She Won't Fuck Me? Okay,He Will(3)

He didn’t stop me as I fled to the spare room, shutting the door softly behind me.

I stood there in the dark like an idiot, heart hammering, cock still half-hard and aching from Marcus’s grip. I’d run. Actually run from the one thing I’d fantasized about for longer than I cared to admit. What the fuck was wrong with me?

I stripped mechanically, threw myself onto the bed, and stared at the ceiling. The sheets smelled faintly of laundry detergent and the ghost of Marcus’s cologne from when he’d hugged me earlier. My skin prickled everywhere his hand had been…my thigh, the zipper, the slow, filthy stroke along my shaft that had nearly made me come in my jeans like a teenager.

Sleep wasn’t coming. Not tonight.

Instead, my mind replayed everything in merciless loops.

Sarah.

Beautiful, kind Sarah, my wife of twelve years hadn’t touched me like that in forever. Sex had become a polite negotiation. The lights were always off, and we always did a missionary that was quick and quiet so the kids wouldn’t hear. She’d kiss me goodnight afterward, roll over, and fall asleep while I lay there staring at the dark with a soft and unsatisfied dick. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been truly hard for her. It's been years. Maybe three or four.

I loved her. God, I did. But desire? That had dried up somewhere between mortgage payments and parent-teacher nights.

And then there was Marcus.

Marcus, who’d always been too big, too loud and too alive. Marcus, who used to slap my ass in the college locker room and laugh when I flushed red. Marcus, who hugged too tight at family gatherings, whose body pressed against mine just long enough for me to feel the heat of him before he pulled away.

Tonight he hadn’t pulled away.

Tonight he’d slid his hand up my thigh like he owned me, wrapped those thick fingers around my cock, and stroked me like he’d been waiting years to do it. Because he had. He’d said it himself: *I’ve always wondered how you’d feel in my fist.*

I shivered under the covers, my cock filling again at the memory. The ache between my legs hadn’t eased; if anything, it had gotten worse. My dick strained against the loose pajama pants, a wet spot already blooming where the head leaked steadily. I shifted my hips, trying to ignore it, but the friction made me hiss.

Minutes dragged. Maybe an hour. I couldn’t tell.

My hand moved without permission, drifting down my stomach, fingers slipping under the waistband. The first touch to my balls made me shudder. I was full, heavy and drawn up tight. I cupped them, rolled them slowly while imagining Marcus’s bigger hand doing it instead. A low, involuntary moan slipped out, it echoed in the empty room.

Fuck, that felt good.

Emboldened, I dragged my fingers higher, tracing the throbbing length of my cock. It jumped against my palm, slick with pre-cum. I circled the head with my thumb, spreading the wetness, pressing into that sensitive spot just under the crown. Another moan tore free. It was louder this time and ragged. My hips lifted off the bed, chasing more pressure.

I pictured Marcus’s mouth there instead. His stubble scraping my thighs, his tongue swirling over the slit, sucking the head between those full lips while his dark eyes looked up at me. God, the way he’d growl my name with my dick down his throat…

I stroked myself once, twice, slow and firm, foreskin gliding over the swollen cap. Pleasure punched through me so hard my back arched. My free hand fisted the sheets, knuckles white. I was dripping now, obscene wet sounds filling the room as I worked the head, twisting on every upstroke just the way I liked.

“Fuck… Marcus…” The name escaped before I could stop it, low and wrecked.

And then reality slammed into me like ice water.

Sarah. I froze, my hand still wrapped around my leaking cock with a heaving chest. Shame burned hot in my gut, but underneath it was the truth I couldn’t dodge anymore.

Sarah had never made me this hard. Not in years, if I was brutally honest. Sex with her had always been… nice, gentle and loving. But never this raw need that clawed at my throat and made my balls ache like they’d explode if I didn’t come soon.

Even when she did touch me, it was careful and almost dutiful. It was always quick handjobs under the covers with an off rhythm. She’d finish me politely, kiss my cheek, and turn away. No one had ever turned me on like this. Not even her. Just Marcus. One touch from my best friend and I was moaning his name in the dark.

The realization hit so hard I kicked the tangled sheets off the bed in frustration. The duvet hit the floor with a muffled thud. I sat up, elbows on my knees, head in my hands, cock still throbbing angrily against my thigh, demanding attention I refused to give it.

I couldn’t do this here. Not in this bed and definitely not with her picture on the nightstand smiling at me.

I raked a hand through my hair with a shaky breath. The clock glowed 2:47 a.m. The house was silent, but I wasn’t. My pulse thundered in my ears, in my dick, everywhere.

The clock on the nightstand glowed 1:47 a.m. Then 2:13. Then 3:05.

Fuck this!

I couldn't stay in this room another second. I stood up, because pretending I didn’t want this and him was fucking killing me.

I pulled on the same loose pajama pants with no boxers, because apparently shame had left the building. I crept barefoot into the hall. The house was silent, of course it would be quiet, it's 3:05.

The living room was empty. The couch still held the indent of his body, the faint warmth where he’d been sitting still lingered . His wine glass sat abandoned on the coffee table. No Marcus.

I stood there a moment, my pulse thudding in my throat, then remembered. The basement.

He’d always loved it down there. It was his little escape when he visited. He said it was quiet and private. Sarah teased him about turning it into a man cave. He’d grin and say he liked having a place that was just his.

I padded down the stairs, careful on the creaky third step. The air grew cooler, carrying the faint scent of cedar and tempting Marcus.

The basement door was cracked open, a sliver of warm light spilling out.

I pushed it wider.

Marcus was sprawled in the old leather armchair in the corner, legs spread wide, sweatpants shoved down just enough to free his cock. His head was tipped back, eyes closed, one big hand wrapped around himself, stroking slowly. The other hand cupped his balls, rolling them gently as his hips rolled up into his fist.

He was beautiful like this. His thick thighs tense, stomach tight, chest rising and falling with ragged breaths. His cock—fuck! it was even bigger than it had felt against mine earlier…foreskin pulled back to reveal the slick, swollen head. Pre-cum glistened at the slit, dripping down over his fingers with every slow pump.

A low, broken sound escaped him…it was a half moan and a half curse.

I froze in the doorway, my breath caught in my throat. I was unable to move and look away.