#dbf joel

you have flowers twisted into your hair, that’s what he sees first. little buttercups twisted into the braid in your hair, chin tucked over your knees. you’re wearing a summerdress, the sort of gingham he’s seen you in all the time when you came back from college. 

it’s a bright day in early september, too early that summer still lingers, but late enough that the party was almost rescheduled because of a shower. 

he doesn’t really know you, hasn’t ever really known you. he’d moved in the year you left for college, and he’s only seen photos of you in his neighbour’s house. grinning achievements, awkward family photos. your father’s a lovely man, someone he can play pool with and talk cars about. there’s not much else to talk about, the neighbourhood full of WASP moms and dad’s that were always on business trips – but your dad is there, a wave whilst mowing the lawn, a chat over the fence. 

you’re back from college, and it’s your 24th birthday today. and you’re not off in tampa partying with your friends, you’re here in texas, in your hometown, watching your father flip patties on his barbeque whilst your mother pours jugs of lemonade. sipping your glass timidly. your hair is loose, and there are flowers in the braid, like you’ve lovingly placed them there, a decoration given to you by nature herself. 

it’s a simple neighbourhood barbeque, and of course joel’s there too. why wouldn’t he be there? your dad makes amazing burgers, and there are some perks to living in this neighbourhood after all.

the other perk is you, waving to him politely as he walks in, something strained in your smile behind your glasses. he takes a cup from your mother, the lemonade sweet and tart. and then takes in you, sweet in your gingham dress, but never tart. it flowed down to your ankles, the checks sweet againt your skin.  joel’s eyes linger on the locket on your neck, a small silver heart that’s tarnished with wear, always seen you wear it in every photo in the house, every time you’ve come to visit. a silver heart that’s beautiful, just like you.

“guess i should say happy birthday.” he nods at you, and you see his brown eyes sparkle. delightful, with his crows feet creased around them. he looks rather handsome, he always has, from all the days you’ve spent back home from college, gazing at him through your bedroom window as he worked on his car. a dreamboat, a man. one that would always treat you right, stop you from falling with his broad shoulders and big arms. 

you stand up, brushing your knees. crumbs from the burger you ate. you blush, it’s ridiculous how someone like joel – your neighbour joel, your dad’s friend joel could make you blush this easy, but you blush anyway. 

you look into your cup, and miss the way his eyes linger on your neckline too long, frills and a square, enough to show enough, but not enough to show quite nearly as enough as he wanted to see. you’re pretty, pretty in a way that doesn’t seem real. hazy like summer afternoons, hazy like a memory joel thinks.

“thank you.” you say quietly, looking back up, seeing his eyes again. he sees yours, wide, like a deer. doe eyed, looking up at him like his compliment means the world to you. 

he shifts on a foot, he feels like a blushing teenager again but he’s pushing fifty.. “so, any plans?” he means any plans for your birthday, anything that you’ll do with your friends, things a 24 year old should be doing. getting drunk at a bar, having a one night stand, not standing here in her parents’ backyard, making small talk with an old man like him.

your nose twitches like a little bunny, and you tilt your head at him, “yeah, of course, the phd programme starts in mid september, now that the holidays are nearly over.”

it’s pitying, the look he gives you. but maybe there’s something else, awe. he remembers 24, or more like he doesn’t remember it. blackout drunk in a bar, and a hookup in the bar’s bathrooms. you are standing here, lemonade in hand, smiling shyly up to him behind your glasses like he hangs the moon. 

your dad walks over, and claps you on the shoulder, “ain’t i just proud of her, 24 and already in a phd programme.” a wince, his voice is so loud, his hands are so heavy. joel laughs with him good naturedly, friends, that’s what they are. they’re equals and you with your head behind a book, are not. 

“not in the phd programme yet,” you raise an eyebrow, “i’ll be in  phd programme when i move in, when it’s all confirmed.” voice small, slow and careful, like your steps are, like your smile is. his eyes linger on your chest again, the swell of your breasts under the gingham dress, cut modestly so that it’s innocent, you’re barely ever looking to impress anyone anyway. but he gets impressed, bubbles in his stomach where he wishes he could gently pull the straps down, and worship you. 

you don’t catch his gaze, silly and innocent as your eyes linger on the grass too long. when you look up, he’s already looking away, you two are like paralell lines that never meet. home, life, everything suffocates you - there is a pressure to be perfect in the eyes of everyone you meet, a pressure to perform like they want you to be. your father with his kind eyes and strict rules, grad school, college, the phd. he’s proud of you, you can hear it drip from his voice, “proud of my girl, doing so well for herself.” 

you aren’t proud of yourself. not a single party, not a sip of alcohol, never a smoke from a friend however many times they offered. no boys, no dates, just sitting behind a desk and working. working in high school, working in college, working through grad school, and then your damn phd. your mother always told you the best things happened to those who wait, but there was never a good thing that happened with you. 

“thanks dad.” you smile, a lie. for some reason, joel can hear it. your hips curve in your dress, he can see them as the window blows, making your dress flutter against you like a butterfly’s wings. there’s a misery in your eyes, one he can feel, “enjoy the party joel.” you smile at him. your smiles are always freely given, all soft and sweet with your plush lips curving upwards. he can see the lip gloss glisten in the sunlight, pink and pretty. just like you. 

he tears his eyes from your lips, forcing himself to imagine anything but his best friend’s daughter’s lips ghosting over his neck. pouting at him as he leaned in for a kiss, the pink tinted lipgloss leaving kiss marks on his shirt, marking him as yours, “thanks.” he clears his throat, “you too.”

“you want me to get anything for you?” you ask, because of course you do. however hard you worked in college, you had always been taught to serve, quietly and sweetly. there was nothing wrong in being a good host, and you always saw your mother being gracious with serving your father. it was an act of love, drilled into you that a woman must serve her husband. joel wasn’t that, but your heart beat faster when you spoke to him, and in your life with no boys and no dates, that was enough. 

