Red Confession: Surrendering to the Doorman’s Raw Heat

Traffic jammed me up. Protest blocked the city. Late for billiards with an old coworker. He left. Bar empty early Friday. Ordered hot port. New bartender: Jeff, huge black guy, late 30s, 6’2, broad shoulders, shaved head, curly goatee, massive lips grinning wide. Doorman usually. He comps my drink, joins me. Pouring, he flashes charming smiles. Black guys flirt hard, I think. Chat flows. I know owner Stéphane. Jeff’s on vacay, helping out. Call coworker—no dice. Stéphane arrives, jokes Jeff’s seducing me. Laughter. Another port, shared. He picks lounge spot: dim, big screen, couches. Jazz plays. He sits close on love seat. Knees brush through thin nylons. Heat radiates. Toasts wink. Heart quickens. Talk jobs, loves, tastes. Arts, music sync us. His hand on my knee snaps me back. Lingers heat. No plans? Offers vintage port at his place. Pulse races. Want him. Walk short blocks. Compliments via vacation lookalike. His voice warm, body screams sex. Apartment: old building, renovated. Open plan. He cooks ports. I sink into plush couch. Jazz croons. Fire crackles. Feet touch. Tease with toes. He shares wild cruise story—fucking everywhere. Laughs mix with sparks. Foot caresses ankle, calf, thigh. Legs part. Nylons tease pussy view. Heat floods core. Heart pounds wild. His foot circles mound. Soaked. Grabs ankle, kneels between thighs. Towering. Mouth on neck. Shiver. Lips tease mine. Tongue dances edges. Agonizing slow. Hands roam back, ass. His cock hardens on thigh. Massive. Control slips. Beg: Take me, Jeff.