u/AlarmedPoetry69

I never understood why my eyes would linger in the locker room, why I'd find myself staring at the other guy swimmers as they stripped down, their bodies glistening with water. I told myself it was just comparison, just a competitive thing, but the truth was I was fascinated. The same way I was fascinated with girls on the team or women at the beach, nipples piercing the thin fabric and breasts bouncing around. Ass and clit also fascinated me so I was definitely straight right? My boners raged on the pool deck, always tucking and trying to hide the growing bulge. They seemed to appear at all the wrong times and I’m sure my team noticed. Especially when it was leaking and my suit was still dry. Sometimes I was swimming full sail. The saunas were even worse, a concentrated dose of my hidden desire. In the dim, wood-scented heat, I'd sit with my towel strategically placed, but my gaze would betray me, drawn to the thick, hairy cocks of the older men, how they'd hang heavily between their legs as they sprawled on the benches reading newspapers. A 30yr+ age gap and my barely legal younger body would respond with a confusing warmth, my face flushing with shame. I'd quickly look away, but the image was already burned into my mind, fueling the secret touches I'd give myself later. They were older than my father, is that why I wanted to give myself to their guidance? Either way it left a mark I noticed later in life with desire to please older men and women.

The public showers were my sanctuary and my sin. I'd wait until the room was nearly empty, the steam thick enough to hide my actions, and then I'd touch myself. My hand would wrap around my own cock, still so innocent, and I'd stroke it under the hot spray, my mind replaying the images of all the bodies I'd seen that day, both in the showers and on the sauna benches. These memories were suppressed for years. I forgot what had made my body tremble with pleasure as I brought myself to climax back then. The water washed away the evidence but not the guilt or the gnawing hunger for more. The heat from the sauna seemed to stay in my blood, making my skin feel more sensitive, my touches more urgent. Not until I was 25 did I realize the truth, the curiosity that had been eating me alive for years, a curiosity first sparked in the sweltering heat of the locker room sauna and the frigid pool deck.

Now, looking back, I see it for what it was: bisexuality. I was attracted to both, the soft curves of women and the hard lines of men, but I was too scared, too confused to admit it, even to myself. I wasted so much time pretending, so many opportunities lost to fear and denial. But those memories, those stolen glances in the steam and secret touches in the shower, they're a part of me, a testament to the desire I tried so hard to suppress.

I never understood why my eyes would linger in the locker room, why I'd find myself staring at the other guy swimmers as they stripped down, their bodies glistening with water. I told myself it was just comparison, just a competitive thing, but the truth was I was fascinated. The same way I was fascinated with girls on the team or women at the beach, nipples piercing the thin fabric and breasts bouncing around. Ass and clit also fascinated me so I was definitely straight right? My boners raged on the pool deck, always tucking and trying to hide the growing bulge. They seemed to appear at all the wrong times and I’m sure my team noticed. Especially when it was leaking and my suit was still dry. Sometimes I was swimming full sail. The saunas were even worse, a concentrated dose of my hidden desire. In the dim, wood-scented heat, I'd sit with my towel strategically placed, but my gaze would betray me, drawn to the thick, hairy cocks of the older men, how they'd hang heavily between their legs as they sprawled on the benches reading newspapers. A 30yr+ age gap and my barely legal younger body would respond with a confusing warmth, my face flushing with shame. I'd quickly look away, but the image was already burned into my mind, fueling the secret touches I'd give myself later. They were older than my father, is that why I wanted to give myself to their guidance? Either way it left a mark I noticed later in life with desire to please older men and women.

The public showers were my sanctuary and my sin. I'd wait until the room was nearly empty, the steam thick enough to hide my actions, and then I'd touch myself. My hand would wrap around my own cock, still so innocent, and I'd stroke it under the hot spray, my mind replaying the images of all the bodies I'd seen that day, both in the showers and on the sauna benches. These memories were suppressed for years. I forgot what had made my body tremble with pleasure as I brought myself to climax back then. The water washed away the evidence but not the guilt or the gnawing hunger for more. The heat from the sauna seemed to stay in my blood, making my skin feel more sensitive, my touches more urgent. Not until I was 25 did I realize the truth, the curiosity that had been eating me alive for years, a curiosity first sparked in the sweltering heat of the locker room sauna and the frigid pool deck.

