I was twenty-three, confident, and very much a top when his message lit up my Grindr screen in Patna. He was fifty-five, visiting from Delhi for a week-long work assignment, staying at a mid-range hotel near the station. His profile was simple: “Pure bottom, loves young tops, discrete fun only.” We chatted for ten minutes tops before he sent the room number. My cock was already twitching at the thought of a quick, no-strings blowjob. I didn’t even bother with underwear. Just a loose black t-shirt that hugged my chest and a pair of tight blue jeans that made my bulge obvious. The elevator ride up felt electric.
The second I knocked, the door opened. He was shorter than I expected, clean-shaven, with a soft belly and eyes that looked starved. His gaze dropped straight to my crotch.
“Goddamn… you look even hotter in person,” he breathed, grabbing my hand and pulling me inside.
Before the door even clicked shut, his palm was rubbing my cock over the denim, squeezing the thick outline. I groaned. He dropped to his knees right there in the tiny entrance, yanked my jeans down to my ankles, and my hard dick slapped against his cheek. Seven inches, veiny, leaking. He didn’t tease. He swallowed me to the root in one greedy motion, wet heat enveloping every inch.
“Fuck yes…” I hissed, threading my fingers through his hair.
He sucked like a man possessed — slow, deep pulls mixed with swirling tongue and gentle teeth. My knees buckled. That’s when he changed everything. He pushed my back against the bed, lifted my legs high, and folded me almost into a missionary position while still nursing my cock. My ass was completely exposed. His hands roamed. He cupped my balls, rolled them, tugged gently. Then his fingertips drifted lower. The first feather-light circle around my virgin hole made me jolt.
No one had ever touched me there. The sensation was filthy and perfect.
He kept sucking, never missing a beat, while his middle finger traced my tight pucker again and again. My moans grew louder. He pulled off my cock with a wet pop, spit shining on his lips.
“Can I finger you, baby?” His voice was hoarse with lust. “Just one finger. I’ll go slow.”
Pleasure had melted my brain. “Yes… fuck, yes.”
He grabbed a small bottle of white cream from the nightstand, slathered his finger, and pressed. My hole resisted at first, clenching hard, but he was patient. Gentle pressure. A twist. Then — pop — the fingertip slipped inside. The stretch burned for a second, then turned into something warm and full and mind-blowing. He curled it, stroking my inner walls while his mouth returned to my cock.
I saw stars.
He worked me open like that for ten minutes, adding more cream, sliding deeper. My legs shook. Then he flipped me onto all fours, doggy style. Face down, ass up on the hotel bed. From behind he sucked my cock between my spread thighs while two slick fingers now pumped steadily into my hole. Every thrust hit that spot inside me — the one that made my toes curl and my voice crack.
I couldn’t stop the words.