You left the club exhausted. The music was hot, the people were hot, your girlfriend was… very drunk. It was the first time in MONTHS that you got to go out, and you were so excited to finally just let loose at a live concert again. Not that Christi was particularly into the idea. To be honest, listening to her complain and slur and talk shit about her “friends” had been nagging on your shoulder for some time now. If you were being real with yourself, you’d admit your feelings for her had diminished quite a bit. If you were keeping it truly real, you’d admit that you were tired of no sex for the past eight months. You were tired of her getting pissed when she caught you beating one out on a Saturday afternoon. You were tired of having to work, cook, clean, and silently agree with her every whim. In short, you were whipped and you were… well, exhausted.
You turned and did your best to let the bouncer deal with her drunken ramblings about you, as Uber began to load up on your phone. Please, don’t be a long wait, you thought; begging to just get her home and into bed so you wouldn’t have to worry. The little ding from your phone signaled you had precisely five minutes before “Greg” in is Red Toyota Sienna would come pick you up out front. Turning around, you prepared for the ungodly fight that was going to ensue to get her in the car and yet, as you scanned the crowd to see where she’d gone off to, you couldn’t help but notice that you were being watched.
Against the side gate of the back alley leaned the musician for the night, fresh off the stage from his set. He was a DJ, you couldn’t quite recall his name, but he was a fairly well known fixture around town after a few well received gigs and a quick tour. His face glistened with sweat as the streetlight illuminated him from above, his hand covering the flirtatious side grin he cast you from his face. Intriguing. You wonder if he recognized you from somewhere, or more likely his gaze was pointed at someone else closeby. Still, something felt magnetic from those stoned, red eyes.
“BAAAAAAAAAAAABE I wanna go homeeeee.” Christi’s whining broke the connection like a baseball flying through a plate glass window. You took a deep breath and turned to her. She was fumbling with her clutch, trying to find keys for a car you didn’t have. “I don’t knoww… Where the fuck are the keys. I think… I think that fucking bartender took them. I bet…” Just as you were preparing to turn and head back into the club to appease her, a gruff, smoky voice came billowing from beside you.
“What’s up. How’d y'all like the set?” You turned, and were met with the DJ’s chill, definitely toked out face. From up close, you were better able to read him, and absolutely one hundred percent he was flashing you and Christi some looks. She turned and immediately started to do her typical chipper grovelling. That beat drop was so cool yada yada yada, the lights were so colorful yada yada yada, it frustrated you to no end knowing that she hated the set and wouldn’t even dance, so every lie she spewed made your expression sink a bit further into irritation. “That’s what’s up, that’s dope. Thank you so much.” He was suave, a laid back attitude that perhaps was elevated by an inordinate amount of weed (of which you could easily smell behind a thick veil of sweaty musk), but it felt genuine- not put on for clout.
“Yeah, man. I fuckin’ loved it. I’m gonna have to check you out on iTunes.” He turned to you and smiled, raising his hand to collide with yours. He did not break eye contact, but his brows did furrow just a bit, a facial signal you’d read many times before.
“Yeah, man. I saw you out there on the floor. Love seein’ folks feel the music, you know what I’m sayin’?” You and Christi both nodded, your attention entirely entangled with him. “So, I don’t know if y'all are into this or not. But, I’m headin’ back to my place in a bit, if you two wanted to… you know. Tag along.” You were picking up what he was laying down. You’d never been propositioned like this before, you’d never been propositioned for a threesome before, and for a solid moment there you sincerely thought about taking him up on that offer. You’d never been with a guy before, you’d never been interested in guys before, but something was different with this dude. Yet, as you turned to see Christi’s uninterested gaze and felt her pinch your forearm- the universal signal she was saying no.
“We’ve been drinking a lot, and I think we’re just gonna get home and hit the hay. Thank you for the offer though!” You tried to smile, express your nonverbal apologies, and it seemed to be received. He held his hands up and chuckled.
“Hey, shoot your shot, right? You change your mind, let me know, aight?” He pulled out a sharpie from his pocket, fresh from signing his headshots, and scribbled on your hand a phone number and his name, Apollo. He winked at you two as he sauntered back down the back alley out of sight. You turned to Christi, yet again destroying your chances not only of getting laid, but dictating to you about promiscuity or something. You stopped listening the moment she called him a faggot.
The night ended much as expected. “Greg” showed up in his Red Toyota Sienna and drove you and Christi home. She stumbled around the kitchen a bit before taking the last of your La Croix and heading up to your bedroom before passing out atop the duvet. This is how every outing went. And frankly, you were done. You’d been done for quite some time now, but for some reason, you couldn’t shake Apollo’s wink from your mind and the tension of having yet another opportunity whisked away from you boiled over. You pulled your phone off the charger on the counter and typed in the number hastily written on your wrist.
