Straight Lines

The apartment smells like stale coffee and damp wool. Rain drums against the windowpane. You stand in the center of the room. Shirt already off. Jeans still on. Your belly hangs soft over the waistband. Dark hair trails down your stomach. Thick. Unkempt. You’ve carried this body for years. You don’t apologize for it. But tonight it feels heavy. Like you’re wearing too much skin. You pace. Stop. Check the clock. Three minutes late. You tell yourself you could still back out. Straight men don’t do this. You’ve repeated it like a prayer. But the fantasy has been rotting in your skull for months. Heavy. Insistent. It chewed through your excuses. Left you hollow. You hear footsteps on the landing. Slow. Deliberate. Your throat tightens. Three knocks echo through the door. You unlock it. Pull it open.

He stands on the threshold. Same height. Maybe leaner. Hard to tell under the dark jacket. His eyes drop to your chest. Then lower. No smile. No greeting. Just a nod. He steps past you. The air shifts when he enters. Thicker. Charged. You close the door. Turn the deadbolt. Your hands shake. You don’t let him see. He drops his coat on the chair. Turns to face you. His gaze lingers on your stomach. You feel a spike of self-consciousness. You brace. Wait for the flinch. It doesn’t come. He just looks. Like he’s reading a map. You shift your weight. Feel the denim rub against your thighs. Your cock is already half-hard. Just from the waiting. From the sheer stupid thrill of it. He doesn’t move closer. Just stands there. You swallow. Nod toward the couch. He doesn’t sit. Just waits. You don’t want to lead. You want him to take it. But this is your rule. Your fantasy. You unzip. Push the jeans down. Let them pool at your boots. Kick them off. Your cock springs free. Thick. Heavy. Wrapped in dark curls. Fully hard now. Aching. He steps in. Stops inches from your knees.

You brace against the wall. Palms flat against the plaster. Heart hammers against your ribs. You expect him to speak. He doesn’t. Just drops to his knees. The impact vibrates through the floorboards. You look down. Watch his hands settle on your thighs. Calloused fingers. Warm. They don’t grope. Just rest. Grounding. He looks up at you. Eyes dark. Focused. Then he leans in. His breath hits your tip first. Hot. Wet. You close your eyes. This is it. No turning back. His mouth opens. Swallows the head. You gasp. Shoulders tense. The heat is immediate. Slick. Real. Not some pixelated dream. Flesh and muscle and saliva. He pulls back just enough to drag his tongue along the ridge. Slow. Deliberate. You bite down on a groan. Hips twitch forward. He takes you deeper. Lips stretch. Cheek hollows. The suction is insane. Tight. Wet. Relentless. You grip the wall harder. Knuckles blanch. Your stomach rolls. Not from disgust. From overload. You’ve never let anyone touch you like this. Never wanted to. But this is exactly what you pictured. No hands on his back. No kissing. No fucking his mouth. Just you. Just him taking it. He works the shaft. Mouth sliding down. Tongue flicking the underside. You feel every millimeter. Every drag. He hums. The vibration shoots straight to your balls. You shudder. Look down through half-lidded eyes. His hair falls forward. Hides his face. You watch his jaw work. Watch his throat open. He takes you to the root. Gags slightly. Doesn’t pull away. Just adjusts. Breathes through his nose. Keeps sucking.

You let out a shaky breath. The fantasy is gone. Replaced by wet reality. Your cock swells thicker. Veins pulse under the skin. He pulls off. Spits on his palm. Strokes your length. Fast. Rough. The lube is thin but enough. Friction burns in the best way. You watch his hand pump you. Watch his other hand drift down to his own jeans. He doesn’t unzip. Just rubs through the fabric. You see the outline of his cock. Small. Hard. Pushing against the denim. He strokes himself in quick, tight motions. Eyes locked on your dick. Not on his own. This isn’t a trade. It’s a gift. You feel a spike of something sharp. Guilt? No. Relief. He doesn’t want anything back. He just wants to watch you break. You arch your back. Hips roll forward into his mouth. He takes the cue. Swallows you again. Deeper. Faster. The wet sounds fill the room. Slick. Loud. Unapologetic. You’re losing it. Balls draw up tight. Heat coils in your gut. You try to hold on. He feels it. Pulls off. Licks the slit clean. Looks up. “Let go,” he says. Voice rough. Low. You don’t answer. Can’t. He takes you back. All the way. Throat opens. Hand strokes your shaft. You snap.

It hits hard. A white-hot rush. You groan. Loud. Raw. Back arches off the wall. Hips thrust forward uncontrollably. He holds you there. Doesn’t pull away. First rope hits his tongue. Hot. Thick. He swallows. Fast. You pulse again. And again. He takes it all. Mouth sealed tight. No spill. Just wet, rhythmic gulps. Your legs shake. Knees buckle. You slide down the wall. Catch yourself. He eases off slowly. Lets the last drops drain. Wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Stands. Smooths his shirt. Doesn’t look away. You’re breathing like you’ve run a mile. Chest heaving. Cock softening. Still sticky. Still throbbing faintly. He adjusts his jeans. Zips up. Picks up his coat from the chair. You watch him. Don’t speak. He doesn’t ask for water. Doesn’t ask for thanks. Just walks to the door. Unlocks it. Steps out. The click of the latch is final. Silence crashes back in. Thick. Clean. You sit on the floor. Lean your head back. Smell of sex and sweat hangs in the air. Your stomach rises and falls. Heart slows. The guilt is gone. Burned away in the heat. You close your eyes. Let the quiet settle. It’s done. Exactly how you needed it.