My Uncle Chris – Part 12

[Commission Piece]

Everyone in this story is 18+

The club was a living beast, its heartbeat thumping through the floor, a relentless bassline that shook my ribs. Neon slashed the darkness—pink slicing across writhing bodies, blue dripping down bare shoulders, gold catching sweat-slick skin. The air was heavy, a mix of musk, liquor, and raw want, like everyone here was chasing something they couldn’t name. London’s gay scene was a far cry from stolen moments in hotel rooms or quickies in rest stop stalls. Here, Chris and I could shed the shadows and just fucking exist.

Chris led the way, his hand locked with mine. At 39, he was built like a man who’d never let himself go—broad shoulders stretching his black button-up, the fabric clinging to a chest carved from decades of discipline. His forearms, exposed by rolled sleeves, were corded with muscle, veins snaking under tanned skin. Dark jeans hugged his lean thighs and that ass, round and firm, that I couldn’t stop staring at. His jaw was sharp, dusted with stubble, and his brown eyes held a glint of mischief, like he knew exactly how good he looked.

I wasn’t far behind, my own frame honed from years on the ice. I was all lean muscle, my white tee tight across my pecs, showing off the hard lines of my chest and the cut of my abs. My dark jeans sat low, accentuating the V of my hips and the bulge I wasn’t shy about. My hair was messy, just the way Chris liked it, and my eyes caught the neon, flashing with the same hunger I saw in his.

“You ready for this?” Chris asked, leaning in, his breath warm against my ear, cutting through the music’s roar. His voice was low, a gravelly tease that made my skin prickle.

I grinned, tugging him closer by his belt loop. “Question is, can you keep up with me?”

He laughed, a deep, rich sound that vibrated against my chest. “Keep talking shit, kid. I’ll have you begging on that dance floor.”

We hit the bar first, grabbing drinks—gin and tonic for him, vodka soda with a lime twist for me. The bartender, a shirtless guy with a nipple piercing and a smirk, gave us a once-over that said he’d join us in a heartbeat. I leaned against the sticky counter, scanning the crowd. Bodies collided in a sea of motion—guys in mesh tops grinding against each other, a shirtless couple in leather harnesses kissing like they were starving, a group of twinks in glittery shorts swaying with their hands in the air. It was chaos, primal and free.

“Let’s move,” I said, downing half my drink and pulling Chris toward the dance floor.

He didn’t resist, his hand sliding to my lower back, fingers brushing the strip of skin above my jeans. The music was a pounding remix, all bass and synth, urging bodies to press closer. I spun to face him, our chests grazing as I started to move, hips rolling slow, testing him. His hands landed on my waist, strong and sure, pulling me flush against him. I could feel every inch of him—his hard pecs, the ridge of his abs, the growing thickness in his jeans pressing against my thigh.

“Fuck, you can dance,” I said, my hands sliding up his arms, gripping his biceps. They flexed under my fingers, solid as iron.

He smirked, his hips grinding into mine, matching my rhythm. “Told you I’ve got moves.”

We lost ourselves in it, bodies locked in a dirty, fluid grind. My hands roamed his chest, fingers catching on the buttons of his shirt, while his thumbs hooked into my belt loops, tugging me closer. The crowd pressed in, but it was just us—his breath on my neck, my lips brushing his jaw, the heat of our bodies building with every sway. I was hard, my dick already straining against my jeans, and I knew he felt it, his own bulge rubbing against me with every move.

That’s when I saw him.

Harper was a vision, a twink carved from pure temptation. He couldn’t have been older than 21, his slim frame moving like liquid under the lights. His dark curls bounced with every step, framing a face that was all sharp cheekbones and pouty lips. His cropped tank top—glittery silver—barely covered his smooth, pale chest, showing off a flat stomach and a navel piercing that winked in the neon. His tiny black shorts rode low, hugging a perky ass that jiggled just enough to draw every eye in the room. He danced alone, but not really—his movements were a siren call, pulling guys closer like moths to a flame.

Chris caught me staring and leaned in, his lips grazing my ear. “He’s a fucking snack.”