“Hey,” you texted “thanks for the offer tonight. If you’re still out I’ll defs come grab a drink or something?” You felt a rush. Was this wrong? Is this cheating? Did you… care? Your phone chimed: your caller ID proclaimed a message from DJ Apollo Wilde.
“dope im leavin the bar now meet up at my place on esplanade” followed by the address. You snagged your keys (a plus of not being drunk this evening) and checked your hair in the hall mirror. Just a once over before slipping out of the front door as quietly as possible.
The drive only took about fifteen minutes, and you were eventually out in front of a fairly nice apartment complex. Super modern, nicely landscaped, floor to ceiling windows… Impressive. You pressed the call button and typed in 7A. The box rang and after a solid 10-20 seconds of anxiety, Apollo’s sultry voice spilled from the intercom.
“Whassup, head on up, man.” The door buzzed loudly, and you quickly swung the door open and crossed the lobby to the elevators. You rode them to the 7th floor in quiet anticipation. You were floored you were doing this. Never in your wildest dreams would you have imagined that you’d be taking up some dude’s offer for a nightcap in his apartment- let alone while being ‘taken.’ The doors opened to the floor and you meandered to the end of the hall: 7A. Outside the door were three or four sets of sneakers and boots, all wafting a heavy stench of wet foot funk. You knocked on the door, and could hear from the far end of the apartment a bit of movement. Taking another guilty glance down at your feet, the well worn shoes had caught your attention. You’d never liked feet. You’d never really been turned on by musk or sweat… But something about that warm, sharp scent… fresh… right off of his body… leaving some of himself in them, his essence… Yeah, it hit different. Before you could even know what you were doing you’d picked up one of the more beat up AF1’s and brought it to your nose. You inhaled deeply, and let that intoxicating smell right into yourself. It hit just like poppers, a wave of goosebumps flushed down your body, and your head got ever so slightly more misty and light.
The fiddling of the lock came quick and as Apollo swung the door open you dropped the sneaker back onto the pile, trying to pull off a nonchalant posture as you met his gaze and hoping he hadn’t seen. Just one look at him and whatever concerns or qualms in your head about whether or not to follow through with this insane booty call melted away. That slicked back, sweaty black hair, that stoned gaze that felt so effortlessly cool, that natural man smell that poured from his lean, inked frame. He nodded his head in greeting, reaching his hand out to you once more.
Taking his hand, he guided you inside, letting the door shut behind him. The apartment was disastrously messy. Dirty clothes littered the floor atop mixers, amps, sneakers, tablets… all bathed in the blue and purple glow of colored lights. The fanciness of the apartment seemed more comfortable, to be honest, and you felt at ease in the smoke veiled flat. There, against a wall of glass, viewing the incredible skyline was a platform bed and a huge bong sitting atop an old MacBook.
“Damn, dude you got a nice…” You couldn’t even finish before he’d taken your face between his slick palms and pulled your lips together. His lips were like butter, soft and pillowy; and his pierced tongue slid like a slick, smoky probe around your mouth. No girl had ever kissed this well before, no girl had ever tasted this mouthwatering. Your lips parting made you have an insatiable need for more, his hot breath still flooding your mouth.
“Fuck I’m glad it’s just you, bruh. No offense but your girl is rough, man, but I was gonna push through it if I got to spend some time with you.” His hands slid down your back and playfully groped your ass, before he pulled your hand toward the bed. He plopped down and finished packing the bowl he’d started, the leather jacket shining like polished latex in the fuchsia hues. “I know you ain’t ever been with a dude before.” The Bic lighter snapped as he lit the bowl, taking a considerable drag you were not confident you could follow. He winked at you as he blew the cloud of smoke into your face. “I can tell. But I'mma take it nice and slow for you, babe.” Flashing a cocky grin, he passed you the bong. You brought the opening to your lips as he ignited the bowl. Pulling, pulling, pulling, until the bong was filled with white smoke. Before you could do it, Apollo pulled the stopper, and the smoke flooded into your lungs. Expecting a coughing fit of epic proportions, you held your breath. As you let the smoke slowly out, it felt as if you’d done this a million times even though this was by far the largest toke you’d ever taken. Your brows dropped, your eyes got heavy, your body relaxed, and your mind was finally contently quiet. He pulled out a small remote and clicked the speakers on. Some of his low fi, almost vaporwave beats began to pump through the bass. Though you’d never heard it before, you seemed to know every single beat, every single melody and scratch. He smiled as you bobbed your head to his music.
