Four months. I’ve bolted up these stairs before, but never this frantic. Panting hard, I hit the landing. No knock needed. Door swings wide. He yanks me in, mouth slamming mine. Tongues tangle wild, teeth clash like rutting stags.
Four months. Sent to Thailand for that shitty rig inspection. Me on corrosion, Denis GĂ©denard on structural. Endless tests, dive plans, lab reports bounced back eighty times. Begged for a mid-mission week home—denied. Costs, delays, and that killer line: ‘GĂ©denard manages with a wife and kids.’ Bullshit. Would I fight harder if I were straight?
The Fevered Ascent
Four fucking months. He rips my shirt open. Hot breath on my chest. I gasp, lungs burning from the sprint, cock throbbing harder. I hunt his mouth. Rough cheek scrapes my lips—fuck, it’s good. Teeth bump again. I pull back, he chases. I dive in, hand locks his head. He pushes my wrist, I shove forward. His hand forces deeper. Tongues wrestle, bodies grind. Breath shortens. We sync.
Four months. Saturdays, the rig boss dragged us out—GĂ©denard, me, clients. Pushed some spicy-sweet local spot. Food? Who cares. Talk always swung to escorts. Sleek Thai girls in slit skirts, satin clinging curves, broken English. GĂ©denard grilled ’em innocent, then crude jokes. Clients howled. I faked smiles, chatted my date. Nights ended quick—no one overdid booze.
Four fucking months. Shirt hits floor. His hands claim my back, rough caresses rip sighs from me. I fumble his belt. He grinds his bulge into mine, teasing. Finally free. Through boxers, his hard cock pulses. My hand strokes frantic. Could jerk him dry. He pulls back. Eyes me. Tall Latino twink, smug. ‘You want this dick?’
I grin, arms crossed. He’s naked fast. Dim light gilds his skin—brow arch, nose ridge, shoulder curve. Can’t wait to bite his neck at climax. That cock… Never thought it’d drop me to knees. But here I am, begging. Nuzzle his pubes. Sour, musky hit. Kiss each ball base slow. ‘Missed you so fucking much.’ Then swallow him deep.
Cabs dropped us at the hotel, each with a tiny escort. I’d drag mine to the bar, tip big, shake hands, goodnight. Their surprised smiles lit those nights. GĂ©denard clocked it late. Distanced quick. Panic hit—’homo’ in man-camps kills. But I pivoted. Nabbed a ‘date,’ laughed loud. Then struck: ‘She good?’
He blinked—I’m usually quiet. ‘You scored hot.’ He swelled. ‘Not bad.’ Paused. ‘Thais not your thing?’ Alliance glinted. I snapped: ‘Prefer when they want it.’ He flushed. Monday, he cornered me, fake-bro: ‘Dude, your shit cramped my start.’ Shame hit later. Never paid for it. But a full-lip, golden-ass guy? I’d cave.
Exploding into Ecstasy and Shadow
Suck greedy. Skin tightens, slick with spit. Tongue teases ridge, frenum sharp. Nibble head, smooth hot. He moans: ‘Stop, fuck.’ I rise, strip, head to bed. He hugs from back, lips on neck. Fingers ghost my belly, graze cock-tip. Licks my pre-cum, feeds it to me. Beard stings.
Grab his wrist—no games. Ride home talk: GĂ©denard offers lift. ‘Marie-ThĂ©rèse picks me.’ Wanted to scream no. Hide my life, pay the price. ‘Thanks her for me.’ She’s his opposite—blonde, busty, swaying tits-ass, perfume choking. Drop bag, skip shower. Christophe’s close.
He sprawls, smiles calm—jealous spark. ‘Love my ass, huh?’ Offers it. I rim deep. Tongue wrinkles his hole, bitter-choc taste. He bucks back, breaths ragged. Tease: ‘What you waiting for, fucker?’
Condom on slow. Lube my shaft deliberate. He growls over shoulder: ‘Move or else.’ Grin, push him down. Fingers slick his crack first. He arches, writhes. Line up, ease in. He slams back, balls-deep. His ride milks me savage. Hold off.
Take control. Slow, deep thrusts. He sighs, gasps, moans. Speed up. Lose it—pound erratic, brutal. Shake, explode.
Pull out, ditch rubber. Collapse sweaty. He laps my chest tender, kisses soft. I drink his lips. Whispers: ‘Rest up. Round two, you’re mine.’
Four months. Back to hiding. Thrill of the unspeakable rush lingers.