The Host

The sheets are fresh, the lamp dimmed. He comes into my space, leaves it ruined, and I sleep in the mess of him.

It started the same way it usually did: the glow of the app in my hand, the quiet of my apartment around me, the need humming under my skin like static. But this time, instead of following someone else’s address through dark streets, the conversation tilted.

– Host?
– Yeah, I can.

The words were simple, but they dropped into me like a stone.
Hosting meant more risk. My space. My bed. My scent left on the sheets afterward.
It meant the echo of him lingering in my walls when he was gone.

But it also meant control, or the illusion of it.

He was close. Profile photo was cropped tight: jawline, lips, a shadow of collarbones. 25, masc, clean, discreet. The bio read: into kissing, into fucking. Nothing more.

We traded location, then silence. That silence was its own foreplay.
Every minute waiting made my cock stir again.

I looked around my apartment. Not much to see. Sofa, TV, the framed picture of a lake I’d hung years ago and stopped noticing. I turned on a lamp by the couch, dim, amber. Enough to make the place look softer, less like the lonely box it usually was.

I stripped the bed, put fresh sheets down. White, cotton, anonymous. Like a hotel but not. My hands shook a little as I tucked corners.

Every sound felt louder. The hum of the fridge. The clock tick. My own breathing.

When the message came—On my way—my pulse spiked

.I checked myself in the mirror. My hair was nothing special, but my face wasn’t bad. Older than his, sure. But that had its draw. I thought of what he’d see when the door opened: a man, ready.

I wiped my palms on my thighs. Waited.

The knock came soft but certain.

I opened.

And there he was.

Fuck.

The pictures hadn’t lied. Tall, broad shoulders under a grey hoodie, jawline sharp, lips full. Dark hair messy like he’d just come from the gym.
A faint sheen of sweat on his temple, as if he’d walked fast.
His eyes cut straight through me, no hesitation.

“Hey,” he said, low, casual, like this wasn’t going to end with my sheets ruined.

“Hey.”

We stood a beat too long, measuring. Then he stepped inside. The smell hit first: cologne, something fresh and male. My space bent around it.

He didn’t waste time. The door clicked shut, and he pressed me back against it, mouth on mine.

The kiss was hot, immediate. Tongue pushing in, lips rough, teeth scraping.
His hands grabbed my hips, pulled me hard against him.
His cock was already swelling in his jeans, pressing into me.

I groaned into his mouth. He swallowed it.

“Fuck, you taste good,” he muttered against my lips.

His hand slid under my shirt, fingers grazing my stomach, then higher, pinching a nipple hard enough to make me gasp. He grinned into the kiss.

“Bedroom?” he asked, already tugging my shirt up.

“Yeah,” I breathed.

We stumbled down the short hall, mouths locked, hands everywhere. He shoved me into the room, onto the bed. The fresh sheets I’d laid out were already wrinkling under us.

Clothes peeled fast. His hoodie hit the floor. Underneath: white tank clinging to sweat-dark patches. I yanked it up, revealing solid pecs, abs ridged like brick.
My mouth watered.

“Fuck,” I muttered, hands roaming his chest, the hair there rough under my palms.

“Yeah,” he smirked, “You like?”

“I do.”

He shoved me down flat, straddled my hips, and kissed me again, deeper, dirtier.
His hips ground into mine, cock against cock, The friction made us both groan.

He pulled back, eyes sharp. “on your knees. Now.”

He caught my look and smirked again. “Yeah, you’re gonna choke on this.”

He grabbed my chin, tilted my face up. “Knees Here.”

I slid down the bed, dropped to the floor between his thighs.
The carpet scratched my knees. His cock loomed above me, dripping.

“Open,” he said.

I opened.