“yeah, okay, i’d like a beer, if that’s okay?” he asked, and you nodded, dress swishing around your legs as you walk to the cooler. you’ve always picked up beer bottles for people, never asked for a sip though, the smell makes you feel heady, it tastes disgusting, and you don’t know why anyone would put themselves through that.

the condensation on the bottle is dripping when you hand it to him, your hands touch, almost. his big fingers brushing against yours, a spark. you swear you felt a current jolt through you, but it might have been the coolness of your fingertips against his warm ones. 

the party is nothing much, grill burgers and pickles and onions. you help out your mother plate the food, graciously, like some angel feeding the hungry in a gingham dress and bright eyes. the good daughter, the good wife. that’s what you’d been taught, to study, but to serve. but he remembers the brush of your fingertips, and hopes you do too.

it becomes a thing, afterwards. his eyes seeking you out in the early days of september. you’re often on your porch, reading about your subject. it’s ridiculous how much time you pour over it, and he runs a business, a whole business. when he leaves for his office in the mornings, he waves at you. you always wave back, nose still buried in your book, glasses slipping off your nose. 

plain, ordinary. he’s dated a string of women before, but you’re shy and sweet. always politely calling out, “good morning mr miller!” over the fence when he walked to his car. wearing your shirt and sweatpants, always a little baggy so your right shoulder slipped off. and he always noticed the bra strap against your skin. pointelle blue, velvet green, flower patterned white. your knees up under your chin in the swinging porch chair. book laid in front of you on the table, that you go back to, again. 

one night, when summer doesn’t seem to be slipping away, you knock on his door. his house is silent, his old house was filled with the ghost of his daughter’s laughter, but this new house is silent. he doesn’t speak much to people, but he opens it to you.

you wear another dress, this time blue, with white polka dots and puffed sleeves. the square neckline stays modest, the silver heart still resting delicately against your collarbone. you’re nervous, he can smell that on you. the way your eyes dart back to your house, like this is a wolf’s den. 

24 and you shouldn’t be acting like this, not really. but you’ve never knocked at a man’s door before. no boys, no boyfriends, no nothing. that was the rule your dad gave you when he agreed to pay for your education, you’d never had a chance to between lectures and studying and exams. not a single date, not a single party. being a blushing virgin at 24, something so embarassing. 

and here you were, blushing as you waited for your dad’s best friend and neighbour to open the door for you, calling out from somewhere inside the house to “yeah yeah, wait a minute f’me!”

his voice, was so low. it made you want to clench your thighs, cross them pathetically. you needed him like plants needed the sun, dreamed about the few moments you’d seen him when you came home from college over the years. he opens the door to you, all grizzled, in grey sweatpants and a tight black tshirt. your eyes can’t help but shift below to see his bulge against the grey sweatpants. it’s just a quick look, but god does it make you wetter. 

he’s big in there, in those unassuming sweatpants, and your shy eyes move back to the glass tupperware in your hands. “here, i made pie.” you hold it out to him, and he stares at you like you’re the prettiest thing in the world. the moon glows behind you like a halo, your dress’s neckline has slipped slightly to show the dip of your breasts, and you hold out the box to him. “we have leftovers, i felt like you should have it.”

“jee, thanks, y’gonna make an old man like me blush.” he rubs his neck gently, and you laugh at that, your other hand going to cover your mouth.

“i don’t think you’re that old.” the words slip past your tongue, and you shut your mouth after that before you make a fool of yourself. he doesn’t want you, couldn’t want you. you were too young, too fucking stupid about love, too naive about sex, and you weren’t even here that often, “not as old as my dad anyway.”

the words are heavy between you, and then he takes the box from your hand, “glad i got someone in my corner at least.” he gives a small smile, and you swear you can see something twitch in his loose grey sweatpants. 

“heat it up before you eat it, mr miller.” you say, all polite again, like you didn’t just see the imprint of his cock inside his sweatpants. 

“ ‘course i will.” he says, swallowing, watching you walk away, your pert ass against the cotton of the summerdress, one that flowed to your knees. he wants to hear you talk again, “what pie is it?”

you turn back, and tilt your head, “pumpkin, made it myself using mom’s recipie.” 

when he closes the door, his cock is half hard, and he jerks off at night to the thoughts of you. you in your pretty dresses, looking like sin, your eyes focused the pages of a book. he imagines his cum spurting inside you, fucking you so hard the ache that sits behind your eyes vanishes in a haze of pain, cockdumb and drooling.

he’s working on his car when you see him through your bedroom window. your next door neighbour, your father’s friend. joel miller is working on his car, half in and half out of the garage. he’s sweat through his shirt, the outline of his muscles imprinted on the grey fabric. your chin is propped up on your hands, and you can see him through the window, back against you as he bends down to work on the engine. 

grey sweatpants, he wears grey sweatpants, and you can feel your heart quicken in your chest. after the night when you gave him the pie, you’ve been looking at him more, daring to look at him more. he’s working on his car, and you can see it from your bedroom window, making grunts as he bent over the hood of the car, rumaging around in it.

a distraction from your book, making you drool a little as he looks so damn good. distraction from studying, distraction from worrying about your phd. he looks so. damn. good. working on his car or leaving for work in the mornings, or even walking out in his backyard without his shirt on, after his shower. he looks good, too good to be true. 

a man. you don’t know anything about men, kept as far away from them as possible. your dad’s rules, your mom’s warnings. not a single party, not a single nightclub. your roomie used to laugh at you, invites fell through, you were frumpy and that was that. you didn’t even touch yourself, couldn’t bring yourself to. the shame of wanting to touch yourself, the shame of not being the good girl you’d spent your entire life being. 

but joel, he made you want to cross and uncross your legs, clench weakly against nothing. you needed him, desperately. and there was never a reason to look at you. 

yet your panties get damp, and your hips buck at the air, at nothing, at the thought of him shirtless, sweaty, with his grey sweatpants on. you need him.

the box arrives at your house a week after your birthday, a little brown box with your friends’ handwriting on it. sophie and alexa from los angeles, you’d been the odd one out of the three, but they liked you, parties or no parties. you’d missed them in grad school, one of them taking a job as a PA in LA and one a housewife, missed them because they made you feel whole. never made you feel bad about abstaining from boys and parties, waiting for the one. waiting for marriage, like a ‘good woman’ should.

a box in your hands, and your father asks who it’s from. “from sophie and alexa!” you shout back, opening it softly in your room. 

a package falls out, wrapped in wrapping paper, ome cute pens that you liked from that one stationary shop you saw when you went to visit sophie last, and a crochet frog that alexa made you. then a note. 

