Abandoned Diaries

The late morning sun beat down with a flat, unforgiving glare as Gary Matheson maneuvered his dented Econoline van into the back lot behind Starline Storage. The blacktop shimmered with heat, already soft beneath the tires. He shifted his bulk in the seat—belly pressing into the steering wheel, the mesh of his cargo shorts bunched uncomfortably between his thick thighs—and muttered under his breath about the heat.

At fifty-four, Gary moved like a man who’d learned to make peace with gravity. He was built wide and heavy, with the doughy softness of someone who’d long ago stopped squeezing into spaces he didn’t fit. His chest sagged beneath the sweat-damp cotton of his flannel shirt, which hung open over a stretched-out tank top. His beard, once gingerish, was now a coarse gray flecked with tobacco stains, and the dome of his head, mostly bald, shone like a patch of wet clay beneath the ballcap he tugged lower.

But Gary didn’t mind discomfort. It was part of the job. And discomfort sometimes paid.

The auction listing had gone up the night before: UNIT 237. DEFAULTED. SIGHT UNSEEN. CASH ONLY. Gary’s pulse had quickened just reading it. Not from greed—those days were gone—but from the chance, however small, to glimpse someone’s life folded into cardboard and cedar, a life someone never meant to give up.

He stepped out of the van, pulled his cap low, and joined the tight semicircle of regulars. Weathered men, mostly. Some lean and mean-eyed, others bloated and hunched like him. No one said much. They never did. This was a quiet kind of hunger.

The manager, a wiry guy in a windbreaker that looked stolen off a bowling alley lost-and-found, stepped forward with a set of bolt cutters.

“Unit 237,” he barked. “Last payment six months back. Lock’s fresh cut. You look, you bid, you haul.”

The door clattered up.

Dust bloomed in the slanted sunlight, swirling through the air like ghosts. Gary squinted. It wasn’t the usual pile of junk. This was... beautiful.

Plastic bins stacked in color-coded towers. Each was labeled in a looping, practiced hand—“Kitchen,” “Books: A-M,” “Photos 1970s.” A tall dresser with brass knobs stood beside a cedar chest draped in a faded throw blanket. A crystal lamp with a honey-colored shade. Books arranged like offerings beside a vase of dried flowers.

And at the back, centered carefully on a folding chair, a framed photograph: two shirtless men on a rotted pier, arms looped over each other’s shoulders. One Black, thick-necked and smiling; the other white, wiry, cigarette dangling from his lip. There was intimacy in their bodies, even from a distance. A sense of having been chosen.

Gary’s breath caught.

It was clear: someone had loved this life. Packed it away not like garbage, but like memory. Like tribute.

He bid high. Too high. But it wasn’t about resale anymore. It was about something else.

Back in his garage—a low-ceilinged, half-finished space he called his workshop—Gary began to unpack. The room filled with the smells of leather, old paper, wood polish, and a faint, ghostly trace of lavender. The bins opened like time capsules.

There were concert tickets, postcards, a man’s shaving brush stored in a carved wooden box. A dog-eared copy of Giovanni’s Room with notes in the margins. Framed photos of men—some candid, some posed, a few blurry with motion, but always tender. Always close.

And then, nestled in the top bin, a set of hardbound journals. Blue, green, and black. Each one neatly labeled on the inside cover:

Private — Victor. 1997–2009

Gary hesitated. He wasn’t the type to snoop. But these weren’t stashed. They’d been preserved. Offered, in a way.

He opened the first one.

June 2, 2004

Jasper brushed the inside of my wrist when he handed me the lighter. I thought I might actually faint. The bar’s neon sign made his skin look coppery and alive. He was younger, maybe by ten years, but had a tiredness I recognized in the eyes. I asked if he wanted to come home with me. I never do that. But he just smiled and said, “Been hoping you’d ask.”

Gary stared.

He felt the notebook heat in his hands. His mouth went dry. He turned the page, and the world inside began to open.

