Older Man Lover

My heart seized. His face was unreadable as he turned the balled-up socks in his palm, thumb tracing the tell-tale slickness. I could almost hear the gears turning in his mind, calculating, assessing, deciding how to proceed.

"Care to explain this?" His voice was even, but held a new, unfamiliar note—something dark and electric...

My mouth opened, but no words came. My vision tunneled, the edges of the hotel room blurring as I stared at the evidence in his grip. I tried to stammer out an apology, some excuse, but the words caught, shriveled, and died in my throat.

He tossed the socks back onto the bed, still staring straight into me. "I've worked with a lot of people, but I've never had anyone pull a stunt like this," he said, stepping closer. His presence filled the room, his bulk and heat looming until I couldn't ignore the way my own body responded, shame curling in my veins.

“Lock the door,” he said. His voice was low, uninflected, but it vibrated through the air like the thrum of an engine waiting for a signal.

My hand shook as I slid the deadbolt home. For a moment, all I could do was stand with my back to the door, staring at the pattern of the carpet as if it might open up and swallow me.

He didn’t move. He just watched. The muscles in his jaw flexed, the silver in his beard catching the light. When I finally turned around, I could see what I’d missed before: the tented front of his suit pants, the unmistakable outline of arousal. There was no mistaking it—he wanted this, or at least wanted to see how far I’d go.

“Well?” he said, voice dropping even lower. “You going to stand there all day, or are you going to come over here and finish what you started?”

A fiery flush consumed my cheeks, and my legs trembled beneath me, yet I forced myself across the room, my gaze locked fiercely with his. With a commanding nod towards the floor, he barked, "You really like socks, don't you? Let's test that. Get down on the floor this instant."

I dropped, knees thudding against the utilitarian hotel carpet, pulse roaring in my ears. My boss towered above, and from this vantage his presence became a horizonless sky, heavy and suffocating, yet captivating. He cocked one foot up, slipped it from his loafer, and planted the broad, tan, sweat-shiny heel directly against my cheek. The force of it tipped my head so the threadbare carpet mashed against my lips, which parted involuntarily to inhale the deep funk of his skin.

Above me, he chuckled—a sound not unkind, but so deep it vibrated my ribs. "That's what I thought," he said, and levered his foot back, nudging my chin upward, demanding eye contact. I met his gaze through the haze of desire and humiliation; his pupils were blown dark and wide, and the bulge in his tailored pants looked ready to split the zipper.

He pressed again, not gently, this time smearing his thick heel down my jawline to rest atop my mouth, sealing it. The arch of his foot flexed above me, veins and sinew shifting as he bore down. Every atom of me thrummed with the need to yield further, to be pressed flatter, to be broken to his rhythm.

He leaned forward, the press of his weight sinking me into the floor, and let his toes splay over my lips. The sweat reek was impossible to ignore: not the sour gym-rot of panic, but a thick, animal brine, like sun-warmed leather and the ghost of cigarettes, with a coppery tang that rose off his skin in waves. My tongue flicked out, instinctual, desperate for his taste or some wordless approval. He grunted, not bothering to disguise the shiver that rippled through him.

"Jesus," he said, voice hoarse, "you like that, don't you?"

I nodded as best I could, face pinned, his toes grinding my lips open. The taste was a shock: bitter, salty, tinged with the oily tang of the sweat, but something in me twisted around it, a raw, animal hunger that made me want to gulp down every drop of his scent and grime. My cock throbbed so hard it hurt, and a whimper escaped me, muffled by his sole.

He rolled his foot, pressing the ball against my mouth until my nose flattened into his sole. My hands went to his ankle, gripping him, desperate for leverage to push deeper, harder, to bury myself in the dense funk of his skin. He let me, even flexed his toes so I could get at them, and I licked frantically at the crevices, dragging my tongue from the webbing to the callused pads, almost sobbing with the need to be closer, closer.

"Open up," he said, and his big toe forced its way between my lips, invading the warmth of my mouth with impatient authority. The texture shocked me: callused, thick with months of unfiled skin, yet I found myself slavering over it, chasing every hint of his sweat. I heard myself moan, a small pathetic sound, but he only seemed to relish it, grinding his heel into my jaw and twisting his foot so his toes stretched deep, nearly choking me.