“That’s right, baby. Here, take my boots off.” Apollo swung his legs around, letting his huge, well loved Timberlands rest in your lap. “I saw you playin’ with the AF’s. You like it don’t ya?” You absentmindedly nodded, and began to unlace the huge boats. Pulling off the first one, wet hot steam burst forth as if decompressing from the hot confines of the boot. His stretched out white socks were stained with his footprint on the bottom, beckoning for you. “Try the boot first, baby. Let summa that musty foot funk in.” You brought the size 13 Timberland to your face and dragged just as you did from the bong. Sopping wet. Buttery. Salty. Tangy. It was as if you were inhaling his entire concert right out of the hot spring. His wet sock pressed and played with your growing bulge as you let your tongue slide across the insole, your tongue bursting with a flavor indescribably savory and addictive with every droplet of his sweat. “Fuuuuck, I love the way you love that funk after a show. Here, take the other one off.”
You let the first boot thunk to the ground next to your feet, as you eagerly yank off the second yellow Timberland from his foot. As it drops to the ground, Apollo smiles as he puts his feet on your face, the sweaty, grimy slime of built up footsweat against your skin was better than any day spa could ever make you feel. So in euphoria were you that you didn’t even notice your feet starting pulsate, as the hot smelly fumes from the Timberlands began to penetrate into your own soles and into every crevice behind each toe until your feet had begun to emanate his own irresistible musk.
“Fuck yeah, babe. I love how drunk you get off me. Gimme some of those lips.” He pulled his feet from your face, smirking as he noticed the stubble that had begun to develop on your chin and upper lip. You crawled atop him in a feat of dirty passion you’d never had before, locking your rapidly plumping lips with Apollo’s, still tainted with the taste of his own feet. You knew he loved your musty size 13’s, especially after sharing his boots; a constant part of your filthy sex ritual. You knew he loved the taste of ashy weed on your pierced tongue as it slid over his, and you knew just how to make him happy when your lips met. His soft hands slid over your slimming body, ripping the ill fitted clothing from your tanning skin. You pulled away and began to slowly unbutton his pants. Tattoos sprawled out across your slimming fingers as your expertly pulled the ripped black jeans to the ground, exposing the throbbing outline of his cock behind the thin fabric of his Calvin Kleins.
“Aww fuck yeah, babe. You always know what to do.” Apollo tossed the leather jacket aside, and sprawled backward with his arms behind his head; a naughty twinkle hidden in his narrow brown eyes. Pulling down the off-white calvins wet with sweat and pre, his lean, rock hard uncut cock nearly smacked you in the jaw as it does nearly every time. You lick around the head and under his foreskin, letting your piercing tease him while you taste that funky ass dick you love. He moans as you take him into your mouth, letting it slide down your throat without so much as a heave. He smirks as he grabs the back of your head and slams it down, face fucking you with rhythmic, rolling thrusts. His balls slap against your chin as your body starts to soak up his sweat on your skin, putting on just enough muscle to define your tall, sunkissed body. “Jesus Christ, you’re so sexy.” Apollo muttered, letting you up for air.
You smiled, your sultry and handsome face oozed sexual confidence matched only by his after years of damn good sex. Ripping off his shirt, you flipped him as he growled in furious lust, plunging your tongue into his tight, sweaty hole.
“FUCK, Mateo. Get in there, fuck yeah.” Your cock elongated with every pump of blood; 6 inches. 8 inches. 10 inches, before the skin closed loosely over your 11" inch uncut python, begging to explore your man’s spit slick hole. You pulled your tongue out, and quickly plunged your pre-lubed cock into Apollo. You fucked him bareback, deep with a swagger and romantic passion that drove you wild.
“Fuck, Apollo. I’m gonna blow.” He growled thrust backwards, spearing himself on you and stroking your cock with an ass better than any fleshlight on the market until your inflating balls couldn’t handle any more. You shot your famously massive load deep into Apollo, streams of white cum shooting out of his hole like a geyser. You smirked and pulled out just in time for him to grab you by the neck, tossing you onto your back.
“You’re so fuckin’ hot, Mateo. Let me in that ass.” Gagging you with his socks you love to sniff every day, he plowed you rough with his wide hands against your throat until he could climax his own flood into your body. Apollo dismounted and plopped on his back next to you, throwing his arm around your neck as you fell asleep in eachother’s juices.
The next morning, the sun shone bright through the windows onto you and your man’s notoriously sexy bodies sprawled across the satin sheets. You woke up as you always did, swiping on your OnlyFans and Twitter until Apollo would wake. A grope of your lithe cock and a deep kiss was all you needed each morning from him, assuming it was just you two the night before. You hopped out of bed, slipping on one of Apollo’s outfits from a show earlier in the week, and borrowing his ripe socks and Doc Martens to flesh out the look. In their home, “mi casa es su casa.” Just as you were heading out to get some promo shots for the next album, a ping from your phone showed a strange text from an unknown number, asking about her boyfriend or whatever. Psh. Must’ve been the wrong number.
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