“happy birthday baby, can’t believe you’ve hit 24 now. 24 years old, and nearly a PHD GIRL! we’re so fucking proud of you, always knew someone like you could do it. you sacrificed so much, drove us out of so many clubs. we’re so proud of you for getting into that phd programme, and finally realising how damn cute you look in those summerdresses. now you need to get dicked down, where’s the husband girl, where’s the wedding invite!!! i hope it’s soon, and to sweeten the deal, we pooled our money together to get you something cute for you and your husband, whenever you find that special guy. i hope you like it, hope it fits."

love you so much girl, sophie + alexa

the package. you feel for the package. soft, small, and you open it to reveal a set of blue lingere. a lace set, pastel blue with roses stiched onto the center. plain in a way that fitted you so dearly, but lacy on the trims. you’ve never had any fancy lingere, never a reason to be cute, nobody was seeing you like this, were they? and you could imagine the heartbreak on your mother’s face if she found anything like that in the laundry, the shame on your father’s. no, you could never get somehting like this, but they’d thought it would be nice for you. 

it’s cutesy, all pastel like the clothes you usually wear. you put it on with shaking hands, fastening the ribbons on the hips.your hands pull your shirt and bra off, and slip the top on, it’s a simple cami top that cups your breasts and cuts off halfway through your stomach, leaving the curve of your waist bare. 

it’s funny, you look good. all sweet like this, but it feels weird on you, like a costume you’re wearing. you don’t look anything like this person. you’re not this person, you’re still you. 24, grad school, your eyes are still behind your glasses, hair still in that sloppy ponytail, but god does it fit you well. at least sophie and alexa meant well and did well — not that it would be used anytime soon.

you look at yourself in the mirror, a little strange, a little awkwardly. the  one man you wanted to see look at you like this barely cared, barely looked at you when you’d been dreaming about him for years.

meanwhile the man you want, joel miller, forty seven, working on his goddamn car, looks up. he’s looking at the clouds, hoping that the grey passes over soon and the clear skies shine through. he’s looking at the clouds, then his eyes skirt over your window.

he sees you in the lace, and his mouth goes dry. you with your soft curves and those doe eyes, looking at yourself in the mirror. the lace bralette on you, fitting your breasts well. 

fuck. you looked good like that, all lace and pastel blue that looked so pretty against your skin. you turned from side to side, and he could do nothing but watch, eyes moving before his brain did. but not before his dick.

he could feel himself getting hard in his jeans as he kept watching, sure it didn’t seem right, but you looked so pretty. like a sin he was willing to indulge in over and over again. he couldn’t look away, couldn’t look away from the show he was seeing behind the glare of glass and the sunlight. 

your curtains aren’t closed, they’re wide open, and you’re admiring yourself from your window, turning and twisting, adjusting the lace so it looks half decent on you. you hear a toolbox drop, and so does your fucking heart.

you shut them suddenly, and the show is over. there’s an embarrassing wet patch on his jeans from where his cock has leaked precome, and he walks inside. he’s seen you, all soft and pretty, in something soft and pretty again. ribbons on your lace, hot hot, and the memory will stay etched in his mind.

your breath hitches, and you pray he didn’t see. he probably thought you were some sort of slut, prancing around in your lingerie, hoping someone would see you. fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck….you can’t stop swearing, pulling your jeans up your legs and throwing a shirt on. 

he’d tell your dad, and you’d loose everything. the money your dad was giving you for the phd, the shit you’d worked so hard to get. 

worse still, joel saw you like that. all stupid and silly looking, ugly even, in something that didn’t even suit you. 

your heart thuds out of your chest as you run downstairs, out the door, down the porch steps, and into his garage. 

closed. it’s  closed now, but you knock on it with tentative hands. to plead, desperate. to tell him you aren’t like that, to tell him- to tell him. 

it opens as you press your hands against it, and you hear grunts. heavy, breathy grunts. the rhythm of his hand, the slick sounds filling up the room. it sounds like what your roommate’s boyfriend did in the bathroom that one time in senior year, when she was asleep and you were unfortunately awake. 

a pause as the door creams, and then he continues, moaning, desperate. your footsteps against the wood, a pause.

“fuck.” he swears.

“mr miller?” you call  out, still polite, then, swallowing, “joel?”

“fuck!” he runs into the garage, forehead sweaty, hair sticking to it, on shaking legs and a stricken expression on his face. his mind is screaming a thousand thoughts a second, but you can smell him, manly and musky, and something in your brain just cracks.

“joel, please—“ you reach out to him as his expression panics, falling to your knees in front of him, “i wanna help you.”

“you don’t.” he says, swallowing. he’s older than you, lived a life before you, you’ve got the world ahead of you, phd, research, bright eyes and beautiful smiles. a soft wedding in white, petals being thrown in the air.

your hands clutch at the denim of his trousers, “please joel, i do.” and you’re fumbling with his zipper like you’ve dreamed of, your pussy slicking with arousal and need, but you’re laser focused on his letting his half hard dick out. and it does, springing out with beads of precome on top, red and angry.

your hands fumble at it, and there’s nothing more you know to do. fingers shaking, this is the first time you’ve seen a cock. ever. it looks beautiful, his is so big, you wonder how it’ll fit in you, if he ever does that. you feel too old to never have done something like this, embarrassed you’ve never done anything with a man before. 

tentative hands grip his length, and slick with the precome beading out, and you rub it awkwardly.

“y’acting like you’ve never seen a cock before.” he laughs as you touch it like you would pet an animal, and you look up at him. with your doe eyes. there’s disappointment in them, and then you let go to show off the lace top you’re wearing underneath the tshirt. the one he saw through the window, is better up close, all fitting to your curves, and it makes his breath quicker. 

you cough, and then try touching it again, “my friends got this for me, think it’s good?” he lets out a moan, but your angle is all wrong, the grip too loose. 

“look beautiful baby,” he lets out a sigh, “y’technique needs a little fixin’, all that time in college and you haven’t even figured out how to do this?”

you blush, closing your eyes as he steps closer to you, boots heavy,, then his breath hitches. “so you’re sayin’…” he starts, his mouth dry, voice rough. a virgin, you were a virgin, that’s why you had no idea what to do after you fumbled pathetically with his zipper. 

fuck, of course you were. 24, college degree, 4.0 gpa, grad school lined up. no parties, no boys, you with your smile and a head stuck in books, you. you, shy eyes behind glasses, you who waved at him through on the porch when he mowed the lawn. you, the daughter of his best friend he barely saw. no one that felt you up, no stupid frat boy that got to take what was in front of him. lace blue, a ribbon’s rose stitched onto the straps, a silly gift from some silly friends. kneeling in front of him on wobbly legs, hands hovering over his half throbbing cock.

“no.” he shakes his head, and holds your arm, hauling you up so you see a little more eye to eye, “not gonna do it like this.” he pushes his dick back into his underwear, then zips up his fly. “not here in the garage, not with someone like you.”

“not with me?” you ask, voice all small. rejection. like you’d seen this before, your hands shaking for your shirt.

“no babygirl,” he smiles, a little wry, “not here, not with someone like you.” he places a firm hand on your ass, you can feel it through your thin sweatpants, “c’mon, let me give you the house tour, i gotta bedroom for nice girls like you.”

“you listen to sabrina carpenter?” you look at him, tilting your head.

“...who?” he looks at you, squinting, crows feet around his eyes. handsome.

“i’ll show you, after.” you can’t wait. nor can he, with how quickly he leads you to his bedroom, the first floor, wooden, mahogany. it smells of him, flannel and softness, and he has a hand on the little of your back the whole time.