Another toe joined the first, then another, until I was gagging on the width of him. The taste of flesh, sweat and musk filled my mouth, and the sheer brutality of it made my head spin. Each new inch scraped my tongue raw, and I couldn’t get enough. I wanted to crawl inside his skin, to merge with everything that made him so confidently, casually powerful.

He shifted his weight, letting his toes rest on my tongue, then pulled them free with a wet pop. His foot hovered above my face, slicked with saliva and shining in the yellow lamplight. I stared, breathless, as he flexed his foot and smiled—really smiled, the edge of a dimple digging through his beard—and for a moment I felt like a dog who’d just learned a new trick and craved the reward. He must have seen it in my eyes, because his own gaze softened for a second before hardening again.

“Take off the other one for me,” he said, voice flat, as if he were assigning a spreadsheet. He propped his foot on the bedspread, the second loafer dangling from his toes, and watched as I fumbled at the heel, lips trembling, tongue already desperate for the taste of him. I pulled the shoe free, and the stench hit me like a wave—richer, almost cheese-like. I pressed my face to the arch, inhaling greedily, and for the first time noticed the thick black hair that bristled across every inch of his sole. He watched the realization dawn in my eyes, and a slow, evil smile creased his face.

"Didn't think I'd be that furry, did you?" he murmured, flexing his toes so that the wiry hair quivered beneath my tongue. "Go on, see what a real man's foot tastes like."

I did as I was told. The hair tickled the roof of my mouth, tangling between my teeth, the taste saltier, more intimate, than anything I'd ever known. Every swipe of my tongue picked up a new note—damp cotton, acrid funk, the lingering trace of some dry cologne that clung to him like memory. But most of all, the tast of manliness. The hair on his instep was matted with sweat from the day, and I mouthed it, suckling at the skin until he exhaled a sharp breath, a low involuntary groan. The muscles in his calf tensed, bracing for the next assault.

He braced his heel on the mattress, raking his hairy shin against my cheek. "You really are a nasty little pig, aren't you?" His words should have humiliated, but instead they ignited something reckless and consuming. I pressed harder, digging my tongue along the deep-set creases, nose buried in the thicket of his foot hair, until the only thing I could taste or smell was him. My hands floated up to the cuff of his slacks, pawing at it, desperate to feel the bristling hair beneath. He let me, rolling his shoulders back, arms folded across his chest in silent appraisal as I debased myself in the arch of his foot. Fingers trembling, I clung to the meat of his calf, tracing the coarse fur upward until I reached the hem of his pant leg.

His eyes flicked downward, following my need. "You really want it, don't you?" he said, something softer threading through his tone. "You want to see what kind of man I am under all this."

I nodded, throat tight. I wanted it so badly it hurt. I wanted the rest of him—the dense thatch of body hair beneath his shirt, the musk that clung to his pits and groin, the cock I’d only glimpsed bulging in the fabric, never revealed. My lips worked up the length of his shin, tongue flicking at the salty skin

until my mouth reached the cuff of his pants. I hesitated, but he seized my chin and tilted my face up to his. His eyes locked on mine, a flicker of amusement melting into challenge. With one motion, he undid his belt, the metallic click reverberating through my body. He popped the button of his slacks and shucked them down, inch by inch, never breaking eye contact.

What spilled into view was pure, unfiltered boss—thick thighs dusted with steel-wool hair, and above them, a bulge that tested the taut limits of his white cotton boxer briefs. The fabric, already grayed at the seams from sweat and wear, was stamped with the faint shadow of his cock, thick and meaty and snaking down one thigh. The air changed, heavier, charged with funk and pheromone. I felt my knees dig into the carpet as he stepped out of his pants and planted himself before me, legs braced wide,looming and omnipotent, the pivot point of my universe. His cock twitched against the cotton, already leaking a dark circle of precum, the head oversized and swollen beneath the fabric. Sweat stains radiated from the base, and I could smell him from where I knelt—musky, animal, barely contained.