Now, looking back, I see it for what it was: bisexuality. I was attracted to both, the soft curves of women and the hard lines of men, but I was too scared, too confused to admit it, even to myself. I wasted so much time pretending, so many opportunities lost to fear and denial. But those memories, those stolen glances in the steam and secret touches in the shower, they're a part of me, a testament to the desire I tried so hard to suppress.

I never understood why my eyes would linger in the locker room, why I'd find myself staring at the other guy swimmers as they stripped down, their bodies glistening with water. I told myself it was just comparison, just a competitive thing, but the truth was I was fascinated. The same way I was fascinated with girls on the team or women at the beach, nipples piercing the thin fabric and breasts bouncing around. Ass and clit also fascinated me so I was definitely straight right? My boners raged on the pool deck, always tucking and trying to hide the growing bulge. They seemed to appear at all the wrong times and I’m sure my team noticed. Especially when it was leaking and my suit was still dry. Sometimes I was swimming full sail. The saunas were even worse, a concentrated dose of my hidden desire. In the dim, wood-scented heat, I'd sit with my towel strategically placed, but my gaze would betray me, drawn to the thick, hairy cocks of the older men, how they'd hang heavily between their legs as they sprawled on the benches reading newspapers. A 30yr+ age gap and my barely legal younger body would respond with a confusing warmth, my face flushing with shame. I'd quickly look away, but the image was already burned into my mind, fueling the secret touches I'd give myself later. They were older than my father, is that why I wanted to give myself to their guidance? Either way it left a mark I noticed later in life with desire to please older men and women.

The public showers were my sanctuary and my sin. I'd wait until the room was nearly empty, the steam thick enough to hide my actions, and then I'd touch myself. My hand would wrap around my own cock, still so innocent, and I'd stroke it under the hot spray, my mind replaying the images of all the bodies I'd seen that day, both in the showers and on the sauna benches. These memories were suppressed for years. I forgot what had made my body tremble with pleasure as I brought myself to climax back then. The water washed away the evidence but not the guilt or the gnawing hunger for more. The heat from the sauna seemed to stay in my blood, making my skin feel more sensitive, my touches more urgent. Not until I was 25 did I realize the truth, the curiosity that had been eating me alive for years, a curiosity first sparked in the sweltering heat of the locker room sauna and the frigid pool deck.

Now, looking back, I see it for what it was: bisexuality. I was attracted to both, the soft curves of women and the hard lines of men, but I was too scared, too confused to admit it, even to myself. I wasted so much time pretending, so many opportunities lost to fear and denial. But those memories, those stolen glances in the steam and secret touches in the shower, they're a part of me, a testament to the desire I tried so hard to suppress.

I never understood why my eyes would linger in the locker room, why I'd find myself staring at the other guy swimmers as they stripped down, their bodies glistening with water. I told myself it was just comparison, just a competitive thing, but the truth was I was fascinated. The same way I was fascinated with girls on the team or women at the beach, nipples piercing the thin fabric and breasts bouncing around. Ass and clit also fascinated me so I was definitely straight right? My boners raged on the pool deck, always tucking and trying to hide the growing bulge. They seemed to appear at all the wrong times and I’m sure my team noticed. Especially when it was leaking and my suit was still dry. Sometimes I was swimming full sail. The saunas were even worse, a concentrated dose of my hidden desire. In the dim, wood-scented heat, I'd sit with my towel strategically placed, but my gaze would betray me, drawn to the thick, hairy cocks of the older men, how they'd hang heavily between their legs as they sprawled on the benches reading newspapers. A 30yr+ age gap and my barely legal younger body would respond with a confusing warmth, my face flushing with shame. I'd quickly look away, but the image was already burned into my mind, fueling the secret touches I'd give myself later. They were older than my father, is that why I wanted to give myself to their guidance? Either way it left a mark I noticed later in life with desire to please older men and women.

