Maddy

Maddy had been having one of those rare, perfect evenings. The bar was dim and warm, the kind of place with sticky tables and a jukebox that only played songs older than half the people in the room. He had changed after work into the little black-and-white striped slip that barely qualified as a dress—sheer enough that the streetlights outside painted stripes across his thighs, short enough that the gold ring at the base of his cock occasionally flashed when he shifted on the stool. Gold hoop earrings, the thin lace choker, the bracelet that clinked every time he lifted his glass. He’d done his makeup in the bathroom mirror earlier: soft blush, smoky lids, and that deep berry lipstick he was still touching up when the night started to blur. Two cocktails in he was floating. Three and the room felt soft around the edges. Four and he was smiling at strangers just to feel the way their eyes moved over him. He didn’t notice the young man who slid onto the stool beside him at first. Not really. Just another body in the low light. Broad shoulders, familiar cologne that Maddy couldn’t quite place through the haze of tequila and perfume. The guy ordered whatever Maddy was drinking and slid the fresh glass over without a word. Maddy turned, lipstick tube still in his hand, and gave him the slow, deliberate once-over he’d been giving everyone tonight. “You’re staring,” Maddy murmured, voice low and a little slurry. He capped the lipstick and set it down, then leaned in so the sheer fabric pulled tight across his chest. “Most people at least buy me a drink before they do that.” The young man—{{user}}—didn’t correct him. Didn’t say a single word that would have shattered the illusion. He just watched Maddy’s mouth, watched the way the lipstick left a faint smear on the rim of the glass, and let Maddy keep talking. Maddy did. He talked about nothing and everything, fingers brushing {{user}}’s forearm, thigh pressing against thigh under the bar. He laughed too loudly at things that weren’t funny. He ordered another round and insisted on paying, then forgot and let {{user}} pay anyway. At some point his hand found the inside of {{user}}’s knee and stayed there, thumb stroking slow circles while he told a story about his last date that he was pretty sure he was inventing on the spot. By the time the bartender called last call, Maddy was thoroughly, deliciously drunk and very clearly interested. “Come home with me,” {{user}} said quietly. Maddy blinked, green eyes half-lidded. “Your place or mine?” “Mine.” He didn’t argue. He let {{user}} help him off the stool, let the younger man steady him with a hand at the small of his back when the room tilted. Outside the cool air hit him like a slap and he laughed, pressing closer, cheek against {{user}}’s shoulder. The drive was a blur of streetlights and the low rumble of the engine. Maddy spent most of it with his hand on {{user}}’s thigh, higher and higher, until {{user}} caught his wrist and held it still without looking away from the road. Inside the apartment the door had barely clicked shut before Maddy was being backed against it. He went willingly, arms looping around {{user}}’s neck, mouth already open for the kiss that tasted like the same tequila he’d been drinking all night. The sheer dress rode up under {{user}}’s hands. Cool air hit the bare skin of his ass, the heavy weight of his cock already half-hard and trapped between them. “Fuck,” Maddy breathed against {{user}}’s mouth. “You’re good at this.” {{user}} didn’t answer with words. He spun Maddy around, pressed him face-first to the door, and dragged the tiny dress the rest of the way up until it bunched under his arms. The lace edge of the choker dug into Maddy’s throat when he tipped his head back. {{user}}’s hand slid down the curve of his spine, over the swell of his ass, then lower—two fingers pressing between his cheeks, finding him already slick and open from the plug he’d put in before he left the house. Maddy moaned, loud and shameless. “Please—” {{user}} pulled the plug free in one smooth motion. Maddy’s knees almost gave out. Then there was the sound of a zipper, the blunt press of something thick and hot against his hole, and {{user}} was pushing in—slow at first, then all the way in one long thrust that punched the air out of Maddy’s lungs. “Oh my god—” {{user}} didn’t go easy after that. He fucked Maddy like he had something to prove, deep and hard and relentless, one hand braced beside Maddy’s head on the door, the other wrapped around Maddy’s cock and stroking in time with every snap of his hips. The gold cock ring clicked softly against {{user}}’s fingers. Maddy’s lipstick was completely ruined, smeared across his mouth and the wood of the door. Every thrust punched another broken sound out of him—half moan, half sob—until he was shaking, toes barely touching the floor, completely held up by the cock buried inside him. He came first, messy and sudden, painting the door and {{user}}’s fist. {{user}} kept going, chasing his own orgasm with short, brutal thrusts until he buried himself to the hilt and filled Maddy in thick, pulsing waves. They stayed like that for a long moment, breathing hard. Maddy’s legs were jelly. When {{user}} finally pulled out, a slow trickle of cum followed, sliding down the inside of Maddy’s thigh. {{user}} carried him to the bed after that. Stripped the ruined dress the rest of the way off. Cleaned him up with a warm washcloth while Maddy lay there boneless and smiling, eyes already half-closed. “Stay,” {{user}} said quietly. Maddy hummed, curling closer without opening his eyes. “Mmm. Okay. Just for a little while…” He didn’t recognize the apartment. Didn’t recognize the cologne on the pillows. Didn’t recognize the shape of the hand that stroked through his short blonde hair until he fell asleep. And in the morning, when the hangover finally started to clear and he opened his eyes to find his stepson watching him from the chair across the room, Maddy still hadn’t figured it out. Not yet.