He hooked his thumbs into the waistband and yanked the boxers down. They bunched at his knees, then slid to the floor, and I was met with the full, obscene spectacle: his cock, thick as my wrist, curving up from a tangle of grizzled hair. The shaft was ruddy and veined, the head flushed and slick. His balls hung loose, heavy and veined, dappled with coarse hair. The scent hit me in the gut, a mixture of sweat, dried piss, and that same pungent, chemical masculinity that seemed to emanate from his every pore.

I didn't wait for instruction. I leaned in, mouth open, tongue straining for first contact. The taste of him—raw, brackish, utterly indecent—exploded on my palate, and I latched on with a hunger that bordered on worship. His cock was so thick I could barely take more than the head without gagging, but I fought through it, lips crammed tight around the corona, tongue swirling, desperate to give him every atom of pleasure I could muster.

He hissed out a breath, the force of it rattling through his chest, and buried his hand in my hair. For a moment he let me set the pace, let me suckle and lap and savor the salt-slick skin; then his grip tightened and he shoved forward, ramming his cock until it battered the back of my throat. My gag reflex kicked and my eyes watered, but I kept my lips locked, refused to be driven off him, even as my lungs screamed for air. He groaned again, and the sound was so deep and guttural. His hips rolled in slow, inexorable increments, feeding me inch after impossible inch, until I was choking on the taste of him, airless, eyes streaming. He fucked my face with a steady, relentless rhythm, like he was proving a point or breaking in a new piece of office furniture, and the pressure of his hand at the back of my head told me escape was not an option.

He held me there, buried to the root, until I thought I would pass out; then he yanked me back, strings of spit and precum lashing my lips, before hammering home again. The world collapsed to the mechanical clench and release of his cock in my throat, the scrape of wiry pubes against my nose, the searing humiliation and exaltation of being used. I wanted to sob, to beg, but the only sound I could make was a frantic, breathless gurgle, a desperate attempt to draw breath around the thick, pulsing shaft jamming my windpipe. My boss just laughed—a low, incredulous rumble—then pulled out and slapped his cock wetly across my cheek, smearing it with saliva and precum.

"Not bad," he said, voice softening just a fraction. "You want more?"

I nodded, dizzy and trembling, tongue lolling out, begging without words. He obliged, sliding his cockhead across my lips, letting me taste the sticky residue before plunging back in. This time, he held my head with both hands, guiding me, facefucking in short, savage thrusts that left my nose mashed against his belly and my mouth stretched to its limit. He grunted with each stroke, sweat beading on his brow, chest heaving under his shirt.

The taste, the smell, the relentless invasion—each second stripped away a layer of my self-control. I wanted to please him, to impress him, to make him proud. I bobbed my head in time with his thrusts, drool spilling down my chin, the slap of his balls against my throat only spurring me on. His hands never left my head, alternately petting and dominating, like I was some prize beast performing as expected.

The rhythm built, relentless, inexorable, a piston-pulse that erased thought and time. My own cock throbbed untouched, leaking against the roughness of the hotel carpet. Suddenly, his grip became punishing, his fingers digging into my scalp as his hips jerked forward in short, brutal snaps. He held me flush to his groin, his cock crammed so deep in my throat I felt the pulse of his heartbeat through the shaft. The world went white at the edges.

He threw his head back and growled, "Fuck, gonna—" and then he was coming, thick ropes of it blasting directly into my esophagus.

The first pulse hit so hard it rocked my head, his cock swelling to impossible girth as the hot, viscous load flooded my throat. He didn't let up; if anything, he jammed my nose deeper into his groin, sealing me there until I had no choice but to gulp down every gout of cum he pumped into me. My eyes streamed. My chest ached with the effort to breathe. But I swallowed, over and over, feeling each obscene spurt coat my insides.

When he finally released me, I collapsed backward, coughing and gasping, cum and spit leaking from my numb lips. He stood over me, breathing hard, his cock softening but still glistening with a final smear of white. He made no move to cover himself. For several seconds, neither of us spoke. The only sound was my ragged breathing and the faint hum of the air conditioner.