“you really want f’me to be your first?” he says, in the quiet, and when you breathe you smell him. 

“dream about you in grad school,” your hips buck against him, cunt desperate and drooling, “remember the time you were washing your car with no shirt on.”

he smiles at that, and pushes you onto the bed, “you could have anyone. pure as a lily you are.” your lace lingerie is doing nothing to hide the swell of your breasts, the way your nipples pebble at his touch. 

“i only want you joel.” you pout at him, fuck you’re beautiful. your legs buck into the air again, like you don’t know how to relieve yourself, and then his body is there, and you’re grinding against him. desperate, so so desperate to get rid of the itch between your legs.

“come here my girl, i’ll be soft f’you the first time.” he gently pulls down your jeans, and then sees the lace panties that were part of your set. you look so good like this, shy and sweet up from your hair and so sinfully real. 

“all this, f’me?” he grunts, feeling the stickiness of your arousal, the damp of the lace, and he pushes it down too with two thick fingertips.

“always, only for you.” you let out a sigh as he circles at your clit with his thumb, and it’s true. it is only for him, the only man to ever see you like this, and it makes his cock leak harder. you were so…untouched, a flower nobody had crumpled yet. 

he pushes a finger inside you, and your cunt takes him in almost immediately, sucking at his finger with greedy lips. you’re desperate, so desperate but his fingers make you so full. it’s so slow as he does, his finger stretching your tight hole out. 

you grind against him again, and he laughs — “ ‘s it too much?” he asks, all worried. you shake your head, and he adds in another finger, the stretch is almost painful, but it burns in a way that feels so good. you need him, more than body and soul. you need him in you.

“need - ah -  you.” you gasp out, between breathy moans, he’s pumping his fingers in you to a steady rhythm he curls his fingers inside you, to hit that one spot that felt so good you saw stars. but you needed him.

“ already got me.” he whispers into your ear, and you could almost come like that, with his voice in your ear and his fingers in you. your cunt drools more, sloppy, tight. “this cunt’s got me forever, if you’d take me.”

declarations of love? two fingers in? god he was in deep. 

you whine as he takes away his fingers out of you, sticky with you and brushing against your clit to make your toes curl. “no joel, i want you in me.”

he laughs, “you’ve seen how big it is,” a frown, “i doubt she can take it.”

“i can.” you look up, pleading, but with that firmness in your voice that lets you win debates in college. firmness or not, he’s a sucker for your doe eyes, and so he unbuckles his trousers, leaking cock jumping out again.

“ s’bigger than my fingers.” he grunts, jerking it once or twice to have it hard again, “are you sure?” and he’s worried, worried about you. 

“i’m sure.” you want him to ruin you. and he parts your thighs gently. he doesn’t even need to push the way your virgin cunt sucks him up, inch by inch until he’s half buried in you. 

he rolls his hips slow, and your eyes roll back into their head, you can barely form words as you’re impaled by his cock, each thrust rougher and rougher. “like being filled huh?” he asks, a little unkindly, but you’re too far gone to care. your cunt is choking him so tightly, that he’ll loose his mind if he doesn’t orgasm. 

your walls throb, squeezing him, wringing him as he thrusts into you. you can feel his pubic hair graze against your clit, and you let out a loud moan, “y’like being filled only by me.” he growls into your skin. he’s possessive, and a wave of pleasure passes over him knowing that he’s who’s making you feel this way.  

your eyes roll in pleasure as he bottoms out, and he has to let out a laugh at that. so smart behind all those books and so desperately dumb with his cock in you. your legs jerk in such a pathetic way, it’s embarrassing, twitching with overstimulation. he rubs at your swollen clit one last time, and you’re coming on his cock, gushing, sticky, all on him. 

“you okay?” he asks, looking down at you, but you can’t form words, heady pleasure in your eyes as you look up at him.

“ cockbrained,” he laughs, “ cockdumb slut.” he taps at your cheek and you let out another moan, it’s so desperate, so whiny that he barely remembers to pull out before he’s cumming all over you, all over the pretty lace set you got, painting your breasts with ropes of his thick cum. 

your chin is covered with his spend, some of it even on your lips, in your mouth from how much you’d been gasping. he pulls out of you with heavy breaths, and you choke on air until you blink back to him.

“fuck.” you look at him, “been missing out on all this?”

“only with me.” he gathers you up in his arms, and you two sit there, watching the sunset. 

“should’a seen you there, all dumb with a cock in you.” he laughs, after a few minutes of silence, with his cum drying on you like a brand. like he’s marked you as his.  

virginity, you’ve given your virginity to him, that might be the biggest brand yet.

you were supposed to save that, this felt right, having him call you a slut, it felt like the weight of academic being lifted off you. 

“i liked it.” you lick your lips, tasting him, salty and musky. it’s good, he’s good, “felt nice being taken care of.”

“mmm.” a beat, “felt nice taking care of you, all soft, though your pussy’s a treasure, eh?”

you poke him in the stomach, “ain’t letting anyone else see it.” you mumble, tired from your orgasm, you could nuzzle on his chest and sleep like this, having him hold you all tight and warm, “ only for you.”

“better be.” he squeezes your ass playfully, “ i don’t want my girl being a slut f’anyone but me.”

“course joel.” maybe you’ll let him kiss you, one day. your virgin cunt his now. 

when the familiar truck pulled up, joel was smiling through the window. that warm, patient smile you’d known for years.

you climbed into the passenger seat, suddenly hyper-aware of how gross you smelled. joel, on the other hand, smelled like cinnamon and beautiful dreams.

“thanks, joel. sorry you had to come out for this.”

he gave a low chuckle “ain’t a problem, bud. i don’t mind.”

the ride was comfortable, windows cracked, radio playing low. after a couple minutes joel glanced over you, eyes flicking down to your dirty legs.

“watched your game the other day with your dad,” he said. “you looked real good out there. fast on the wing, solid passes. that goal in the second half? clean as hell. you’re gettin’ better every week.”

“you really think so?”

“i know so,” joel replied, smiling gently. “i played a lot of soccer back in the day, too. wasn’t half bad either. used to play striker mostly. had some speed on me before these knees started complainin’.” he let out a soft laugh. “you remind me of myself a little. quiet on the field but always thinkin’. that’s the best kind of player.”

“i still get nervous sometimes…” you bit your lip.

joel nodded understandingly. “that’s normal, bud. nerves mean you care. just keep doin’ what you’re doin’. you’ve got real talent.” he paused for a second, then added with a playful smirk, “your dad ever tell you i almost went pro? tore my acl senior year of college. but it worked out alright. i still have some championship trophies i can show you. might motivate that hardworking ass of yours.”

you smiled shyly, glancing at him. “yeah… i’d like that.”