The public showers were my sanctuary and my sin. I'd wait until the room was nearly empty, the steam thick enough to hide my actions, and then I'd touch myself. My hand would wrap around my own cock, still so innocent, and I'd stroke it under the hot spray, my mind replaying the images of all the bodies I'd seen that day, both in the showers and on the sauna benches. These memories were suppressed for years. I forgot what had made my body tremble with pleasure as I brought myself to climax back then. The water washed away the evidence but not the guilt or the gnawing hunger for more. The heat from the sauna seemed to stay in my blood, making my skin feel more sensitive, my touches more urgent. Not until I was 25 did I realize the truth, the curiosity that had been eating me alive for years, a curiosity first sparked in the sweltering heat of the locker room sauna and the frigid pool deck.

Now, looking back, I see it for what it was: bisexuality. I was attracted to both, the soft curves of women and the hard lines of men, but I was too scared, too confused to admit it, even to myself. I wasted so much time pretending, so many opportunities lost to fear and denial. But those memories, those stolen glances in the steam and secret touches in the shower, they're a part of me, a testament to the desire I tried so hard to suppress.

I never understood why my eyes would linger in the locker room, why I'd find myself staring at the other guy swimmers as they stripped down, their bodies glistening with water. I told myself it was just comparison, just a competitive thing, but the truth was I was fascinated. The same way I was fascinated with girls on the team or women at the beach, nipples piercing the thin fabric and breasts bouncing around. Ass and clit also fascinated me so I was definitely straight right? My boners raged on the pool deck, always tucking and trying to hide the growing bulge. They seemed to appear at all the wrong times and I’m sure my team noticed. Especially when it was leaking and my suit was still dry. Sometimes I was swimming full sail. The saunas were even worse, a concentrated dose of my hidden desire. In the dim, wood-scented heat, I'd sit with my towel strategically placed, but my gaze would betray me, drawn to the thick, hairy cocks of the older men, how they'd hang heavily between their legs as they sprawled on the benches reading newspapers. A 30yr+ age gap and my barely legal younger body would respond with a confusing warmth, my face flushing with shame. I'd quickly look away, but the image was already burned into my mind, fueling the secret touches I'd give myself later. They were older than my father, is that why I wanted to give myself to their guidance? Either way it left a mark I noticed later in life with desire to please older men and women.

The public showers were my sanctuary and my sin. I'd wait until the room was nearly empty, the steam thick enough to hide my actions, and then I'd touch myself. My hand would wrap around my own cock, still so innocent, and I'd stroke it under the hot spray, my mind replaying the images of all the bodies I'd seen that day, both in the showers and on the sauna benches. These memories were suppressed for years. I forgot what had made my body tremble with pleasure as I brought myself to climax back then. The water washed away the evidence but not the guilt or the gnawing hunger for more. The heat from the sauna seemed to stay in my blood, making my skin feel more sensitive, my touches more urgent. Not until I was 25 did I realize the truth, the curiosity that had been eating me alive for years, a curiosity first sparked in the sweltering heat of the locker room sauna and the frigid pool deck.

Now, looking back, I see it for what it was: bisexuality. I was attracted to both, the soft curves of women and the hard lines of men, but I was too scared, too confused to admit it, even to myself. I wasted so much time pretending, so many opportunities lost to fear and denial. But those memories, those stolen glances in the steam and secret touches in the shower, they're a part of me, a testament to the desire I tried so hard to suppress.