The story of Jasper continued “Jasper made it seem so easy, we barely made it past the door of the men’s, Jasper’s palm pushing me hard into the cinderblock, the other hand already up his shirt, fingers rough with callus from real work. There wasn’t any time for introductions or sheepish apologies. Jasper sucked at his bottom lip, bared his teeth in what might have been a smile if he weren’t pinning me against the wall, hiking my waistband down—cold air, shock, throb. My knees threatened to buckle and even that felt like a rescue.—I tried to stifle his but Jasper’s hand found his mouth and held it there, thumb pressing into the bone of his jaw. The pain was brief and holy.

After, Jasper zipped up and grinned, as if the secret of what they’d done belonged to both but was meant for the world. Victor stood behind the closed stall, pulse pounding in his temples, trying to fit his shirt back into his pants, lips tinged with copper

The entries were vivid, and not all about sex. There were sketches of loneliness, mornings filled with jazz and half-read novels, awkward hookups that turned into long afternoons. Sometimes the names changed: Jasper. Theo. Diego. Ben. Sometimes there were months between entries, and sometimes only hours.

Victor wasn’t just writing down what happened—he was confessing how it felt. The ache, the vulnerability, the risk. Gary leaned back in his chair, feeling the wood creak beneath his weight, belly rising softly as he exhaled.

March 28, 2007

Theo arrived with his cock ring once more, bypassing any greeting as he undressed with silent anticipation. He stood there, exposed and waiting, while I intentionally prolonged his suspense, observing the subtle flickers of his pride as it wavered. Theo reveled in being unraveled, a peculiar pleasure in surrendering control. I took him forcefully, our movements raw and intense until his cries filled the room, echoing off the walls. Once it was over, he nestled against me, his body relaxed like something that had found absolution. He softly asked if he could stay the night. I refused, knowing I preferred solitude in the morning, not ready to share the dawn with anyone.

Gary’s breath hitched.

He shifted in the chair, aware of the growing tightness in his jeans. His own life—so dry, so orderly, so untouched—suddenly felt porous. Thin. Like it could be rewritten.

He had never slept with a man. Never thought he wanted to. But now, all he could think of was being seen. Touched. Held the way Victor held these men in language.

And then—

April 9, 2007

I thought George was sweet. Too sweet. He flinched when I kissed him, but he didn’t pull away. I could tell he hadn’t been touched in years. We were clumsy and quiet. I assured him he didn’t have to perform; I just wanted him warm beside me. When I told him he was safe, he cried into my neck.

Victor.

Gary stopped in his tracks. The name.

He finally knew the name of the man who had packed these boxes, the one who had lived this life.

Gary swallowed, his eyes scanning the room. He’d already begun arranging the items as the diary had detailed. The green armchair. The lamp with the pull chain. The record player, now clean and playing slow jazz that Gary had come to adore.

He was no longer just reading. He was listening.

He was living it.

And perhaps, he realized with a shiver, he was waiting.

For something.

For someone.

Or for a life that might still—somehow—be within reach.

Something started shifting in Gary in the days that followed. Nothing dramatic. Not at first.

It began with his hands.

He caught himself scrubbing the grime from beneath his nails one afternoon, standing at the workshop sink, the brush rasping against his skin. His nails had always been blunt, stained with oil and age, but now he wanted them clean. Neat. Like D described his own in an entry about grading papers late at night, a scotch in one hand, a red pen in the other.

Then came the beard. Gary trimmed it down—not off, but close to the jaw. He hadn’t seen his own chin in years and didn’t like what he found, but the change felt necessary. He even bought a small bottle of cologne, some spicy amber thing he’d once seen in a Macy’s ad. It reminded him, vaguely, of how the notebook pages smelled.

He took to wearing button-down shirts again, ones that hugged across his round belly but made his shoulders look a little stronger. It wasn’t vanity. Not really. He just wanted to feel like someone who could be wanted.

He started leaving the workshop more often.

One night, driving aimlessly past strip malls and industrial parks, he pulled into a faded diner called Lou’s Galaxy Café. The sign buzzed with the effort of staying lit. Inside, the booths were cracked vinyl and the air smelled like onion rings and decades of spilled coffee. The place was nearly empty except for a man seated two booths away, nursing a slice of pie and a whiskey he’d probably slipped in himself.