“sure” joel said, warm affection in his voice. “but first, let’s get you a good shower, dirty little soccer boy.”

you both laughed, joel turned toward his house instead of yours.

when he pulled into the driveway he killed the engine and looked at you.

“wait here.”

he came around, opened your door, and before you could protest he scooped you up like you weighed nothing — one thick arm under your knees, the other around your back. you instinctively wrapped your arms around his neck.

“joel— you don’t have to—”

“shh. i ain’t lettin’ you track mud and grass all over my carpet,” he murmured against your hair, carrying you inside like it was the most natural thing in the world. his body felt so warm and solid against your sweaty one.

“c’mon. you’re filthy. let’s get you cleaned up.”

you didn’t argue.

he took you straight upstairs to his bathroom, still holding you until he set you down on the tile. then he started the shower, letting the water heat up while he slowly peeled your jersey off your body. his big hands lingered on your damp skin.

“arms up, buddy.”

you obeyed. he stripped you down piece by piece. he helped you to get off your grass-stained shorts and socks next, leaving you in just your white underwear in front of him. your cock twitched under his gaze and you had to fight the urge to cover yourself.

joel’s eyes dragged over every inch of your sweaty, grass-stained body. you were still breathing a little hard from practice.

then he started undressing too.

he shrugged off his shirt, revealing a broad, solid chest dusted with dark hair that trailed down over a strong stomach. his arms were thick from years of real work, shoulders wide and powerful. boots came off next, then his jeans, sliding down his strong thighs...

by the time he stood there in just his boxers, the thick, heavy outline of his cock was impossible to ignore.

joel was mature and undeniably masculine.

“you can get in” he said

you stepped into the shower, groaning as the hot water hit your sore muscles. a second later joel crowded in behind you, completely naked now, his chest pressing against your back. he crowded behind you, soaping his hands up before running them over your shoulders and down your chest.

“gotta get you clean”

he soaped you up slow and thorough. rough palms slid over your chest, thumbs circling your nipples until they hardened without him noticing. then down your stomach, then between your legs.

“feels good?” he asked quietly, lips close to your ear.

you nodded, too shy to speak properly. “y-yeah…”

he smiled against your skin and kept going, washing every inch of you with patient hands. when he reached between your legs, he was gentle — carefully cleaning your cock and balls, stroking you with just enough pressure to make your breath hitch. then he turned you around, so your back was to the water and gently spread your cheeks, washing your hole with the same tender attention.

you whimpered, forehead resting against the cool tile, embarrassed by how good it felt. you could feel that his hands were firm.

eventually he turned off the water. joel stepped out first and grabbed a big, fluffy towel. he wrapped it around you with so much care, pulling you close as he dried your shoulders, your chest, your back. his movements were slow and gentle, almost reverent.

he knelt down in front of you, carefully drying your thighs and wiping away every drop of water. when he reached your knees, his eyes lifted and landed on your aching, fully hard cock standing right in front of his face. a soft smile tugged at his lips as he continued drying your shins and feet with the same patience.

“so much better,” he murmured, voice low and husky as he rose back to his full height. he pulled you against him, letting the towel fall open so your bare, clean body pressed against his still-damp skin. “all cleaned up…”

the moment he stood, you felt his thick and heavy cock, now fully hard, resting warm and heavy against the curve of your ass. the weight of it made you shiver. joel wrapped his arms around you from behind, pulling your back flush against his chest. his cock nestled perfectly between your cheeks as he held you close.

the scent of fresh soap mixed with his natural warm smell filled your lungs.

he breathed you in slowly, nose brushing along your wet hair.

“god, boy” joel whispered, voice low and rough with want. “you smell so good now.”

every time he breathed, it twitched against you, making your hole clench with nervous excitement.

you whimpered softly, embarrassed by how desperately your body was reacting. joel noticed immediately and pressed a gentle kiss to the side of your neck.

“shh, it’s okay, bud” he murmured soothingly. “you don’t have to hide how you feel. i’m right here with you…”

he rolled his hips slowly, dragging his thick length up and down between your cheeks in a lazy, teasing grind. the heavy weight of his cock felt comforting. joel turned you around in his arms so you were facing him.

his eyes were dark but incredibly soft as he looked down at your flushed face. one of his hands reached down to wrap gently around both of your cocks, pressing them together.

“you see how good it is, huh?”

you both stood there, bare and warm from the shower, hearts beating against each other. joel’s hand kept your cocks pressed snug together, the steady heat and weight of him making your breath shaky.

then he leaned in.

his kiss was slow, almost careful. his lips were warm and surprisingly soft for such a rugged man, brushing yours once, twice, before settling in with quiet tenderness. there was no rush. he tasted faintly of mint and when he tilted his head just a little more, the kiss deepened by degrees— but still gentle, still patient. his tongue traced the seam of your lips until you opened for him, then slid inside to stroke against yours in long, lazy glides that made your knees feel weak. it wasn’t hungry or demanding.

it was warm. and so delicate, so gentle, so patient.

when he finally pulled back just enough to speak, his forehead rested against yours, breath mingling. “your lips are so soft” joel says with his thumb swept across your bottom lip, eyes half-lidded and dark.

he kissed you again, just as tenderly, swallowing the tiny sound you made. this time one of his big hands slid down your back, cupping your ass and pulling you tighter against him so your cocks rubbed together between your stomachs.

after a long moment, joel turned you gently in his arms until your back was pressed to his chest. his thick cock nestled hot and heavy along your spine. he pressed a slow kiss to the side of your neck then slowly dropped to his knees behind you.

you felt his warm breath before his tongue gently licked over your hole. the sensation made your knees weak. joel gripped your hips firmly as he licked you with unhurried devotion — long, languid strokes that explored every delicate inch. every so often he gently dipped inside, tasting you deeply, like he couldn’t get enough.

“fuck… joel—” you moaned, embarrassed by how needy you sounded as he licked you slow and sweet — long, patient strokes of his tongue, occasionally pressing inside just a little, savoring you.

he hummed softly, the vibration sending sparks up your spine.

after a few more slow, worshipful licks, joel stood up again. he pressed his broad chest against your back and wrapped one arm around you. you felt his thick, hard cock resting heavy against your ass as he kissed the side of your neck.

“you want this, baby?” he asked, voice rough with want but still so gentle. “we don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for.”

“i do.i-i-want you. just… be gentle with me?” your voice dropped, you were feeling vulnerable at that moment. “i trust you.”

he smiled tenderly and reached for the small bottle of lube he kept in the bathroom drawer. the room was still warm and steamy from the shower, the mirror lightly fogged. the only sound besides your shaky breathing and joel’s low and soft voice.

then he lined up, pressing the blunt, slippery head of his cock against your hole, slowly starting to pushing in.