I laughed, turning to meet his eyes. “You into twinks now?”

He shrugged, a playful glint in his gaze. “I’m into whatever’s got you this worked up.”

Harper noticed us, his green eyes locking onto mine with a smirk that said he knew exactly what he was doing. He danced closer, hips swaying, his body weaving through the crowd until he was right there, inches away.

“Hey,” he said, voice light and flirty, barely audible over the music. “You two are stealing the show.”

I grinned, stepping slightly away from Chris to make room. “Name’s Grayson. This is Chris.”

Harper’s eyes flicked over Chris, lingering on his broad chest, then back to me, taking in my height and the way my shirt clung to my abs. “Harper,” he said, biting his lip. “You guys a thing?”

“Something like that,” Chris said, his hand sliding possessively to my hip, but his tone was open, inviting.

Harper’s smile widened, and he stepped closer, his body brushing against mine. “Mind if I cut in?”

“Join us,” I said, my voice low, daring him.

And just like that, he was in our orbit. Harper moved like he was born for this, his slim hips rolling between us, teasingly close. He pressed against me first, his ass grazing my crotch, then turned to Chris, his hands skimming Chris’s arms before sliding away. It was a game, a flirty dance of touch and retreat, and we were all playing. My hands found Harper’s waist, feeling the smooth, warm skin above his shorts, while Chris’s fingers grazed my neck, keeping me tethered to him.

“Fuck, you’re trouble,” I said to Harper, leaning close to his ear.

He laughed, a bright, bubbly sound. “You have no idea.”

Chris pulled me back against him, his chest hard against my back, and I felt his dick, thick and ready, pressing into my ass. Harper didn’t miss a beat, grinding against my front, his perky ass brushing my bulge. I was trapped between them, my body buzzing with want, my hands roaming from Harper’s slim waist to Chris’s strong thighs.

“You do this a lot?” Chris asked Harper, his voice a low rumble against my ear.

Harper winked, his curls bouncing. “Only when I find guys this hot.”

I laughed, my hands sliding lower on Harper’s hips, fingers brushing the edge of his shorts. “Smooth talker.”

“You love it,” Harper shot back, his eyes sparkling with dare.

The music shifted, faster now, and we moved with it, a tangle of sweat and skin. Harper’s hands grazed my chest, then Chris’s shoulders, his touch light. Chris’s fingers into my hips, but he was watching Harper too, his gaze hungry. I could feel the tension building, the way we all wanted more but weren’t quite crossing that line—not yet.

Harper leaned in, his lips close to mine. “You guys want my number? For… next time?”

I glanced at Chris, who gave a slight nod, his eyes burning with the same fire I felt. “Yeah,” I said, pulling out my phone. “Hit me with it.”

Harper recited his number, and I saved it as Harper - Twink Tease. He laughed when he saw it, then hugged us both, his slim arms surprisingly strong. “Text me,” he said, his voice a promise. “I’d kill to dance with you again.”

“Maybe more than dance,” Chris said, his tone low, and Harper’s eyes widened, a flush creeping up his neck.

With a final wink, Harper slipped back into the crowd, his ass bouncing as he disappeared. I turned to Chris, my hands on his chest, feeling the rapid thud of his heart. “That was fucking intense.”

With a final wink, Harper slipped back into the crowd, his ass bouncing as he disappeared. I turned to Chris, my hands on his chest, feeling the rapid thud of his heart. “That was fucking intense.”

“Yeah,” he said, pulling me close, lips brushing my jaw. “You liked him.”

“Not as much as I like you,” I said, kissing him hard, tongues clashing in a messy, needy frenzy.

His hands gripped my ass, kneading the muscle. “I think there’s a back room. Let’s go.”

◆◆◆

We crashed into the club’s back room like a storm, the heavy door slamming as I pinned Chris against it, my mouth devouring his. The space was dim, lit only by a flickering red bulb that cast jagged shadows across the concrete walls. It smelled of sweat and spilled beer, the bass from the main floor vibrating through the floor, a dull throb under our feet. A ratty couch sat in one corner, stained and sagging, but it was the wall I wanted—hard, unyielding, perfect for what I needed to do to him.

His stubble scraped my lips, his tongue fighting mine in a wet, desperate duel. I yanked his shirt open, buttons scattering across the gritty floor, exposing his chest—hard pecs, smooth, nipples tight and begging. My hands roamed, nails dragging down his abs, feeling the ridges flex under my touch.

“Fuck, you’re riled up,” he gasped, his hands tearing at my shirt, ripping it over my head. His fingers dug into my back, pulling me against him, our bare chests slamming together, slick with sweat from the club.

“Blame Harper,” I said, biting his lip, my hands fumbling with his belt. “Or you for looking like that.”

He laughed, breathless, and shoved my jeans down, palming my ass through my boxers. “You were eye-fucking him too, kid.”

I pushed him harder against the wall, my dick straining against the fabric, aching for friction. He stumbled back, jeans still around his thighs, his boxers tented. I pressed against him, grinding my bulge against his, the rough fabric dragging against our sensitive skin.

“Jesus, Grayson,” he hissed, his hands gripping my thighs, nails biting into my skin. “You’re gonna make me lose it.”

“Not yet,” I said, leaning down to lick a stripe up his neck, tasting the saltiness of his sweat. I tugged his boxers down, his dick springing free, thick and veiny, the head already glistening wet. My mouth watered, but I held back, teasing him with a slow stroke, my fist tight around his shaft.

He bucked up, gasping. “Fucking tease.”

“You love it,” I said, spitting into my palm and slicking him up, my hand gliding fast now, twisting at the head. His eyes rolled back, his abs clenching with every stroke.

I stepped back, kicked off my boxers, and let him see me—my dick bobbing heavy, my thighs flexing, my abs tight from the effort of holding back. He reached for me, but I grabbed his wrists, pinning them above his head against the rough wall.

“My turn,” I said, kissing him hard, my teeth grazing his lip. I pulled a small packet of lube from my pocket—always prepared—slicking my fingers before spreading his thighs. His hole was tight, pink, begging. I pushed one finger in, slow, feeling the heat clamp around me. He gasped, arching, and I added another, fucking him open with deep, steady thrusts.

“Fuck, you’re tight,” I said, curling my fingers, grazing that spot that made his whole body jerk.

“More,” he panted, his hands fisting against the wall. “Just fuck me.”

I slicked myself up, my dick throbbing as I nudged it against him, teasing the rim. I pushed in, slow, the stretch making us both gasp. He was so fucking tight, so perfect, I had to grit my teeth to keep from unloading right then. I sank deeper, inch by inch, until my balls pressed against his ass.

“Fuck, you take me so good,” I said, starting to move, slow at first, then faster, my hips slamming against his thighs. I was surprised by how well he took me already.The wall rattled, the room filled with the wet slap of skin, my grunts, his desperate gasps.

“Harder,” he begged, his legs wrapping around my waist, pulling me deeper.

I fucked him like I meant it, relentless, my dick pounding into him, every thrust hitting that spot that made him writhe. I grabbed his dick, stroking it rough and fast, matching my thrusts. His body was a mess—sweat gleaming, abs flexing, his hole clenching around me with every thrust.

“You thinking about Harper?” I teased, leaning down to bite his earlobe. “Bet he’d look cute squirming under you like this.”

He laughed, breathless. “Fuck yes.”

“Maybe next time,” I said, slamming into him harder. “We could call him.”

His eyes flashed, and that was it. He arched, his dick erupting in my hand, thick ropes splattering his chest, his abs, even his chin. His hole clamped tight around me, and I lost it, unloading a warm torrent deep inside him, my hips jerking with every wave, filling him until I was spent.

We slumped against the wall, panting, sweaty, sticky. I kissed him slow, tasting the salt of his skin, my hand resting on his chest, feeling his heart race.

“Harper would’ve died,” I said, grinning against his lips.

Chris laughed, pulling me close. “Maybe we should find out.”

I smirked, my mind already spinning with the thought of Harper’s curls, his perky ass, and the three of us tangled together. “Maybe we should.”