Steam Heat

Jack Egan watched the young paperboy, Billy Putnam, pedal up the driveway, newspapers bundled tight under his arm. The kid couldn't be more than eighteen, all lean limbs and sun-kissed skin from endless summer routes. Jack stepped out onto the porch, waving him over with a neighborly smile. 'Hey, Billy, mind dropping one inside? I've got a tip waiting.' The boy's eyes lit up at the promise of extra cash—always a pull for a kid scraping by. Billy followed Jack through the front door, the cool air of the house a sharp relief from the humid afternoon. Jack closed the door with a soft click, his gaze lingering on the way Billy's shirt clung to his damp back. 'Hot out there, huh? Let me get you something cold.' Billy nodded, setting the paper down, unaware of the shift in the air, thick with unspoken intent. In the kitchen, Jack handed over a glass of iced tea, his fingers brushing Billy's longer than necessary. The boy sipped, throat working, and Jack felt a stir low in his gut. 'You ever think about shortcuts on your route?' Jack asked, voice low and easy. Billy shrugged, but his cheeks flushed. Jack closed the distance, hand grazing the boy's arm. 'I could make it worth your while.' Billy froze, glass halfway to his lips, but didn't pull away. Jack's touch turned bold, sliding up to cup the back of Billy's neck, drawing him in. Their mouths met—hesitant at first from the boy, then hungry. Jack's hands roamed, tugging at the hem of Billy's shirt, peeling it off to reveal smooth, taut skin. The boy gasped as Jack's lips trailed down his chest, nipples hardening under the attention. Clothes hit the floor in a hurried scatter: Billy's shorts yanked down, exposing his stiffening cock, already leaking at the tip. Jack dropped to his knees, taking Billy in hand, stroking with firm, deliberate pulls. The boy moaned, hips bucking, fingers threading through Jack's hair. 'That's it,' Jack murmured, tongue flicking out to taste the salt of him before swallowing deep. Billy trembled, legs weakening, but Jack guided him to the couch, bending him over the arm. Lube slicked from a drawer nearby, Jack prepped him slow—fingers circling, then pressing in, stretching that tight heat. Billy whimpered, pushing back, eager now. Jack positioned himself, thick head nudging at the entrance, then thrust home in one smooth drive. He pumped into Billy with rhythm, short jabs building to long, grinding strokes that hit deep. The boy's cries filled the room, body arching as pleasure coiled tight. Jack's hands gripped hips, bruising just enough, pounding harder until Billy shattered, spilling hot across the cushions. Jack followed, burying deep with a guttural groan, filling the willing newsboy with his release. They slumped together, breaths ragged, the special delivery sealed in sweat and satisfaction. Billy, spent and grinning, knew he'd be back for more—pumped into the best hands on his route.