I never thought I'd be back in Richmond, but when my work trip added a detour through the city, my first thought was Marcus. We'd hooked up once before on a dating app, a steamy encounter that had left me fantasizing for months. I found his number and sent a simple message. "Passing through Richmond next week. Up for a repeat?"
His reply came almost instantly "Absolutely. My place, Thursday night. Door'll be open, just come up."
The anticipation was killing me all week. I remembered our first time how he'd left the door unlocked then too, how I'd found him in the shower. But I'd chickened out when he came that first time, pulling away at the last second. The facial I received was godly though..
Thursday couldn't come fast enough. When I arrived at his apartment, I found the door open just as he'd promised. I let myself in and heard the shower running. Following the sound, I found him in the bathroom, water cascading down his muscular black body. Marcus was a tennis player, and it showed in his lean, powerful build. But as I watched him through the glass door, I knew his body wasn't the real prize.
Just like the first time we met, I couldn't help myself. I stripped off my clothes and stepped into the shower behind him. He turned as he heard me, a knowing smirk spreading across his face.
"Couldn't wait, huh?" he asked as I immediately dropped to my knees, the warm water spraying over both of us.
I didn't bother answering, I was already taking his cock into my mouth. 8½ inches of perfect thickness with the most beautifully shaped head I'd ever seen. I was in heaven as a closeted bi man in between straight relationships. It was even more impressive than I remembered, and the water made everything slick and intense. His tender words and touch also made me so much more slutty for him.
This time, I was determined not to make the same mistake as our first encounter. When he warned me he was close, I just took him deeper, looking up at him longingly as I prepared to swallow. His was proud of my eagerness I could just tell as he looked down and then his eyes rolled back. The first pulse of his release was hot and thick against my tongue, more than I expected. I choked but didn’t stop. I swallowed quickly, trying to keep up with the impressive volume as he groaned above me, the shower water still cascading around us. This was the most feral moment of my life, just a freeuse cum dump for this god of a black man.
Afterward, he pulled me to my feet and kissed me deeply. His lips soft and lush unlike anything I’d ever experienced, literally a perfect human body. "Better than last time?" he asked with a knowing smile. I just nodded, feeling my face flush. "Good boy" he said, and damn if that didn't make me feel prouder than any accomplishment in my professional life.
He would tease my ass and hint at owning me. I wasn’t ready at the time. I never ended up giving my ass to him and always wondered what could’ve been since we haven’t played since. Years later I fantasize about being filled by him over and over. My wife doesn’t know this.

The first time I jokingly asked her to sit on my face after I'd filled her up, she laughed, but it was that nervous, breathy kind, like she wasn't sure if I was serious. Then she saw the look in my eyes. "Oh" she said softly, her thighs tensing around my hips. I watched her process it. The way my hands trembled against her waist, how I couldn't stop staring at the pearly strings of my cum leaking from her. "You really want to, don't you?"
She knows that side of me, I did. I didn't just want to. I ached for it. This was the closest I could get to the taste I craved, the one I used to get from kneeling before a man, feeling that hot, thick pulse on my tongue. Now, in this committed relationship, this was my compromise. This shared intimacy where I could still taste that salt, that thickness, even if it was my own flavor. The thought of my warm load coating her holes, waiting for me to clean up every single drop, made my mouth water. I needed to feel her cunt against my tongue, heavy with both of us, to chase the taste of my own seed mixed with her arousal until I couldn't tell where I ended and she began.
She's still learning to love it. Sometimes she'll hesitantly rock against my tongue, her moans half-laughs at first, until the pleasure takes over. "It's so weird," she gasped once, fingers tangled in my hair. "Feeling you enjoy this." But then she came, shaking, and I swallowed every drop like a man starving, chasing the last traces of my own release from her sensitive flesh. This was my version of a facial, my way of getting that fix without breaking her trust.

The first time I jokingly asked her to sit on my face after I'd filled her up, she laughed, but it was that nervous, breathy kind, like she wasn't sure if I was serious. Then she saw the look in my eyes. "Oh" she said softly, her thighs tensing around my hips. I watched her process it. The way my hands trembled against her waist, how I couldn't stop staring at the pearly strings of my cum leaking from her. "You really want to, don't you?"
She knows that side of me, I did. I didn't just want to. I ached for it. This was the closest I could get to the taste I craved, the one I used to get from kneeling before a man, feeling that hot, thick pulse on my tongue. Now, in this committed relationship, this was my compromise. This shared intimacy where I could still taste that salt, that thickness, even if it was my own flavor. The thought of my warm load coating her holes, waiting for me to clean up every single drop, made my mouth water. I needed to feel her cunt against my tongue, heavy with both of us, to chase the taste of my own seed mixed with her arousal until I couldn't tell where I ended and she began.
She's still learning to love it. Sometimes she'll hesitantly rock against my tongue, her moans half-laughs at first, until the pleasure takes over. "It's so weird," she gasped once, fingers tangled in my hair. "Feeling you enjoy this." But then she came, shaking, and I swallowed every drop like a man starving, chasing the last traces of my own release from her sensitive flesh. This was my version of a facial, my way of getting that fix without breaking her trust.

