, still tucked away, a filthy secret he hadn’t touched since the trip. Time stopped. He stared at the fabric, pulse hammering, a dark urge flaring: if she’s pretending, why can’t I? His mind erupted, a decadent flood torching the room: Tim sprawled on his back, soft thighs splayed wide, skin flushed and gleaming, his cock heavy and leaking, precum beading slick against his stomach, catching the dim light like a taunt. Mark’s thrusts turned rougher, deeper, Sarah’s body fading as Tim’s took over. He saw Tim’s mouth, wet and open, tongue curling with a low, filthy chuckle, lips begging to be fucked, breath hot and ragged, daring Mark to claim him. The fantasy surged, raw and indulgent with Tim’s hands clawing Mark’s hips, nails biting skin, pulling him closer, his arse tight and slick with sweat and lube, pulsing hot around Mark’s cock, a grip that burned him alive. He flipped Sarah over, her gasp muffled by the sheets, but it was Tim he railed now, tight and scorching, Tim’s groans shaking his bones, drowning Sarah’s faint cries. He pictured Tim’s eyes, glinting cocky, urging him to lose it, the hotel room’s stale air thick with their musk, the bed creaking wild under their weight.

The images piled, fucking unyielding: Tim’s legs hooked over Mark’s shoulders, ankles flexing, begging for deeper, the bed frame slamming the wall, wood splintering in time with Tim’s wrecked moans, his voice cracking, “Fuck, mate, harder!” Mark’s hand fisted the briefs, hidden under the sheet, and his mind sank dirtier, kinkier, chasing filth Sarah’s sterile bed could never hold: Tim on his knees, face smashed into the mattress, arse up, slick and gaping, taking every inch with a shuddering plea, his body quaking under Mark’s thrusts. He saw it vivid, Tim’s sweat-slick back, muscles rippling, the wet slap of skin, his cock dripping untouched, a sticky mess pooling on the sheets, Mark’s fingers bruising his hips, owning him raw. The fantasy twisted nastier now as Tim’s throat swallowed him whole, gagging sloppy, eyes tearing but grinning, spit drooling down his chin, tongue lapping greedy; Tim riding him, thighs shaking, head thrown back as he shot thick, hot cum across Mark’s chest, his arse clenching tight, laughing hoarse and filthy. His imagination blazed hotter: Tim bound, wrists tied with a belt, writhing, begging through clenched teeth, skin flushed red; Tim sprawled on a hotel sink, mirror fogged, Mark pounding him till the tiles cracked, their breaths a desperate tangle, the sink’s edge cutting Tim’s hips as he screamed, shameless and loud. Mark’s cock throbbed, driven by Tim’s imagined heat, Sarah’s moans a distant echo, her body a shadow against Tim’s fire.

The decadence spiralled messier, fucking depraved, a plunge into shit Sarah’s tidy world couldn’t touch. Tim sprawled on a motel floor, carpet burning his knees, Mark’s cum streaking his face, dripping thick down his jaw as he licked it off, grinning like a devil, eyes blazing filthy pride. Mark saw him pinned against a grimy alley wall, jeans ripped to his ankles, Mark’s fist in his hair, fucking him raw, Tim’s moans echoing off brick, the air stinking of diesel and piss, a streetlamp buzzing above. Tim’s arse glistened, smeared with lube and cum, hole twitching as Mark spread him wide, fingers slick, shoving in deep, Tim shuddering, hoarse, “Again, mate, fucking wreck me!” His cock leaked rivers, a sticky pool soaking the sheets, body convulsing as Mark snarled filth: crude, vile promises of ruining him, breaking him till he couldn’t move. Tim’s nails clawed Mark’s back, leaving bloody welts, his laugh ragged as he begged for it nastier, the bed drenched, sheets fucked beyond saving, their bodies a primal, cum-soaked wreck. Mark’s thrusts slammed harder, Sarah’s faint moans buried under Tim’s imagined howls, the fantasy a blazing inferno against her cold, scripted detachment. He groaned, Tim’s name searing his tongue, caught just in time. The peak hit as he pictured Tim’s arse pulsing, his laugh shattered, body seizing as he came again, dragging Mark over, and all too soon, he exploded, a guttural roar ripping free, hips smashing as he spilled, body shaking, the release filthier than anything in years, shattering him, Tim’s shadow torching the bed to ash.

Mark collapsed, boneless, breath heaving, a faint smile flickering as he tried to speak. “That was…” he croaked, voice wrecked, but Sarah slid out from under him, wordless, her shadow gone like smoke. The bathroom door slammed, the shower hissed on, the lock clicking sharp and final. Her phone was missing, swiped from the dresser, its absence a silent accusation. Mark lay there, Tim’s briefs clutched tight under the sheet, warm and heavy in his fist, the fabric damp with sweat. He stared at the ceiling, the chasm between them gaping—they’d been fucking phantoms, each screwing someone else’s ghost. The kids’ hugs, the shared bed, their life—it was borrowed, a stage for strangers playing roles long dead. His chest hollowed, the shower’s drone swallowing the silence, Sarah’s absence screaming louder than words. He didn’t move, didn’t call out, just let the dark settle, the briefs a filthy anchor to a truth he couldn’t face. The ceiling fan spun lazy, its hum eating the room, and he wondered how long they’d been ghosts, pretending it was enough. The bed stretched too big, sheets ice-cold, Tim’s shadow sharper than Sarah’s locked door, a pull he couldn’t name but couldn’t kill, burning raw in his gut.