“breathe for me, bud” he whispered “that’s it… good boy. just relax and let me in.” the stretch burned, but joel never rushed, murmuring soft against your neck the entire time as he gradually sank deeper.

your breath hitched sharply, a mix of discomfort and deep, aching pleasure flooding through you. it wasn’t easy. your body instinctively tensed around the sheer size of him.

“i know, big guy. i know… easy now,” he soothed, voice low and warm. “you can take it. you’re doin’ so good already.”

joel paused and pressed gentle kisses along your shoulder, holding perfectly still while you adjusted.

“there you go” Joel whimpered as he sank another inch, the fullness overwhelming.

the burn gradually started melting into a heavy, throbbing pleasure deep inside you.

“my sweet boy… so tight and warm around me. gonna stay right here for a minute and let you get used to it, okay?” he whispered, lips brushing your skin. one of his big hands rubbed slow, comforting circles over your stomach while the other stroked your cock with gentle, encouraging touches.

“you feel incredible… so perfect wrapped around me.”

you could only nod as your breath was shaky. the feeling of him was overwhelming in the best way. joel’s broad, hairy chest was pressed flush against your back, his warm, damp skin radiating heat that sank straight into you. every slow breath he took made his chest expand against you, grounding and steady.

you felt so full it was dizzying — he was touching parts of you no one else ever had.

“joel…” you whimpered softly.

“shh, i know, bud” he murmured, pressing a slow kiss to the side of your neck. “just feel me. feel how deep i am.”

your own cock was leaking steadily in his fist, the pleasure building low in your belly.

“feelin’ better now, huh?” he gave the smallest, gentlest roll of his hips, barely moving, just enough to nudge that spot deep inside you.

a broken moan slipped from your lips as sharp pleasure shot up your spine.

“good boy,” he groaned quietly, lips against your ear. “so good for me.”

joel’s control began slipping. his hands gripped your hips a little tighter, fingers digging into your soft skin as his thrusts grew deeper, hungrier.

“baby boy… ” he rasped against your neck, kissing and sucking lightly at your skin. “so soft….”

his pace quickened, still careful but losing restraint. he fucked you with long, powerful strokes, groaning every time he bottomed out. one arm wrapped around your chest, pulling your back flush against him so there wasn’t a single inch of space between your bodies. his other hand stroked you faster, perfectly in time with his thrusts.

“your hole… fuck, it’s too good,” he groaned against your neck, voice wrecked. “so tight and warm… i can’t hold it anymore, baby.” he said pressing tender kisses to your shoulder. “f-fu-ck…”

with one last deep thrust, he buried himself into you. a raw, broken moan tore from his chest as thick, endless ropes of warm cum flooded into you. he kept pulsing, spilling load after load deep inside your body, filling you so full you could feel your insides getting wet with his seed.

he was panting against your neck, chest heaving, almost dizzy from how intense it felt. nothing had ever felt this good. not even close.

“fuckkkkk… baby boy… ” his arms stayed wrapped tightly around you the whole time, “look what you did to me.”

he stayed buried deep inside you, gripping your ass with both big hands to hold you firmly in place. his thick cock continued twitching as he savored the warm, slick mess he had made. he could feel his own cum leaking around his shaft, making everything slippery.

“god, i love this” he said as he stayed buried deep for a long, indulgent moment, lazily grinding into your cum-filled hole like he couldn’t bear to leave it.

with painstaking care, joel eased his still-thick cock out of you. the drag was slow and deliberate, and the moment his swollen head popped free, a thick rush of his warm cum leaked out of your used hole. you whimpered at the sudden emptiness, feeling his load drip steadily down your thighs in heavy, messy streams.

“fuck… look at that, baby” joel breathed, voice rough with satisfaction.

the way your hole fluttered and clenched around nothing, the deep satisfaction of being so full of him… it made your own cock throb painfully, rock-hard against your stomach.

joel noticed immediately how desperate you were.

“jesus, baby boy,” he murmured, voice rough and warm.

he turned you around with big, gentle hands, then dropped to his knees on the damp bathroom floor without a second of hesitation.

the sight of joel — a broad, manly, salt-and-pepper father figure that was supposed to give you a ride home — now kneeling in front of you with hungry, reverent eyes made something deep in your chest twist with heat.

his eyes were full of hunger as he looked up at you. he took your aching, leaking cock into his warm mouth in one smooth motion, moaning around you like he’d been dying to taste you.

his hands gripped your hips gently as he sucked you with slow, devoted strokes — tongue swirling around the head, then sliding down your shaft. he took you deep, eyes fluttering shut, clearly loving every second of it.

“fuck, you taste so good” he groaned, pulling off just long enough to catch his breath before diving back down. “give it to me, buddy”

the pressure built fast. his hot, relentless mouth made it impossible to hold back.

with a broken moan, you came hard down his throat.

joel didn’t pull away. he moaned loudly in satisfaction as thick pulses of your cum filled his mouth, swallowing every drop with hungry, rhythmic pulls, his throat working around the head of your cock.

he kept sucking you through it, gentle now, milking every last tremor until you were spent and trembling.

only then did joel pull off with a wet pop. he rose to his feet, towering over you again, and before you could catch your breath he cupped the back of your neck with one big hand and pushed you back against the cool tile wall.

his mouth crashed into yours in a deep, messy kiss. you could taste yourself on his tongue — salty and warm — as he licked into your mouth with filthy, possessive strokes. the kiss was slow and claiming, full of affection and raw need all at once.

joel groaned softly into it, pressing his still-half-hard, cum-slick cock against your thigh like he couldn’t bear any distance between you. he cradled the back of your head with hand, thumb stroking your hair as his tongue gently swept against yours.

his forehead rested against yours. his voice was low and rough, but incredibly tender.

“c’mere, tiger” he murmured. “let’s get you comfortable.” he reached for a soft towel and gently wiped you down with careful strokes, then cleaned himself just enough before taking your hand.

the once-neat bathroom was a complete mess — clothes scattered across the floor, damp towels bunched up, and your soccer uniform lying rumpled near the sink where joel had stripped it off you earlier. the air smelled like sex and soap.

he guided you down his bedroom. the room felt very him — simple, masculine, with dark wood furniture and a big, comfortable-looking bed.

joel opened a drawer and pulled out a pair of clean white briefs. he held them out to you with a soft smile.

“here, big guy. these should fit you. i want you to be comfortable in my house.”

you slipped them on while he watched with quiet appreciation. his eyes lingered on your body, tracing the lines of your toned chest, the definition in your abs, and the strong muscles in your thighs and legs — clear evidence of all the years you’d spent playing soccer. he didn’t hide how much he liked what he saw.