Gary slid into a booth and ordered a burger he didn’t really want. The man caught his eye. Late forties, maybe, with a tired jawline and a dark tan that had worn into his skin like leather. He wore a salesman's polo tucked into slacks that clung to thick thighs. Not handsome, exactly, but compelling—like a storm that hadn’t yet decided whether to pass or break.

“You passing through?” the man asked, voice casual.

Gary blinked. “No. Just hungry.”

The man smiled. “You look like you could use company.”

Gary hesitated. His breath caught in his chest. There was no flirtation in the tone, not exactly. Just a door, half-open.

They talked for a bit. The salesman’s name was Mitch. Sold industrial cleaning systems to small businesses. Lived mostly out of motels. Gary barely heard the rest.

Then came the quiet invitation.

“I’ve got a decent room up the road,” Mitch said, swiping the last of his pie crust through the syrupy plate. “Could use a drink. You game?”

Gary didn’t remember standing. He didn’t remember driving. He just remembered the way the hotel room smelled: cheap body spray and something faintly metallic, like coins and skin.

Mitch shut the door behind them and locked it. No ceremony. No music. Just silence and possibility.

Gary stood stiff in the middle of the room, like a man awaiting orders. Mitch stepped close—closer than any man had before—and reached for Gary’s belt with quiet confidence. Gary’s belly trembled under the touch from the foreignness of it. His thighs rubbed together as he shifted his stance, suddenly aware of every inch of his body.

“You done this before?” Mitch asked, voice low.

Gary shook his head.

“Doesn’t matter,” Mitch said, gently, almost kindly. “Just let it happen.”

The belt came loose with a slow hiss. Then the button. The zipper. Gary’s shorts slackened, and he was surprised how easily the fabric surrendered. He let them drop to his ankles, old denim pooled on the carpet. Mitch didn’t make a joke about Gary’s bulk, didn’t leer or flinch—just stood still, regarding him. Then, without instruction, Gary took off his shirt. The cold air in the room raised goosebumps across his chest and arms. He’d forgotten how pale he looked without layers.

Mitch nodded, then walked a slow circle around him. Hands warm as a stove burner, Mitch pressed his palms to Gary’s back, then slid them up under his arms and over his chest, mapping every contour, every yielding bit of flesh. He lingered at Gary’s nipples, running thumbs over them in slow, deliberate figure-eights, then pinched lightly. A charge went through Gary that surprised him—a mix of arousal and indignation and gratitude, all tangled together.

“Sensitive?” Mitch murmured, lips at Gary’s ear.

Gary shuddered.

Mitch’s hands roamed lower, cupping his waist, then back up, kneading the folds above his ribs. Gary felt completely exposed, soft-bellied and immense. Embarrassment prickled his scalp; arousal, lower. He was already half-hard, pulse quickening every time Mitch’s fingers found the tender places. The hands were practiced—never hesitating, never forcing him anywhere he didn’t want to go. There was no rush.

Mitch’s own shirt came off, revealing a chest surprisingly hairless, the skin burnished and taut. He pressed their bodies together, aligning the curves, letting their stomachs meet, then their groins. The pressure of it was holy. Gary closed his eyes and let himself be suspended in what came next: the weight of another man’s need, the firm and gentle hands arranging him on the edge of the bed, the warmth of their mouths together. He expected the awkwardness to win out, for the old self-consciousness to drag him under, but it didn’t. The wanting—his, yes, and Mitch’s—was a rope thrown across the gap. Gary held tight and let it pull.

In the dark, their bodies became simple. Not two men, not two pasts, just two shapes meeting where they could. Mitch kissed like he was used to kissing, not just as a before but as a during, as a punctuation. Gary let himself breathe it in. The rhythm was slow, patient. Hands everywhere, mouth everywhere. He found he liked being touched, being mapped, even being studied by someone who seemed to actually enjoy the landscape.

He let Mitch direct him, hands guiding Gary gently down onto the threadbare bedspread. Mitch’s palms gripped Gary’s calves and, with a strength that surprised him, pushed his knees up and apart. For a second, Gary hovered in the old panic—he was too big, too awkward, this would never work—but the moment dissolved when Mitch settled between his spread thighs, ran his hands up the backs of them, and folded Gary in half like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He was open now, totally exposed. Mitch’s face went soft for an instant, something akin to gratitude flickering behind the focus. He pressed the inside of Gary’s knee to his stubbled jawline, almost tender, and kissed his way along the pale, trembling leg.

