You don’t move.
Aaron’s lips twitch. He watches you for a long beat, his gaze dark with something like amusement, something like triumph. “You’re thinking too hard,” he says, his voice rough but not unkind.
He winks, then grabs the hem of his shirt, a smirk on his lips. He tugs on the fabric and then he’s stripping out of it again.
Not for you. At you.
His muscle tee comes off first, pulled over his head with deliberate slowness, the fabric dragging against his skin before he tosses it aside. The silver of his throat ring glints as he swallows, his chest rising and falling with each breath. His fingers find his nipple piercing, tweaking it just enough to make his cock jerk in his jeans. A low sound escapes him, something between a groan and a laugh, as he arches slightly, his muscles flexing under the dim light.
Your breath catches.
Aaron’s hands drop to his belt, the metal clink loud in the quiet garage. He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t look away. His eyes stay locked on yours as he pops the button and drags the zipper down. The denim slides over his hips, pooling at his boots. He steps out of it, standing there in nothing but his jockstrap, the pouch already straining, a dark wet spot spreading across the fabric.
Your cock is iron in your jeans, your pulse hammering in your throat.
Aaron hooks his thumbs into the waistband of the jockstrap, tugging it just enough to let his cock push against the fabric, the flushed head peeking out above the elastic. He lets out a rough moan, his hips rolling slightly as he grows harder, the jockstrap barely containing him now. The wet spot darkens, the fabric clinging to the shape of him, the vein along his shaft visible through the thin cotton.
You should look away, but your horniness keeps your eyes glued on the man in front of you.
He tweaks his nipple again, his breath hitching, his cock twitching in the jockstrap. The head is fully exposed now, dark and flushed, a bead of precum glistening at the tip. His other hand skims down his stomach, his fingers tracing the trail of hair below his navel before stopping just above the waistband.
“Night,” he says, his voice a growl.
Then he turns and walks toward the trailer, his ass flexing with each step, the straps framing all that muscle.
You stand there, frozen, your body on fire.
He stops once on the way to the trailer, turning his body slightly and pulling the waistband of the jockstrap down under his balls. His cock is fully out now, thick and heavy in his hand, the head dark with need. He doesn’t look up. He gives himself one long tug, then pulls the jockstrap back up with an echoing snap when he lets the band go.
Aaron makes it to the trailer and the door creaks open. He steps inside, his silhouette framed by the dim light as he kicks off his boots and strips off the jockstrap. The fabric hits the floor with a damp thud.
The door swings shut.
The lock clicks.
You’re left standing there, hard and aching, the cool night air doing nothing to ease the heat in your body. The garage is silent now, the only sound the distant hum of the neon sign.
Aaron’s lips twitch. He watches you for a long beat, his gaze dark with something like amusement, something like triumph. “You’re thinking too hard,” he says, his voice rough but not unkind.
He winks, then grabs the hem of his shirt, a smirk on his lips. He tugs on the fabric and then he’s stripping out of it again.
Not for you. At you.
His muscle tee comes off first, pulled over his head with deliberate slowness, the fabric dragging against his skin before he tosses it aside. The silver of his throat ring glints as he swallows, his chest rising and falling with each breath. His fingers find his nipple piercing, tweaking it just enough to make his cock jerk in his jeans. A low sound escapes him, something between a groan and a laugh, as he arches slightly, his muscles flexing under the dim light.
Your breath catches.
Aaron’s hands drop to his belt, the metal clink loud in the quiet garage. He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t look away. His eyes stay locked on yours as he pops the button and drags the zipper down. The denim slides over his hips, pooling at his boots. He steps out of it, standing there in nothing but his jockstrap, the pouch already straining, a dark wet spot spreading across the fabric.
Your cock is iron in your jeans, your pulse hammering in your throat.
Aaron hooks his thumbs into the waistband of the jockstrap, tugging it just enough to let his cock push against the fabric, the flushed head peeking out above the elastic. He lets out a rough moan, his hips rolling slightly as he grows harder, the jockstrap barely containing him now. The wet spot darkens, the fabric clinging to the shape of him, the vein along his shaft visible through the thin cotton.
You should look away, but your horniness keeps your eyes glued on the man in front of you.
He tweaks his nipple again, his breath hitching, his cock twitching in the jockstrap. The head is fully exposed now, dark and flushed, a bead of precum glistening at the tip. His other hand skims down his stomach, his fingers tracing the trail of hair below his navel before stopping just above the waistband.
“Night,” he says, his voice a growl.
Then he turns and walks toward the trailer, his ass flexing with each step, the straps framing all that muscle.
You stand there, frozen, your body on fire.
He stops once on the way to the trailer, turning his body slightly and pulling the waistband of the jockstrap down under his balls. His cock is fully out now, thick and heavy in his hand, the head dark with need. He doesn’t look up. He gives himself one long tug, then pulls the jockstrap back up with an echoing snap when he lets the band go.
Aaron makes it to the trailer and the door creaks open. He steps inside, his silhouette framed by the dim light as he kicks off his boots and strips off the jockstrap. The fabric hits the floor with a damp thud.
The door swings shut.
The lock clicks.
You’re left standing there, hard and aching, the cool night air doing nothing to ease the heat in your body. The garage is silent now, the only sound the distant hum of the neon sign.