The door gives. The smell hits Leo first—thick, salty, a fog of cum and poppers and male sweat that coats the back of his throat. He swallows against it, the taste metallic and intimate, and the darkness of the room pulses with a deep, thumping bass from a speaker on the floor. His eyes adjust. On the bed, a smooth, muscular back glistens under a sheen of sweat, a perfect ass presented, red and wet and open. Beside a tensed thigh, a small notepad lies open. Sixty-one slashes, neat and brutal, fill the page.
Leo’s cock throbs, a sharp, leaking ache in his jeans. He doesn’t move. The figure on the bed shifts, muscles rolling under taut skin, and a low, gritty voice cuts through the music. “Door’s open for a reason, baby. Shut it and get that dick out. I can smell your nerves from here.” It’s him. Corey’s voice is exactly like the videos, raw and unfiltered, and it unspools something tight in Leo’s chest. He pushes the door closed. The click of the latch is the loudest sound he’s ever heard.
His hands fumble with his belt, his zipper, the wet patch at the front of his boxers. His cock springs free, hard and desperate, and the cool air of the room feels like a shock against his heated skin. He steps forward, his shoes scuffing on the cheap carpet, and the smell intensifies—a pungent, salty-sweet musk that is pure male, pure use. He can see it now, the glistening evidence coating the man’s inner thighs, the swollen, used hole that winks at him with every shallow breath Corey takes.
“That’s it,” Corey murmurs, his head down, his voice a vibration in the mattress. “Look at all that work you get to play in. Sixty-one loads, man. You’re number sixty-two. You gonna make it count?” Leo doesn’t answer. He can’t. He reaches out, his fingertips hovering an inch from the smooth, hot skin of Corey’s lower back. The heat radiating off him is immense. Leo’s palm finally makes contact, sliding over the sweat-slick muscle, feeling the powerful flex as Corey arches his back, pushing his ass higher into the air.
“Fucking touch it,” Corey growls, a command. “Get your hands on that used pussy. It’s waiting for you.” Leo’s other hand comes up, both palms settling on the full, round cheeks. They’re hot, solid, and slick. He spreads them, and the sight—the deep pink, glistening hole, loose and wet—makes his knees weak. The air here is thick with the specific, humid scent of fucked-open flesh and drying cum. Leo guides the head of his cock forward, the tip already slick with his own pre-cum, and presses it against the heat.
It gives. Not a push, not a thrust. It just yields, swallowing the crown of him with a wet, sucking sound that’s obscenely loud over the music. A hot, silken tightness wraps his shaft, but it’s a tightness swimming in liquid heat. Leo gasps, a choked, broken sound. He’s inside. He’s inside Corey Hudsonn. He’s inside the sixty-one.