Engines & Lace
Chapter 3: Marked The Return of Heat – when distance collapses and the fire reignites.
This is Chapter 3 in the “Engines & Lace” series. The previous chapters can be found here.
But this story was never about the basketball player. He was a lesson, a warm-up. The real story was the man who started in my dorm and became the firefighter I could never shake.
After graduation, I packed up and left. New city, new men, new routines. But he never disappeared. He lingered in the margins: Yahoo emails, short Kik messages, late-night Snaps that always read like codes only we understood. Never long conversations. Just enough to remind me he was still there, still hungry for what we had.
The last time we hooked up before I moved, it felt like we were both trying to burn the memory into ourselves. He pressed into me hard, heavy with need, like if he just held me down long enough it could stretch into forever. His raw dick pounded me deeper than usual, every thrust sharp with urgency, his grip bruising around my hips. I didn’t know then how long it would be before we saw each other again. He probably didn’t either. But the truth was simple: distance wouldn’t erase what we had built.
The first time we met again after I moved, it wasn’t some carefully planned reunion. I was back visiting friends, circling old streets, and I slipped right back into his orbit like gravity had been waiting. Seeing him again, I realized he’d grown into himself even more—broader chest, thicker arms, body built on years of lifting and grinding through firehouse shifts. He was poured into a bigger mold now, a true fine specimen of a man.
We didn’t waste time. He booked a hotel. Said he wanted privacy—four walls that weren’t shared with roommates, no teammates down the hall, no chance of interruption. The room was nothing: beige walls, heavy curtains, the hum of the A/C cutting through the late-summer heat. But the second he shut the door, it felt like the whole world dropped away.
That was the first kiss. Not a soft one, not some gentle test. It was need. His lips crashed against mine, tongue forcing its way in like he’d been starving and finally got fed. I kissed him back the same way, letting the years of waiting pour out of me. His weight pressed me into the mattress, chest slick with sweat, his breath hot and uneven.
When he pushed inside me, I felt the stretch all over again—the same thick dick that had split me open the first time, now stroking me into full submission. He pinned my legs in the air, my pussy wide open for him, and every thrust came with that word whispered rough into my ear: mine… mine… mine. His hips slammed down hard, each stroke deeper, drilling me until I was wet, dripping, body clenching around him whether I wanted to or not.
The sheets twisted under me, damp with sweat, my hands clawing at the mattress while his raw dick owned me. There was no need to keep quiet this time. No roommates. No firehouse fan drowning us out. Every sound…my moans, his grunts, the slap of skin…echoed off those bland walls like proof.
Afterward, he lay beside me longer than he ever used to. His hand rested on my thigh, thumb stroking slow, silent but saying more than words ever could. For a moment, it felt like I wasn’t just a body for him. Like he wanted to hold on a little longer.
But it didn’t stop there.
The next time we met he pushed further. Beer on his breath, a reckless edge in his eyes. He pulled me into the bathroom, steam fogging the mirror, tile cold under my palms. He pressed me flat, chest against my back, voice rough and low: “Mine.” Over and over, the syllables like a drum. Then he crossed a line I hadn’t expected but had started craving—he marked me.
Hot piss hit me, warm and immediate, the sting and salt of it making me shiver and want more. He told me it was his way of sealing things—ownership in liquid, close and messy. I didn’t flinch. I arched into it like I’d been waiting. He kept saying “my pussy boy”, saying “mine,” and it pushed me deeper than any kiss ever could.
After those first two trips, condoms disappeared. Raw was the rule. He called it “real,” saying it was about trust and needing to feel me without barriers. For him it wasn’t reckless, it was connection, intimacy, claiming me in the deepest way he could. And I wanted it just as bad.
One visit, after fucking until I was wore out and dripping on those inexpensive hotel sheets, he stared at the ceiling for what felt like forever. Then he finally turned, eyes heavy, voice low, and said the words I never thought I’d hear: I love you.
Not soft, not romantic. Like a man confessing something he’d been fighting for years. The words dragged out of him, raw and reluctant, but undeniable. Then he kissed me again, deeper, sealing it.
I thought about that kiss for weeks. His size, his weight, his dick splitting me open had always made me yield—but it was his words that branded me in a way nothing else ever had. For years, we’d played the game of trade and secret hookups. But that night, I knew it wasn’t just a game anymore.
I wasn’t just an outlet.
I was his.