Guestart OC (Patreon)

The view is all city lights, a glittering grid stretching to a dark horizon. Smooth, synth-heavy lounge music pulses at a low, insistent throb. You start to second guess yourself... do you really want this?

Then... there he is.... He’s a monument of sinew and swagger, backlit by the ambient glow. The sharp, clean scent of his expensive shower gel still hangs in the air, undercut by the deeper, saltier note of a recent, punishing workout. His shoulders are broad enough to block a doorway, every muscle in his back and arms defined with a vascular, post-pump sharpness.

He wears only a pair of low-slung, Light grey briefs. They hug the powerful curve of his glutes and the dense pillars of his thighs. His mustache, a perfect, bristling chevron of chestnut brown, twitches slightly as he lets out a slow, controlled breath.

His walk isn’t a walk. It’s a saunter. A rolling, hypnotic gait that speaks of absolute ownership of the space, the night, the very air he moves through. His heavy-lidded gaze is fixed on you.

As he moves, one hand rises. It’s a broad, strong hand, the knuckles prominent, a light dusting of dark hair across the back. He lays it flat against the solid wall of his pectoral muscle, feeling the steady, powerful thump of his heart beneath.

The hand begins its journey.

It slides, palm rough against smooth skin, down the rigid landscape of his torso. It maps the deep central groove between his pecs, then over the ridged, defined slabs of his abdomen. Each muscle is a separate, hard-earned kingdom. The trail of hair leading from his narrow narrows into the waistband of his briefs is a dark, beckoning arrow.

His fingers don’t pause. They glide lower taking hold of something thick and meaty. His gaze, hooded and intense, never leaves your eyes.

He finds what he’s seeking. Not searching, but claiming.

A low, guttural hum vibrates in his chest, almost lost in the music. His hand cups the formidable bulge straining against the soft fabric. A deliberate, possessive grope. The material stretches, taut and revealing, outlining a thick, hardening length. He squeezes once, a slow, testing pressure, his thumb stroking a heavy, prominent vein through the cotton.

A smirk touches the corners of his mouth, hidden by the mustache. It’s the look of a man who knows exactly what he’s carrying, and exactly what he’s about to do with it.

With his other hand, he hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his briefs. The city lights gleam off the sweat-sheened planes of his stomach and the powerful V of his hips as he finally reaches the edge of the mattress.

He stops. Stands there for a beat, a silhouette of pure, concentrated virility, his hand still working slowly, confidently, over the thick, hard meat tenting his underwear. An unspoken promise, hanging in the air.

Your insecurities and doubts melt away cast adrift in lustful abandon.