The first time I jokingly asked her to sit on my face after I'd filled her up, she laughed, but it was that nervous, breathy kind, like she wasn't sure if I was serious. Then she saw the look in my eyes. "Oh" she said softly, her thighs tensing around my hips. I watched her process it. The way my hands trembled against her waist, how I couldn't stop staring at the pearly strings of my cum leaking from her. "You really want to, don't you?"
She knows that side of me, I did. I didn't just want to. I ached for it. This was the closest I could get to the taste I craved, the one I used to get from kneeling before a man, feeling that hot, thick pulse on my tongue. Now, in this committed relationship, this was my compromise. This shared intimacy where I could still taste that salt, that thickness, even if it was my own flavor. The thought of my warm load coating her holes, waiting for me to clean up every single drop, made my mouth water. I needed to feel her cunt against my tongue, heavy with both of us, to chase the taste of my own seed mixed with her arousal until I couldn't tell where I ended and she began.
She's still learning to love it. Sometimes she'll hesitantly rock against my tongue, her moans half-laughs at first, until the pleasure takes over. "It's so weird," she gasped once, fingers tangled in my hair. "Feeling you enjoy this." But then she came, shaking, and I swallowed every drop like a man starving, chasing the last traces of my own release from her sensitive flesh. This was my version of a facial, my way of getting that fix without breaking her trust.
Now she teases me about it when she's feeling bold. "You're obsessed," she'll sigh, spreading her thighs wider just to watch my pupils blow. Sometimes she'll even dip her fingers in the milky mess, tracing patterns on her skin before offering them to me. "Such a naughty boy, getting off on tasting your own cum." And she's right. But obsession tastes like salt and her, and I'll lick the plate clean every time.

The first time I jokingly asked her to sit on my face after I'd filled her up, she laughed, but it was that nervous, breathy kind, like she wasn't sure if I was serious. Then she saw the look in my eyes. "Oh" she said softly, her thighs tensing around my hips. I watched her process it. The way my hands trembled against her waist, how I couldn't stop staring at the pearly strings of my cum leaking from her. "You really want to, don't you?"
She knows that side of me, I did. I didn't just want to. I ached for it. This was the closest I could get to the taste I craved, the one I used to get from kneeling before a man, feeling that hot, thick pulse on my tongue. Now, in this committed relationship, this was my compromise. This shared intimacy where I could still taste that salt, that thickness, even if it was my own flavor. The thought of my warm load coating her holes, waiting for me to clean up every single drop, made my mouth water. I needed to feel her cunt against my tongue, heavy with both of us, to chase the taste of my own seed mixed with her arousal until I couldn't tell where I ended and she began.
She's still learning to love it. Sometimes she'll hesitantly rock against my tongue, her moans half-laughs at first, until the pleasure takes over. "It's so weird," she gasped once, fingers tangled in my hair. "Feeling you enjoy this." But then she came, shaking, and I swallowed every drop like a man starving, chasing the last traces of my own release from her sensitive flesh. This was my version of a facial, my way of getting that fix without breaking her trust.
Now she teases me about it when she's feeling bold. "You're obsessed," she'll sigh, spreading her thighs wider just to watch my pupils blow. Sometimes she'll even dip her fingers in the milky mess, tracing patterns on her skin before offering them to me. "Such a naughty boy, getting off on tasting your own cum." And she's right. But obsession tastes like salt and her, and I'll lick the plate clean every time.

The first time I jokingly asked her to sit on my face after I'd filled her up, she laughed, but it was that nervous, breathy kind, like she wasn't sure if I was serious. Then she saw the look in my eyes. "Oh" she said softly, her thighs tensing around my hips. I watched her process it. The way my hands trembled against her waist, how I couldn't stop staring at the pearly strings of my cum leaking from her. "You really want to, don't you?"
She knows that side of me, I did. I didn't just want to. I ached for it. This was the closest I could get to the taste I craved, the one I used to get from kneeling before a man, feeling that hot, thick pulse on my tongue. Now, in this committed relationship, this was my compromise. This shared intimacy where I could still taste that salt, that thickness, even if it was my own flavor. The thought of my warm load coating her holes, waiting for me to clean up every single drop, made my mouth water. I needed to feel her cunt against my tongue, heavy with both of us, to chase the taste of my own seed mixed with her arousal until I couldn't tell where I ended and she began.
She's still learning to love it. Sometimes she'll hesitantly rock against my tongue, her moans half-laughs at first, until the pleasure takes over. "It's so weird," she gasped once, fingers tangled in my hair. "Feeling you enjoy this." But then she came, shaking, and I swallowed every drop like a man starving, chasing the last traces of my own release from her sensitive flesh. This was my version of a facial, my way of getting that fix without breaking her trust.
Now she teases me about it when she's feeling bold. "You're obsessed," she'll sigh, spreading her thighs wider just to watch my pupils blow. Sometimes she'll even dip her fingers in the milky mess, tracing patterns on her skin before offering them to me. "Such a naughty boy, getting off on tasting your own cum." And she's right. But obsession tastes like salt and her, and I'll lick the plate clean every time.

