💦 Like if you can feel the heat.
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He came to the sauna alone — not to be seen, but to disappear in the quiet haze of steam and wood and sweat.
His belly was heavy. Each breath deepened the pressure in his hips, spreading through his thighs like honey warmed over a fire.
"You look like you're about to burst."
He opened his eyes. Through the mist, a figure emerged — older, broader, eyes glinting like polished iron in the fog. No shame. No hesitation.
The bench groaned under their weight. His legs spread wide, and the heat between them became something alive. The stranger's hands roamed over the rounded swell of his abdomen, thumbs brushing slick nipples as his mouth moved lower. The pressure, the friction, the grind of it all made him moan — loud enough to echo in the cedar-lined silence.
And when the stranger entered him, slow and deep, it wasn’t just penetration — it was surrender. Their bodies rocked in unison, sweat mixing, steam rising, until he lost track of where he ended and the other man began.
“Don’t stop,” he gasped, voice low, guttural, desperate.
“You feel so good inside me…”
His body was swollen with late pregnancy, skin stretched tight over a belly that looked ready to erupt. The heat of the sauna amplified everything — the rush of blood, the scent of sweat, the ache between his legs that never really faded anymore.
In the third trimester, arousal came fast and heavy. Every inch of him was more sensitive, more desperate. Even the smallest touch made him shiver.
The man behind him didn’t waste time. He knew what this body needed. A slow slide in — slick, deliberate, deep. The kind of penetration that made his breath hitch and his back arch off the wood.
The baby inside him shifted. His own moan drowned out the creak of the bench. One hand gripped his belly, the other braced on his thigh. Each thrust jostled the weight he carried, made it bounce, made it burn.
He was full. In every way. And still, he wanted more.
Every movement sent another wave through his core. His hole clenched greedily around the intruder, the pressure addictive. He wasn’t just being fucked — he was being claimed, marked, worshipped.
He didn’t want it to stop. He wanted it to last forever.
And judging by the stranger’s ragged breathing behind him, so did he.
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