Then Gary felt it—Mitch’s cock, hard, hot, pressed against him.

There was a pause. A breath. Mitch wrapped his hands under Gary’s thighs, thumbs stroking circles on the meat of his legs, eyes on Gary’s face.

“Okay?” he asked.

Gary nodded, unable to speak.

It hurt, at first. Not like he’d imagined from the diaries—not holy, not transcendent, just insistent and tight and so fucking present that for a second he nearly gasped. But then the pain braided into the wanting, and the wanting took over. Each time Mitch rocked into him, Gary’s whole body shifted; he could feel his belly, his arms, even his chest shaking in time with the motion.

He remembered, through the haze, Victor’s description of this moment: how it felt to be filled, to surrender to the rhythm of another body. Gary felt the symmetry—his own story folding inside Victor’s, a matched set.

Mitch’s grip never wavered. Sweat dripped down his temple; his face was set, jaw clenched, but his eyes kept flicking back to Gary’s, checking, asking, and Gary—astonishingly—kept meeting his gaze. He watched the other man fuck him, feeling exposed but not humiliated, needy but not pathetic. He let himself be noisy, let the sounds come, let his own pleasure be witnessed.

Then he noticed: with each deep, deliberate thrust, his chest was bouncing—his whole body jolting forward, up against the dome of his belly, then down again, like the world’s most obscene metronome. Mitch seemed entranced by the sight, sweat-darkened eyebrows lifting in appreciation each time Gary’s soft nipples quivered. Gary started to laugh, a wild, nervous sound, but then Mitch angled his hips and a spike of pleasure shot through him, silencing everything but the urge to stay open, to be taken.

Climax arrived with a suddenness that stunned him. His body knew before he did; he felt it in his spine, his scalp, even his toes. Gary came in thick, pulsing waves, his stomach flexing under the intensity, and saw stars against his eyelids. Mitch growled—honest to god, a low animal sound—and finished inside him, fingers digging hard enough to leave bruises, whole body tensed and shaking as he emptied out. After, Mitch didn’t withdraw, just stayed there, buried deep,

When it was over, they lay side by side, sweat drying in the cold air. The TV was on, low. Gary watched the blue light flicker across the ceiling. He felt emptied and full at the same time, not sure whether to laugh or to cry. Mitch went to the bathroom, came back with two flat beers from the minibar.

“You did good,” Mitch said, and clinked his can against Gary’s.

There were no more words after that, but it didn’t matter. Gary drove home at dawn, wrapped in silence, feeling as if something terrible and necessary had burst open inside him. Before he even cut the engine, he reached for the notebook resting on the passenger seat.

Because now he understood.

And he needed to know what came next.

In the weeks after that first night with Mitch, something in Gary unfurled, and the edges of his world—once flat and forgettable—began to glow. He couldn’t quite name what he was seeking, but he found himself drawn to the kinds of places where men like Mitch might turn up: a neon-drenched roadside diner, a quiet bar just off the interstate, a bowling alley in Rockport where the bartender tipped his head at Gary’s new cologne. With a mix of wonder and disbelief, he realized he wasn’t invisible. Some men looked at him the way he’d always imagined they looked at each other—eyes that lingered, smiles that paused just long enough to feel loaded.

In the dimly lit hotel lounge, Gary encountered Jerry, a traveling insurance rep whose eyes held a flicker that both thrilled and unnerved him. The air between them grew heavy with unspoken promises as Jerry, with a knowing glance, suggested they retreat to his suite. Gary's heart pounded in his chest, echoing the thrilling passages he'd devoured in Victor's diary, and he found himself nodding in agreement. Once inside, with the door securely closed, Jerry reached into his bag and withdrew a sleek leather switch. He snapped it through the air, the sharp crack slicing through the silence like a whip. "Strip," Jerry commanded, and despite the flutter of nerves, a deep, primal excitement surged within Gary. He quickly peeled away his clothes, feeling the cool air kiss his skin as the switch lashed against him repeatedly, each sting both fierce and strangely intoxicating.