The first time I jokingly asked her to sit on my face after I'd filled her up, she laughed, but it was that nervous, breathy kind, like she wasn't sure if I was serious. Then she saw the look in my eyes. "Oh" she said softly, her thighs tensing around my hips. I watched her process it. The way my hands trembled against her waist, how I couldn't stop staring at the pearly strings of my cum leaking from her. "You really want to, don't you?"
She knows that side of me, I did. I didn't just want to. I ached for it. This was the closest I could get to the taste I craved, the one I used to get from kneeling before a man, feeling that hot, thick pulse on my tongue. Now, in this committed relationship, this was my compromise. This shared intimacy where I could still taste that salt, that thickness, even if it was my own flavor. The thought of my warm load coating her holes, waiting for me to clean up every single drop, made my mouth water. I needed to feel her cunt against my tongue, heavy with both of us, to chase the taste of my own seed mixed with her arousal until I couldn't tell where I ended and she began.
She's still learning to love it. Sometimes she'll hesitantly rock against my tongue, her moans half-laughs at first, until the pleasure takes over. "It's so weird," she gasped once, fingers tangled in my hair. "Feeling you enjoy this." But then she came, shaking, and I swallowed every drop like a man starving, chasing the last traces of my own release from her sensitive flesh. This was my version of a facial, my way of getting that fix without breaking her trust.
Now she teases me about it when she's feeling bold. "You're obsessed," she'll sigh, spreading her thighs wider just to watch my pupils blow. Sometimes she'll even dip her fingers in the milky mess, tracing patterns on her skin before offering them to me. "Such a naughty boy, getting off on tasting your own cum." And she's right. But obsession tastes like salt and her, and I'll lick the plate clean every time.

The first time I jokingly asked her to sit on my face after I'd filled her up, she laughed, but it was that nervous, breathy kind, like she wasn't sure if I was serious. Then she saw the look in my eyes. "Oh" she said softly, her thighs tensing around my hips. I watched her process it. The way my hands trembled against her waist, how I couldn't stop staring at the pearly strings of my cum leaking from her. "You really want to, don't you?"
She knows that side of me, I did. I didn't just want to. I ached for it. This was the closest I could get to the taste I craved, the one I used to get from kneeling before a man, feeling that hot, thick pulse on my tongue. Now, in this committed relationship, this was my compromise. This shared intimacy where I could still taste that salt, that thickness, even if it was my own flavor. The thought of my warm load coating her holes, waiting for me to clean up every single drop, made my mouth water. I needed to feel her cunt against my tongue, heavy with both of us, to chase the taste of my own seed mixed with her arousal until I couldn't tell where I ended and she began.
She's still learning to love it. Sometimes she'll hesitantly rock against my tongue, her moans half-laughs at first, until the pleasure takes over. "It's so weird," she gasped once, fingers tangled in my hair. "Feeling you enjoy this." But then she came, shaking, and I swallowed every drop like a man starving, chasing the last traces of my own release from her sensitive flesh. This was my version of a facial, my way of getting that fix without breaking her trust.
Now she teases me about it when she's feeling bold. "You're obsessed," she'll sigh, spreading her thighs wider just to watch my pupils blow. Sometimes she'll even dip her fingers in the milky mess, tracing patterns on her skin before offering them to me. "Such a naughty boy, getting off on tasting your own cum." And she's right. But obsession tastes like salt and her, and I'll lick the plate clean every time.