“come here,” he said gently “been meaning to show you these for a while.”

he led you out of the bedroom and into the room across the hall — his old study. the walls were covered with framed photos from his playing days: younger versions of joel in soccer fields, celebrating with teammates, and a few action shots that showed just how powerful he used to be on the field. you noticed a couple of old trophies on a shelf.

“state champions, junior year.” you read.

“yeah, i was a cocky little shit back then.” he said with a warm, nostalgic smile. “you know how it goes,” he continued, voice low and easy. “that feeling when everything clicks on the field. the way your body just… knows what to do.” joel looked at you for a moment, his expression softening. “i see it in you every time you’re out there. the way you move, the discipline… it’s damn impressive..”

he leaned in and pressed a slow kiss to your shoulder, then another just below your ear.

“i’m proud of you,” he murmured against your skin. “always have been.”

his hand slid up your back in a gentle caress, holding you close in the quiet warmth of the study. the contrast felt intimate — you standing there in nothing but his white briefs, surrounded by pieces of his past, while he touched you like you were something precious.

“tell me about your season,” he said softly, genuinely interested. “how’s the team looking this year?”

you told him about the current season — the tough matches, the chemistry finally clicking with your teammates, and how you’ve been playing more as a winger lately, using your speed and footwork to create chances. joel listened attentively, nodding along, his thumb still tracing slow circles on your lower back.

“i used to drive my coaches crazy,” he continued, voice warm with nostalgia. “i’d rather nutmeg a defender than make the safe pass. spent hours after practice just messing with the ball… no cones, no drills. only creativity, only joy.”

the more he talked, the more excited you looked, eyes sparkling, lips slightly parted, giving him those enthusiastic puppy eyes that made his chest feel tight.

joel’s smile widened, clearly enjoying your reaction. he brushed his thumb along your jaw.

“keep playing like that, you’ve got that same fire. i can see it when you play — that little burst of speed right before you cut inside, the way you use your body to shield the ball. it reminds me so much of how i used to be… except you’re faster than i ever was.” he said, a fond smile tugging at his lip.

he leaned in and pressed a slow kiss to your temple before whispering against your skin. “when the season’s over, i’ll take you to the old pitch i used to train on. i’ll show you some of those dirty brazilian tricks your coaches would hate.”

“and you know what? i’ve got something i can show you” he gently squeezed your hip. “wait here.”

he disappeared for a minute and returned with an old vhs tape in his hand.

“come on, bud”

joel led you to the living room. the lights were dim, and the big tv cast a soft blue glow as he put the tape in. he lowered himself onto the thick carpeted floor, leaning back against the couch.

you lay on your chest, stomach flat against the soft rug, chin resting on your folded arms as you faced the tv. the position naturally lifted your ass slightly, the white briefs hugging your curves. joel had a perfect view.

the old footage started playing — a much younger joel flying down the wing, pulling off flashy moves, nutmegs, and quick bursts of speed that made the small crowd cheer.

your eyes were glued to the screen, wide and sparkling with pure excitement, lips slightly parted as you watched every move he made. you looked completely captivated.

joel tried to focus on the screen at first. he pointed out a few plays, laughing softly at his younger self’s cocky celebrations. but his attention didn’t last long.

his eyes kept drifting down to you — lying so sweetly on your chest, ass gently raised toward him, wearing nothing but his briefs. the sight was too tempting.

one of his hands slid slowly down your back and settled on your ass. he started massaging you with deep, appreciative squeezes, kneading the firm muscle through the thin fabric.

“you’re really into this, huh?” joel murmured, voice low and warm with amusement. “getting all excited watching this old man’s glory days…”

your eyes were glued to the screen, wide and sparkling with pure excitement. as you watched him dribble past defenders with quick feints and creative touches, your mind began racing. you could already imagine yourself doing the same things — that sudden change of direction, the way he used his hips to sell the fake, the burst of acceleration afterward. you studied every movement intently, trying to burn the technique into your memory, lips slightly parted in concentration.

he kept massaging you steadily, strong hands working your ass with deep, loving strokes, occasionally letting his fingers slip under the leg bands to touch bare skin. the warmth of his palms, the gentle possessiveness… it made it nearly impossible to ignore how turned on you were getting, even as you continued watching his younger self pull off move after move on the screen.

you could feel yourself getting harder inside the white briefs, your cock thickening and pressing uncomfortably against the soft fabric. every squeeze of his hands made you twitch, causing your growing erection to rub against the carpet and the front of the briefs. a quiet, shaky breath escaped you.

joel noticed immediately.

“aw, baby boy…” he said softly, voice dropping lower.

suddenly, he moved, shifting forward and carefully lowering his big, warm body over yours. his broad chest pressed against your back, caging you gently between him and the carpet. the weight felt comforting. he brushed your hair aside and started pressing slow kisses along your spine, savoring every inch of your skin. each kiss was warm and lingering, growing lower as he worked his way down your back.

when he reached the waistband of the white briefs, he tugged them down just enough to expose your ass.

you felt the heat of his breath first, then the slow, deliberate drag of his tongue across your used hole. he could taste himself, an evidence of his earlier load still deep inside you. the filthy realization made him shudder.

“tastes so fucking sweet… jesus christ.”

his cock, which had been half-hard against your thigh, swelled rapidly until it was rock-hard and throbbing, pressing insistently between your cheeks. joel let out a shaky breath, grinding once against your slick entrance.

“i need you one more time.”

he gripped your hips with one big hand, steadying you as he lined up. the slippery head of his cock pressed against your cum-wet entrance and slowly pushed inside in one long, smooth thrust. because you were still loose with his load, he sank in much easier this time but the feeling of being filled again drew a broken whimper from your throat. every inch stretched you open again, the slick sounds obscene as his thick cock pushed through the warm mess he’d already left inside you.

joel moaned deeply, the sound vibrating against your back as he bottomed out, hips flush against your ass. he buried his face in the crook of your neck, breathing hard, almost trembling with how good it felt.

