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The door to Perth’s apartment clicked shut softly, sealing out the noise of the nighttime city. Inside, there was only the low hum of the air conditioner, the warm glow of two floor lamps, and the familiar scent of wood, vanilla, and leather. Perth tossed his jacket onto the couch and ran a hand through his hair, still stiff with hairspray from today’s event.
“Today was fucking torture,” he growled, his voice already low and rough. “Just a few miserable calls before your live and mine after. We didn’t see each other at all. I felt like I was going insane.”
Santa leaned against the kitchen island in the open-plan space, looking at Perth with those eyes that seemed to say everything to anyone who knew how to read them.
“Come on, let’s take a shower and then go live like we promised.”
When Perth came downstairs, he found Santa already on the couch with his legs crossed, wearing Perth’s oversized Adidas t-shirt that reached halfway down his thighs. Those damn thighs — pale, white, firm from all the dance practices, perfectly smooth, and Perth’s biggest obsession. Santa smiled with that angelic look that hid the devil inside. “I missed you today, Ta.”
“I know. You texted me every half hour. ‘Come to me tonight,’ ‘Let’s spend the whole evening and night together.’ You’re obsessed, P’Perth.”
Perth crossed the room in three long strides, took Santa’s face in his hands, and kissed him. It wasn’t gentle. It was hunger. His tongue invaded, teeth biting Santa’s lower lip, hands already sliding down to grip his hips. Santa moaned into his mouth, pushing his hips against him.
“That’s why I told you to come here,” Perth murmured against his lips, biting them again. “All evening. All night. I want to hear you screaming until morning.”
Santa licked his lip. “Live first, remember?”
Ten minutes later they were on the big living room couch, lights dimmed, Perth’s phone on the tripod. Santa had deliberately chosen the shortest black cotton shorts he owned — they barely reached mid-thigh, putting all that smooth skin on full display. It drove Perth crazy. The oversized t-shirt of Perth’s barely covered his crotch, but when he sat down… oh, when he sat down, those thighs parted and closed like a silent provocation. Trying to stay as focused as possible, Perth started the live.
“Hi guys!” Santa greeted with the most innocent smile in the world, waving his hand. “We’re at P’Perth’s place to comment on today’s episode together. It was full of events, right?”
Perth was sitting next to him, but his eyes were already fixed on Santa’s thighs. Those thighs. Long, perfect, the skin so smooth it looked like silk under the lights. Santa had sat with his legs slightly open, the shorts riding up even higher. Perth “casually” placed his hand on Santa’s right knee, his thumb starting to trace slow circles on the warm skin.
“Yeah… we didn’t even see each other today,” Perth said to the camera, his voice calm, but his fingers kept moving upward. Slowly. They brushed the inner thigh, pressed lightly, feeling the muscle tense under his touch. Santa didn’t change his expression and continued talking about the behind-the-scenes, the funny scenes, the jokes with the colleagues. But he moved closer to Perth. Then, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, he climbed onto Perth’s lap, passing it off as a way to avoid the filters.
Perth wrapped an arm around Santa’s waist, his open palm resting on Santa’s lower belly. The other hand, hidden below the frame, immediately slipped under the hem of the shorts. Warm fingers caressed the left inner thigh, moving higher and higher, brushing the edge of Santa’s underwear without ever going past it. Every now and then he squeezed hard, possessive, feeling the firm flesh yield under his fingers. Santa clenched his thighs, trapping Perth’s hand between those warm legs, and smiled even more sweetly at the camera.
Perth’s cock was already half-hard under his sweatpants, pressed against Santa’s ass. Every tiny movement Santa made was a provocation: a barely noticeable grind, a tightening of his thighs that squeezed Perth’s hand. Forty minutes. Forty excruciating minutes of light chatter, laughter, and comments flooding in. Forty minutes during which Perth never stopped touching, squeezing, and caressing those thighs as if they were his and his alone. Santa kept teasing him, grinding slowly, pretending nothing was happening.
When they ended the live with a “Goodnight guys!”, Santa didn’t even have time to move.
Perth grabbed his thighs with both hands, fingers digging into the flesh, and pulled him back against his chest. “Finally, fuck.” His voice was a low growl. “You drove me crazy for forty minutes.”
Santa laughed, the sound broken by desire. “I know.”
Perth pushed him forward, putting him on all fours on the couch, chest pressed against the soft cushions, ass up high. He yanked Santa’s shorts and underwear down to his ankles in one sharp motion, fully exposing the thighs that had been torturing him. They were there, bare, perfect, slightly reddened where his fingers had gripped them during the live. The skin was warm, smooth, carrying that faint coconut cream scent Santa always used.
Perth knelt behind him, his large hands sliding from Santa’s ankles up to his knees, then higher, squeezing the firm flesh just below his ass. He leaned down slowly, hot breath against the skin. He started with the right thigh: soft kisses on the inner skin, lips pressing with devotion. One kiss, then another higher up, wetter. His tongue slipped out, hot and wet, tracing a slow, long line from the inside of the knee almost to the groin. He savored the taste of soap on Santa’s skin and that natural scent of his body.
“Fuck… I love them so much,” Perth murmured against the flesh, his voice hoarse and broken. He kissed again, sucking gently, leaving a small red mark that would last for hours. He moved to the other thigh, licking from bottom to top with a flat, slow tongue, savoring every inch. His teeth grazed the skin, nibbling lightly — enough to make Santa shiver but not to hurt. He sucked hard on the inside of Santa’s left thigh, creating a clear hickey, then soothed it with soft kisses and slow licks.