Jerry then brought out a cold, metallic dog collar, securing it tightly around Gary's neck. With a sharp pull on the leash, Gary was forced onto his hands and knees, moving like an animal, the leather digging into his skin with each movement. Mounting Gary’s back, Jerry ordered him to crawl across the room. The world outside faded away, leaving only the rhythmic sound of the switch and their combined moans resonating in the room. While still on all fours, Gary licked Jerry’s penis until he climaxed, and then licked him clean. The experience was both exhilarating and exhausting as Jerry exploited Gary’s large physicality.

Or Jack, the rugged ex-Marine who rolled up to Gary’s place in a battered, paint-chipped pickup truck that seemed to have seen as many battles as he had. Jack's tough exterior softened whenever he spoke of Tom, his late partner. His gaze would drift away, eyes growing misty with the weight of memories, as he recounted their forbidden love under the oppressive shadow of "don't ask, don't tell." He described their stolen glances and clandestine meetings with a voice that trembled with both love and loss, memories that flickered like old film reels until Tom’s tragic death in a bomb blast shattered their secret world. In the quiet sanctuary of Gary’s living room, Jack’s stories unfolded with the raw intensity of both passion and tragedy, each word a testament to the love they once shared.

When they finally came together, it was a cathartic release of repressed sorrow and yearning, their tears blending with sighs to form a moving symphony of desire and comfort. They cried freely for Tom and for the moments lost over time. In the intensity of their embrace, they felt an emotional connection that surpassed just physical pleasure.

Each time, Gary emerged changed, as if some dust-covered part of himself had been scrubbed clean. But always, he returned to the notebooks.

He’d finished four now. Victor’s voice pulsed inside him like scripture. His thoughts fell into the same spare, sensual rhythm Victor had penned—unafraid of longing. He read those entries again and again, not merely for the sex but for the feeling: the hush between lines, the ache of waking beside someone and not knowing what to do when morning came.

And then, on a Thursday afternoon thick with summer heat, the phone rang.

Gary was in his workshop, rifling through a box of vintage ties that still smelled of old leather and cologne. He lifted the receiver without really waking, his voice low and unfocused.

“Matheson Salvage.”

A pause. Then a man’s voice—precise, measured, the kind of calm you’d expect from someone who once taught literature, with a quiet ache beneath it.

“Hello… I’m looking for whoever bought Unit 237 at Starline Storage. I was told my belongings sold in error.”

Gary froze, breath catching. His fingers tightened on the phone; his knuckles went white. A bead of sweat formed at his hairline.

“My name is Victor Chase,” the voice continued, steady yet gentle. “I was out of the country—family matters—and I had auto-pay set up. They never reached me until it was too late.”

Gary’s throat constricted. Not Victor Chase. But the warmth behind the restraint felt real.

“I—I bought that unit,” Gary said at last, voice rough. “I’m sorry that happened.”

A heavy silence.

“I’d like my things back,” Victor said. “All of them, if possible. I’m staying with my sister in Northbridge, but I can come by.”

Gary swallowed. “You don’t want me to bring them over?”

“No,” Victor replied after a moment. “I’ll come to you.”

The line clicked off before Gary could answer. He stayed frozen, the air in the room almost solid. The notebooks on his table seemed to pulse with silent words—no longer his alone. Victor was real. And he was coming.

Shortly after three, the workshop door jingled. Gary looked up from the cracked mirror he’d rigged above the sink. His beard was shaggy—he’d skipped his morning shave—and his hands still trembled.

In the doorway stood Victor Chase. He wore a charcoal cardigan over a crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled to reveal strong, weathered forearms. He moved with a quiet grace, like a dancer who’d learned to carry time easily. Iron-gray hair swept back from his temples gave him a noble air. In his right hand he held a cane, more an extension of himself than a support. His deep-set eyes, stormy gray-blue, scanned the room as though weighing every detail.

“Mr. Matheson?” he said softly.

Gary wiped his palms on his jeans. “Mr. Chase.”