“that’s it, big guy …” he whispered against your skin, voice rough with pleasure. “god, even better the second time.”

he stayed buried deep for a moment, savoring the tight, silky heat wrapped around him, then started fucking you with deep, unhurried strokes right there on the living room carpet. each thrust pressed you harder into the soft rug. one strong arm wrapped around your chest, holding your body tight against his, while his other hand gripped your ass, spreading you open so he could watch every inch of his thick cock sliding in and out of your creamy hole.

each time he sank in completely, you felt the thick warmth of his cock stretching you wide, filling you so perfectly that it made your head spin. the head dragged deliciously against that sensitive spot inside you on every stroke, sending waves of heat rolling through your body.

the heat of his body and the slick warmth of his cock made everything feel hazy and intimate, like you were melting under him.

it made it feel like he was completely surrounding you — protecting you and claiming you all at once.

with gentle but firm hands, he turned you over onto your back on the soft carpet.

he hooked your legs over his broad shoulders, folding you beneath him and took a moment to just admire you — flushed, hard, and breathing heavily.

you gasped as he sank deep, the angle now hitting even deeper, pressing right against that sensitive spot inside you

now you could see everything: his salt-and-pepper hair slightly messy, the focused warmth in his eyes, the way his jaw tightened with pleasure, and the soft, affectionate expression on his face.

he was watching you and studying every little reaction on your face like a patient couch.

one of his big hands came up to cup the side of your face, thumb brushing tenderly over your cheek while he kept thrusting.

“you’re doing so good for me,” he praised softly, eyes never leaving yours.

your whole body was trembling. the pressure inside you kept building higher and higher, joel’s cock dragging perfectly against your prostate while his fist worked you closer to the edge.

“joel—” you gasped, voice cracking.

“i know, buddy. i know,” he breathed, forehead pressed to yours. “you’re close, aren’t you?”

his strokes on your cock sped up, thumb pressing firmly under the head as he fucked you a little harder, deeper, losing the last threads of his control.

you cried out sharply as your orgasm slammed into you. your cock pulsed violently in joel’s tight fist, shooting thick, messy ropes of cum all over your abs and chest. at the exact same moment, your hole clenched hard around his thick cock.

“fuck— that’s it— that’s my boy” joel groaned, his voice cracking with raw disbelief. the scene of you feeling that much pleasure was too much for him to handle.

he buried himself into you and came again with a deep, shaky moan.

you felt every single powerful throb as he pumped you full again — thick, hot surges of cum flooding deep into your already sloppy hole. he just kept cumming, long heavy spurts that made your insides feel even warmer and wetter, the sheer volume of it pushing some of his previous load out around his shaft with every pulse.

joel sounded almost overwhelmed, like he couldn’t believe his own body. this kind, steady older man who used to pat your back after games was now shaking on top of you, panting like he’d never felt pleasure this intense in his life.

your strong jock legs trembled around him as he kept stroking your cock through every aftershock, milking you completely dry while his own cock continued twitching and leaking inside your cum-drenched ass. the wet, filthy sounds of his load squelching with every small movement made your face burn and sweat with pleasure. your hair was glued up to your forehead.

when the waves finally slowed, joel carefully lowered your legs and collapsed on top of you, both of you breathless and trembling on the soft carpet. his heavy, warm body pressed you down into the rug, his cock still buried inside your cum-filled hole, twitching with aftershocks. he gives you sweet kisses on your lips and mouth and face and everything.

“jesus christ, baby” he whispered, voice hoarse and full of affection. “you're so good.”

his cock stayed buried deep inside your overflowing hole, still twitching with aftershocks, plugging all that warm cum inside you. you could feel every tiny movement as he lay there panting against your sweaty neck.

both of you panted quietly on the living room carpet, wrapped in each other’s arms. joel’s heavy body still covered yours, protective and grounding

he kissed you slowly — soft, lingering presses to your lips, then your flushed cheeks, your forehead, the corner of your mouth. each kiss was tender, like he was trying to memorize the taste of you.

“shit” he lifted his head and glanced toward the clock on the wall “it’s later than i thought. i was supposed to have you home almost an hour ago…”

he let out a low, guilty breath, but his cock gave one last involuntary twitch inside you, clearly still reluctant to leave. slowly, carefully, joel eased his thick length out of your used hole. the moment his cock slipped free, a thick rush of warm cum poured out of you, dripping messily down your crack and onto your thighs.

joel stared down at the creamy mess between your legs, almost mesmerized.

“gonna send you home full of my cum,” he said, voice low and rough, a hint of guilty excitement in his eyes. “you’d like that, right, champ?”

you nodded, too blissed out to speak properly.

joel smiled, soft but wicked, and pressed one last kiss to your lips before sitting up.

“c’mon, let’s get you cleaned up” he helped you sit up, then noticed your grass-stained soccer clothes were still in the bathroom. “and don’t worry about your uniform. you “forgot” it here,” he said with a knowing little smirk. “i’ll wash everything, get it nice and clean for you. can bring it over tomorrow.”

he ran a gentle hand through your sweaty hair, pushing it off your damp forehead with tendernes as he helped you up from the carpet on shaky legs. he kept one arm around your waist as he led you upstairs to his bedroom.

he rummaged through his drawer and pulled out a pair of his own gray sweatpants and an old, soft flannel shirt. he helped you step into the sweatpants, then buttoned the flannel over your bare chest with gentle fingers. the clothes were big on you, loose and warm, carrying joel’s natural scent.

he stepped back and looked at you, a slow, affectionate smile spreading across his face.

“damn… you look real good in my clothes, bud,” he murmured.

joel got dressed himself and pulled you in for one last deep, slow kiss before grabbing his keys.

the drive home was quiet but charged. joel kept one hand on the wheel and the other resting on your thigh, gently rubbing circles with his thumb. every so often he’d glance over at you, eyes dark with satisfaction.

when he pulled up in front of your house, he leaned over and kissed your forehead.

“text me when you’re in bed, alright? and be careful tomorrow… you’re probably gonna be sore. and i am not talking about practice.”

later that night…

you lay in your bed, staring at the ceiling in the dark.

your bedroom was the typical jock’s haven — dimly lit by the warm glow of your bedside lamp. soccer trophies and medals lined the shelves above your desk, catching the low light. a couple of posters of messi were taped to the walls, and your soccer bag was still half-open on the floor, dirty cleats and socks spilling out from practice. your jersey from earlier today was crumpled on your chair.

you lay on your back in bed, still wearing joel’s oversized flannel shirt. the soft, well-worn fabric smelled like him — woodsy, warm, and masculine. it made your stomach flutter every time you breathed in.

no matter how hard you tried to fall asleep, your mind wouldn’t shut off.

you kept replaying everything.

every time you shifted under the sheets, you felt it — the warm, sticky remnants of joel’s cum. you were so full of him. two thick loads deep inside your ass, warm and filthy. you clenched around nothing and a fresh trickle slipped out, making you quietly moan into your pillow.

you were used to your body being sore — bruised shins, tight hamstrings, aching muscles after tough games.

but this was a completely different kind of sore.

a deep, intimate ache in your ass that pulsed every time you moved. it felt good. the kind of ache that made your cock twitch under the covers even though you’d already cum twice tonight.

you kept wondering if he was lying in his own bed right now, thinking about you too when your phone lit up on the nightstand.

the screen showed a new message from joel: