Straight guy had gay sex for the first time and it was with his middle school principal

The city outside his loft was a blur of indifferent streetlights, their glow smeared across the windows like careless brushstrokes. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of bourbon and something darker—anticipation, maybe, or the quiet unraveling of who I’d thought I was.

He’d always carried himself with a quiet authority, even now, years after I’d sat in his office as a fidgeting kid. But here, in the low light, he was something else entirely: the way his hips swayed when he refilled our glasses, the deliberate drag of his fingers along the back of the couch as he circled me.

“You’re staring,” he murmured, lips quirking.

I swallowed. “Just… remembering detention.”

His laugh was a low hum. “Oh, we’re far past detention.”

Then his hands were on me—not the stern grip of a principal, but something hungrier. His nails scraped my scalp as he pulled me into a kiss that tasted like whiskey and mint, his tongue claiming my mouth with a confidence that left me dizzy. I could feel the heat of him through those obscene shorts, the way the fabric clung to every curve of his ass as he ground against my thigh.

“Still straight?” he whispered, biting my earlobe.

I didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Not when he was peeling off my shirt, not when his palms slid down my chest, pausing just above my belt buckle with a teasing pressure. My breath hitched.

“Look at you,” he purred, unzipping my jeans with agonizing slowness. “All those years in my office, and you never once looked at me like this.”

But I was looking now.

His shorts hit the floor, and Christ—his ass was art, round and firm, the kind that begged to be gripped, bitten, marked. He turned, smirking as he backed onto the couch, spreading his thighs just enough to let me see the outline of his cock straining against the fabric.

“Touch me,” he ordered.

I obeyed.

My hands trembled as I palmed his ass, kneading the flesh, learning its weight. He moaned, arching into my touch, and the sound went straight to my dick. Then his fingers were wrapping around me, stroking me to full hardness while he rocked against my hip.

“Good boy,” he breathed, and fuck if that didn’t make me throb.

I didn’t resist when he pushed me onto my back, didn’t protest as he straddled me, his shorts riding up to expose the swell of his cheeks. He ground down, my cock trapped between us, and the friction was maddening.

“You’re gonna fuck me,” he said, not a question but a decree. “And you’re gonna love it.”

I did.

The moment he sank onto me, wet and tight and so fucking warm, I was lost. His body moved like it was made for this—for taking me deep, for milking every inch with each roll of his hips. He rode me with the same precision he’d once used to command a school, his back arched, his nails digging into my chest as he whimpered my name.

“Fuck, fuck,” he chanted, his ass clenching around me. “Just like that—ohgod—”

I gripped his waist, slamming up into him, drunk on the way his thighs trembled, on the slick sounds of our bodies meeting. His cock leaked against my stomach, untouched, and the sight of it—of him, wrecked and wanting—pushed me over the edge.

I came with a groan, spilling inside him as he clenched around me, his own release streaking my skin.

After, as we lay tangled in the wreckage of the couch, he traced idle circles on my chest. “Still think you’re straight?”

I laughed, breathless. “Shut up.”

But we both knew the answer.