They shook hands in a slow, deliberate motion. Victor’s grip was cool, dry, unwavering. His gaze held Gary’s longer than etiquette required, as if reading hidden lines on flesh. He glanced at the stack of notebooks on the desk.

“I didn’t know what to expect,” Victor murmured.

Gary exhaled, tension leaving his shoulders. “I’m not sure how to say this. What I found… it meant something to me. I didn’t just sell it off. I kept everything and I read some.”

Victor’s expression softened. He stepped fully inside, the cane tapping lightly on the wooden floor. “It’s strange,” he said. “Like walking into a room I forgot I loved—like someone preserved a version of me I didn’t realize I was grieving.”

Gary felt an electric current between them, tentative but real. “I didn’t sell a thing,” he said. “I’ve read every notebook. It never felt like fiction.”

“It wasn’t,” Victor said with a faint smile. “It was my life.”

“How long have you been living with this?” Victor asked.

“Since the auction. A few months,” Gary replied. “I read them every night. It changed me.”

Victor arched an eyebrow, intrigued.

Gary’s voice dropped. “I started doing things I never imagined—trying to understand you, maybe even feel what you felt. I had a life before, but it felt like passing days. Now I think about touch, memory, longing—and the weight of being seen.”

Victor’s gaze softened, lingering on Gary’s broad frame. Wild chest hair peeked from the collar—unapologetic. There was warmth in Victor’s eyes now, tender and real.

“You’re like me—a romantic, in private anyway.”

Gary settled on the edge of the workbench, sitting heavily. His large, calloused hands rested on his thighs. For the first time, he didn’t feel the need to hide.

Victor tilted his head, studying him. “Are you afraid?”

Gary shook his head. “Not of you.”

A beat passed. Victor reached into his breast pocket and drew out a slim, leather-bound notebook—pristine, untouched.

“I brought a blank one,” he said, offering it gently. “If we’re both here… maybe it’s time we write something together.”

Gary took it, fingers curling protectively around the soft leather as if it might vanish. Victor leaned against a chair back, cane resting beside him.

“Shall we sit?”

Gary’s throat tightened. He stood, the room suddenly too small, and moved to the chair beside Victor. Their knees brushed—warm, alive through thin fabric. Victor’s hand found Gary’s, resting lightly but with quiet certainty: thin, older fingers against thick, worn skin.

“You’ve already seen me naked in words,” Victor said with a soft chuckle. “I think you’ve earned a little more.”

Their lips met in a slow, hesitant dance before deepening with unhurried intent. This kiss wasn’t frantic or demanding—it was consent incarnate, a silent vow. Victor’s hands moved reverently, fingertips brushing the softness of Gary’s chest, tracing the gentle curve of his belly, pausing at the swell of his side. With deliberate care he undid the buttons of Gary’s shirt, peeling back the cloth as though revealing something sacred.

A tremor ran through Gary as Victor’s lips found the warm plane beneath his collarbone, pressing gentle, hungry kisses along his skin.

Making love like this was nothing like Gary’s recent encounters. It was simply two men, seasoned by their histories, carving out space for one another. No artifice, just an exploration of each other’s strength and fragility. Victor’s lips descended to Gary’s shoulder, where he nibbled slowly and with purpose, as if tasting every part of him in miniature. Gary shivered—never before had he been handled with such patient hunger that honored every contour. His body, once a source of apology, felt cherished in Victor’s hands.

Victor buried his nose in the hollow of Gary’s armpit, inhaled deeply, then traced his tongue over the bristled skin. “You taste like earth and salt,” he murmured, voice low and pleased.

Heat bloomed under Gary’s skin. He reached up, nearly rough in his grip, cupping the back of Victor’s head. “You like it?” he asked, skepticism and wonder tangled in his tone.

Victor simply hummed against him, a vibration of delight, before letting his mouth drift lower—over ribs, across the soft expanse of Gary’s stomach—his tongue pausing on each stretch mark as if they were lines of a beloved poem. Settling between Gary’s open legs, he quickly undid Gary’s fly, and Gary’s heavy shaft tumbled free, already half-hard. Victor licked from base to crown, savoring sweat and skin, then took Gary fully into his mouth, unhurried and wide. He tilted his head up to look at Gary, eyes bright and shining.

