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~ Free at the Flesh Margins ~
The gym was almost empty, a Sunday hum of air-conditioning and half-hearted treadmills. Todd had dragged Hugo along, promising an easy session.
“Just stretch, sweat a bit, clear your head,” he’d said.
Hugo stood before the mirror, half undressed. The glass caught him in fragments: shoulders, chest, the line of his stomach soft in the light. For once, he didn’t flinch. He was big, broad through the chest, thighs thick from years of carrying himself through the world, yet he realised he had never truly looked. Not without judgement.
Todd watched from the mat, resting on his elbows.
“You always forget how good you look when you’re not trying.”
“Don’t start,” Hugo said, but his tone lacked edge.
“I’m serious. You stand like you’re waiting to be told what to fix.”
Hugo breathed out. “Old habit.”
Todd rose and came behind him. Their reflections met, one body familiar, the other steady. Todd’s hands settled on Hugo’s waist, fingers tracing the soft dip before muscle began again.
“You know,” he murmured, “this is what I like best. The part you never flex.”
Hugo’s pulse stumbled. “It doesn’t feel like much.”
Todd’s smile appeared in the mirror. “It feels like you. Warm. Real.”
They stayed that way, the mirror fogging softly with their breath. Hugo’s skin prickled, not with shame, but with the rare strangeness of being seen and not performing.
Todd’s palms moved slowly upward, circling over the swell of Hugo’s chest. Thumbs brushed across his nipples, gentle at first, then firmer as they hardened beneath his touch. A sound left Hugo, half surprise, half hunger. Todd’s mouth found his neck, a slow, open press of lips against skin, the faint scrape of teeth sending heat rippling down Hugo’s spine.
Hugo turned in the circle of those arms, facing Todd fully. Now ready to answer. Their mouths met, soft, then certain. Tongues moved in a rhythm older than speech, one that promised more. Hands explored without hurry. Todd’s fingers hooked into the waistband of Hugo’s shorts, tugging them lower, inch by inch.
When Hugo’s cock sprang free, heavy and already aching, Todd caught it in his hand and stroked, slow and reverent. His thumb traced the slick crown, teasing, circling, until Hugo’s hips lifted, seeking more. A low groan escaped him, half disbelief, half need.
Water fell hard against tile, echoing like rainfall. Steam gathered between them, thick as breath. Todd stood behind him, washing the last of the soap away. The act was quiet, deliberate, almost devotional. His hands glided down Hugo’s back, over the curves and planes, to rest on the firm weight of his arse. He kneaded gently, possessively, until Hugo braced his palms against the wall, water running down his shoulders in ribbons of light.
Todd’s fingers slipped lower, finding the soft heat between. One pressed in, slow, patient, sure. It curled inside him, seeking the spot that made Hugo gasp, the sound torn from his chest. Another finger joined, stretching him open, scissoring gently, careful and claiming all at once. Todd’s other hand moved to Hugo’s cock, stroking him in rhythm, long, unbroken pulls that drew moans into the mist.
Pleasure rose and fell like tide. Each thrust of fingers met by the pulse of Todd’s hand, each breath a tremor building toward release.
When it came, it was sudden and immense. Hugo arched, spilling over Todd’s fist, heat meeting water, the sound of it swallowed by steam. Todd held him there, fingers still inside, body pressed close, until the trembling eased.
And for a moment, between heartbeat and breath, Hugo realised he was not being worshipped. He was being known.
Back home, they ate on the balcony, towels still around their waists. The air was salt-soft from the harbour. Hugo watched a magpie pick at crumbs on the railing.
“I used to think,” he said, “that being big meant I had to be careful with people. Gentle, so I wouldn’t hurt them. Quiet, so I wouldn’t take up space.”
Todd nodded. “Maybe gentle isn’t the opposite of power. Maybe it’s what you get when you finally believe you don’t have to prove anything.”
Hugo looked at him, a slow smile growing. “You always make it sound simple.”
“It isn’t. But it’s possible.”
That night, Hugo undressed without dimming the lights. The same room, the same bed, but the air felt changed, thick with anticipation. Todd touched him as if reacquainting himself with something precious he already owned. Palms gliding over Hugo’s back, down to his hips. A quiet pull. A shared breath. Their bodies aligned, hard and slick, sliding together in slow, wet friction. A kiss that deepened, turned hungrier. Mouths open, learning again what they already knew.
Hugo’s hands traced Todd’s lean frame, the slope of his ribs, the soft groove of his hips. Fingers wrapping around him, firm and certain, drawing out sounds that tasted like surrender.
Todd pushed him gently back onto the bed. Thighs open. The lamp painting light over every edge. He knelt between Hugo’s legs, breath steady, eyes fixed in quiet devotion. A kiss to the inner thigh. Another. Then his mouth took Hugo whole, slow and sure.
The sound of it, the wet, rhythmic pull, filled the room. Hugo arched, fingers buried in Todd’s hair, body straining toward the heat. Todd’s tongue moved in soft spirals around the head, then lower, swallowing him deeper, until Hugo trembled with every draw of air. A hand slipped down, finding him, pressing inward with careful insistence, opening him with patience and praise.
The pleasure built like tide. Every movement deliberate. Every breath a question answered by the body.
Todd pulled back, lips glistening, eyes dark with want. He turned Hugo onto his stomach, palms smoothing over his back as if to quiet the trembling. Then he entered, slowly, completely, until every inch was met, until the stretch gave way to sweetness.
The rhythm found them both. Todd’s hips, Hugo’s breath. Thrust, pause, whisper, gasp. A hand reaching forward to stroke him in time, to keep him tethered. The room filled with sound, heat, the pulse of something holy.
When it came, when both came, it was not an end but an arrival. Bodies shaking, joined, breathless. Todd still inside him, forehead pressed to the back of Hugo’s neck, murmuring something small and grateful.
After, they stayed as they were. Sweat cooling. Hands still linked. The lamp steady.
Todd’s voice came soft.
“You’re thinking.”
“Just… taking inventory.”
“Of what?”
Hugo looked down at their bodies, at the proof of presence.
“What’s mine. What I never learned to see.”
Todd smiled, eyes half closed.
“Keep looking.”
And he did.
Until the sight of himself no longer asked to be compared.
Only to be believed.
🖤 A Queer Romance That Doesn’t Ask for Permission. It Just Undoes You.
Rowan Thornwells debut novel, His, Theirs, Enough is queer literary erotica for readers who crave intensity, intimacy, and prose that reads like poetry with its mouth open.
You’ll ache for this MMF romance. And you’ll come back for more. Learn More
This story is beautiful! ❤️😍🫂💞💖
Body disphoria can be deadly. It's instilled in peoples' minds by others, by culture, by popular media.
Negative self image, loathing one's own body destroys from within.☹️😢
If only we can believe. Beyond our past, perceived short falls, just believe in ourselves. That is joy.