I had thought about it for years, the way some men think about skydiving or moving to another country. It sat in the back of my mind like an itch I refused to scratch, until the night I finally stopped pretending I didn’t want it. I was twenty-eight, living alone in a one-bedroom apartment above a quiet street, and I had spent the evening scrolling through the usual apps when a message arrived from someone I had chatted with a few times before. His name was Marcus. Thirty-four, short beard, the kind of calm voice that made every sentence feel like an invitation rather than a question. We had never met in person, but that night he asked if I wanted to come over for a drink and see where the evening went.
I said yes before I could talk myself out of it.
When I arrived at his place, a modest house on the edge of town, Marcus opened the door in jeans and a fitted black T-shirt. He smiled like he already knew why I was nervous. We drank whiskey on his couch, talking about work and old movies, but the air between us kept tightening. Every time our knees brushed I felt it low in my stomach. Eventually he set his glass down and said, “You’ve never done this before, have you?”
I shook my head. My throat was dry.
“That’s all right,” he said. “We go slow. You tell me if you want to stop.”
He leaned in and kissed me. It was softer than I expected, warm and unhurried. His hand rested on the back of my neck, thumb stroking just behind my ear. I kissed him back, tasting the whiskey on his tongue, and felt my cock start to harden against the zipper of my jeans. When he pulled away, his eyes were darker.
“Take your shirt off,” he said quietly.
I did. He ran his palms over my chest, down to my stomach, then lower, cupping me through my jeans. I gasped. He smiled again, that same calm smile, and undid my belt. My cock sprang free, already leaking at the tip. Marcus wrapped his fingers around it and stroked once, slow and firm, watching my face the whole time.
“You’re beautiful like this,” he murmured.
Then he stood and unbuttoned his own jeans. When he pushed them down, his cock was thick and half-hard, curving slightly upward. The sight of it made my mouth water in a way that surprised me. I had watched plenty of videos, but seeing it in real life, so close and real, was different. Marcus stepped closer until the head brushed my lips.
“You don’t have to take it all,” he said. “Just taste it. Get used to it.”
I opened my mouth and let the head slide onto my tongue. The skin was hot and smooth, slightly salty from a drop of precum. I closed my lips around him and sucked gently, experimenting with the pressure. Marcus let out a low sound that went straight to my own cock. Encouraged, I took a little more, feeling the weight of him on my tongue. My jaw ached already, but I didn’t want to stop. I bobbed my head slowly, learning the rhythm, letting saliva coat him so everything felt slick and easy.
Marcus threaded his fingers through my hair, not pushing, just holding. “That’s it,” he whispered. “Use your tongue on the underside. Yeah, right there.”
I did what he said, dragging the flat of my tongue along the thick vein. His hips twitched forward, and I gagged a little when he hit the back of my throat. Tears pricked my eyes, but I didn’t pull away. Instead I breathed through my nose and tried again, relaxing as best I could. The taste of him, the heat, the way his breathing changed every time I swallowed around him—it was overwhelming in the best way. My own cock throbbed untouched between my legs.
After a few minutes he eased me off. “Come here,” he said, and pulled me to my feet. We kissed again, deeper this time, and I could taste myself on his tongue mixed with the flavor of his cock. He led me to the bedroom, stripped the rest of our clothes away, and laid me on my back. For a while he just looked at me, running his hands over my body like he was memorizing it. Then he straddled my chest and fed his cock back into my mouth.
This angle was different. I could take more of him. I reached up and gripped his hips, guiding him to thrust shallowly while I sucked and licked. Every time the head slid over my tongue I moaned around it, the vibration making Marcus curse under his breath. My own hand found my cock and I stroked in time with the movement of my mouth. I was close already, embarrassingly so, just from the act of giving.
Marcus pulled out again and shifted lower. He kissed me hard, then moved down my body until his mouth was on my cock. The sudden wet heat made me arch off the bed. He sucked me with practiced ease while his fingers traced my hole, pressing but not entering. I came with a broken cry, pulsing down his throat. He swallowed everything, then crawled back up and kissed me so I could taste myself on his lips.
“Turn over,” he said, voice rough.
I did. He slicked his fingers and opened me slowly, one at a time, until I was rocking back onto his hand and begging. When he finally pushed inside me, the stretch burned in a way that made my spent cock twitch again.
He moved gently at first, then harder when I asked for it. I came a second time with his cock buried deep, my face pressed into the pillow, his name on my lips.
Afterward he held me, stroking my back until my breathing evened out. I felt wrung out and strangely peaceful, like something heavy had been lifted. Marcus kissed my shoulder and whispered, “You did so well.”
I left his house just before dawn, legs unsteady, mouth still tasting of him. On the drive home I kept touching my lips, replaying every moment. I knew I would go back. The itch was gone, replaced by something warmer, something that felt like the beginning of a new hunger I was finally ready to feed.