Santa moaned softly, pushing his ass back. “Perth… please…”
“Shh. Let me worship them,” Perth replied, and continued. He licked both thighs with obsessive care: his tongue sliding up until it brushed Santa’s tight balls, collecting the musky taste, then going back down, leaving shiny trails of saliva that gleamed under the light. He kissed, sucked, and gently bit, his hands squeezing and spreading the flesh for better access. “These thighs drove me insane the whole live… I want them wet with me before I fuck them.”
Santa was trembling, his cock hard and brushing against the couch, already leaking precum. Perth gave one last deep, long lick from the back of the knee to the crease of Santa’s ass, then stood up.
He pushed down his sweatpants, freeing his thick, veiny, hard cock, the head shiny and swollen with precum. He grabbed the lube from the drawer, poured a generous amount on his hands, and spread it between Santa’s thighs, making them slippery and glistening. Then he positioned himself, the head of his cock pressed against the warm, saliva-slick skin.
“Squeeze tight for me, Ta. I want to feel them wrapped around me.”
Santa immediately clenched his thighs, trapping Perth’s cock in that hot, firm grip. Perth groaned loudly, a guttural sound, and thrust forward. The first stroke was slow and deliberate: the head slid between the smooth, warm flesh, slick with saliva and lube, until it pressed against Santa’s balls. Perth pulled back and pushed again, harder, setting a steady rhythm. His hands gripped Santa’s hips, fingers digging into the flesh as he fucked those perfect thighs.
“Fuck… they’re so tight… so hot…” Perth panted, speeding up. The wet, obscene sound of skin against skin filled the room, mixing with both their moans. Every thrust made Santa’s ass bounce slightly. The tip of Perth’s cock brushed against Santa’s tight entrance with every stroke, teasing it without entering. “You kept them like this for me all evening… you knew I’d want to cum right here, didn’t you? You knew I’d mark them.”
Santa pushed back, clenching his thighs even tighter, rolling his hips to increase the friction. “I want to feel you cum on my thighs… I want them dripping with you tomorrow while we have the fan event…”
Perth picked up the pace, fucking those thighs with deep, fast thrusts, his cock sliding more and more easily between the saliva, lube, and leaking precum. His hands slid over the wet skin, squeezing and lightly slapping the thighs to make them tremble. Santa moaned loudly, one hand trying to touch himself, but Perth pinned it down.
“No, you don’t deserve that yet.”
He thrust harder, faster, the couch creaking beneath them. Sweat ran down Perth’s back. Santa’s moans became more broken. A few more deep strokes and Perth came with a strangled, long, animalistic cry: hot, thick, abundant spurts exploding between Santa’s thighs, dripping down the smooth skin, making a mess and mixing with the saliva. Perth kept thrusting through his own cum, prolonging the orgasm with short, violent strokes until he was completely spent.
But he wasn’t done. Not even close.
He flipped Santa onto his back with a decisive move, spread his legs wide, and leaned down again over those trembling thighs, now completely covered in his cum. He licked it all up greedily: his long, flat tongue collecting his own salty taste mixed with Santa’s skin, sucking every drop from the inner thighs and moving up to the groin. Santa was panting, his cock throbbing hard against his stomach, hands in Perth’s hair.
“Perth… please… fuck me…”
Perth smiled against the skin, gave one last deep lick, and pulled back. He positioned Santa to straddle him, Santa’s back against his chest, legs spread wide on either side. He grabbed the lube again, poured a generous amount on his fingers, and began preparing him with obsessive care. Two fingers slid in immediately, slow and deep, twisting and stretching. Santa moaned, head falling back against Perth’s shoulder. Three fingers, then four, pressing against his prostate until Santa started shaking and begging.
“Please… inside… I want you inside…”
Perth lined up his cock, now hard again, and entered him with one slow, deep thrust, all the way in. Both of them cried out. It was tight, hot, and pulsing. Perth held him steady by the hips and started fucking him properly: strong, deep strokes, slow at first, then faster and faster. The couch creaked dangerously. Perth’s hand returned to Santa’s thighs, squeezing the cum-smeared flesh while he pounded into him.
“Look at you… your thighs are still wet with me… and I’m buried deep inside you,” he growled in his ear, biting the lobe. “All mine. These thighs. This ass. Everything.”
He changed position again: put Santa back on all fours, pulled him by the hips, and fucked him harder, one hand gripping a thigh while the other jerked him off. Santa came first with a loud cry, shooting onto the cushion and Perth’s hand, his body clenching around the cock inside him. Perth followed a few seconds later, cumming inside him again with short, violent thrusts, filling him until it leaked down his thighs.
But Perth was still hard. He flipped him onto his back, lifted one of Santa’s legs onto his shoulder, and penetrated him again, fucking him slow and deep while kissing his thighs, licking the marks he’d left earlier. Another round, slower and more sensual: deep thrusts that made Santa tremble, hands exploring every inch of those thighs, fingers squeezing them as his cock slid in and out.
He came a third time, once again inside him, filling Santa until he overflowed.
They stayed like that, panting, sweaty, bodies tangled on the couch soaked with sweat and cum. Santa turned his head and kissed him, slow, deep, and languid.
“Tomorrow morning,” he murmured against his lips, voice hoarse, “I want to wake up with your mouth between my thighs… and I want you to fuck me again before breakfast.”
Perth smiled, still inside him, already half-hard again.
“Count on it. I’m not done with these thighs yet.”