A sound escaped Gary, a note of rapture he’d only ever imagined. He’d never considered himself handsome, but under Victor’s worship, every inch of him felt hallowed.

Victor released him, wiped his mouth with a satisfied grin, then guided Gary down onto the scratchy old rug—its rough texture a counterpoint to their growing heat. Gary relaxed onto his back as Victor shed his own trousers with dancer-like efficiency, revealing lean, muscled thighs and a thick, curved member nestled in a silvered mat of hair. Every line of age and loss marked Victor’s body; Gary stared, enthralled.

Victor trailed kisses along Gary’s calves, then up to his feet. He mapped the arch with a fingertip, pressed gentle kisses between the toes, flicked the big toe with his tongue. Gary laughed at first—light and surprised—then his laughter deepened into a low, ragged growl. Victor drew the big toe into his mouth, slow and greedy, and Gary trembled on the brink of release.

“Like that?” Victor whispered.

Gary could only nod, utterly undone.

Victor’s mouth traveled to the inside of Gary’s thigh, pausing at the most intimate of threshold places. Then he rolled Gary onto his side, draping an arm over him, and pressed his face into Gary’s back. His tongue flicked at the nape, then ventured down the cleft of his ass—an act so outrageous that Gary nearly gasped. Yet every slick flick felt exquisite, opening him to pleasures he’d never dared imagine.

At last Victor withdrew, his hands gliding back up Gary’s body before he stretched out beside him, eyes still alight with hunger. Gary reached to pull him close, but Victor caught his wrist, flipped onto his own back, and gently guided Gary’s head down. Without a word, Gary knelt and took Victor’s length in his mouth—at first clumsy, then with growing confidence as he remembered exactly how it felt when Victor had done the same for him: the shape, the taste, the slick rhythm.

Victor groaned low and urgent, one hand tangling in Gary’s hair while the other soothed across his chest and stomach. When the tension coiled too tight, Victor rolled them both so that Gary ended up beneath him. With assured ease Victor guided Gary’s cock inside himself; there was no hesitation, only breath and movement in perfect accord.

Gary braced for discomfort but found none. Instead, Victor’s steady, warm interior welcomed him as they moved together—Gary slowly at first, then with increasing boldness, cued by Victor’s soft moans and encouraging glances. Sweat and desire mingled in the air; shame melted away. Gary’s body shook with exertion, and he reveled in being wanted, wholly and without pretense. Locked in each other’s gaze, Victor mouthed something—“thank you,” or “don’t stop”—and Gary let the uncertainty make it all the more intense.

As their rhythm peaked, Gary pulled Victor’s face against his and crushed their lips together. Victor whimpered, muscles tensing, and Gary spilled over the edge, vision flashing brilliant white before softening around the edges.

When their breaths steadied, Victor lay collapsed across Gary’s chest, both chests heaving, sweat cooling on their skin. Gary stroked Victor’s hair, cherishing the weight and warmth of him. He’d never felt so utterly spent—and so completely whole.

They lingered in silence for a long moment. “Good?” Gary whispered, a flush creeping into his voice.

Victor looked up with a feral grin. “You learn faster than anyone I’ve ever known.”

Gary’s cheeks burned as he snorted in pleased disbelief. Just when he thought it was over, Victor rolled him gently onto his back again, kissed him deep, then hoisted himself up until he was straddling Gary’s broad chest. His cock, still hard and beaded with moisture, pressed against Gary’s throat.

“Care to finish what you started?” Victor teased, voice playful yet darkly intent.

Gary opened his mouth and took Victor in, sucking with all the newfound eagerness inside him. Victor answered with tremors of pleasure that built until he shuddered and let go in a rush of sound and sensation.

Afterward, they lay intertwined, basking in warmth, their slow breaths mingling. The new notebook sat on the windowsill next to an empty vase.

For a long time, neither of them said a word. Then Gary softly said, "I want to remember this exactly as it is."

Victor smiled, gently running his fingers through Gary's hair. "Then write it down, just as it happened."

Gary reached for the notebook and started to write.