The Texas sun beat down on the pristine backyard patio, the smell of charcoal and sizzling beef heavy in the humid air. Bob wiped a bead of sweat from his temple, forcing a smile as his wife, Claire, chatted animatedly with their new neighbor. Their son, Jason, was off somewhere with the neighbor’s boy, two eighteen-year-olds already bonding over video games.And then there was Randy.Bob’s gut clenched every time he looked at him. Two decades had been kind, layering Randy’s former quarterback build with a thicker, more powerful solidity. His smile was the same, a flash of white that didn’t quite reach his eyes, radiating a casual, unchallenged authority.“Another beer, Bob?” Randy’s voice was a low rumble, exactly as Bob remembered. It wasn’t a question. It was a command wrapped in neighborly politeness.“I’m good, thanks,” Bob said, his own voice sounding thin.Ridge’s eyes, the color of cold slate, held his. “Nonsense. It’s a welcome party.” He popped the cap off a longneck with a practiced flick of his wrist and handed it over. Their fingers brushed. A jolt, white-hot and involuntary, shot up Bob’s arm. God, not now. Not after all this time.Randy’s smile widened a fraction, as if he’d felt it too. He knew. He had to know.The afternoon bled into evening. Claire went inside to take a call, leaving the two men alone on the patio as fireflies began to dot the deepening blue twilight. The comfortable chatter died, replaced by a thick, heavy silence.Randy took a long pull from his bottle, his eyes never leaving Bob. “So. Suburbia. Wife. Kid. You built yourself a nice little life, Bobby.”“It’s Bob.” The correction was weak, automatic.Randy just chuckled, a deep, knowing sound. “Is it?” He set his bottle down with a definitive clink. “You know, I never forgot senior year. That last time. Behind the bleachers.”Bob’s mouth went dry. He could suddenly smell the dusty aluminum, the damp grass, the musky, overwhelming scent of Randy’s skin.“You were always so… eager,” Randy murmured, leaning forward, his voice dropping to a intimate, conspiratorial level. “Best I ever had. No one since has ever quite… measured up.”The words hung in the air, a direct challenge. A test. Bob’s heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat of panic and a dark, shameful thrill he’d spent twenty years burying. He tried to look away, but Randy’s gaze was a tractor beam, pulling him back to a place he both feared and, God help him, missed.“That was a long time ago,” Bob whispered, the words tasting like ash.“Some things don’t change,” Randy said, his voice absolute. He didn’t move, didn’t gesture. He just sat there, a king on a plastic lawn chair. “I can see it in you. That need. It’s still right there, under the surface.” He let the silence stretch, letting the implication sink in. “My house is empty tonight. The boys are out. Claire looks tired.”It wasn’t a suggestion. It was a recall to duty. Every fiber of Bob’s adult self screamed to get up, to walk away, to go find his wife. But that other part, the part Randy had owned and expertly shaped, was rising, a submissive tide washing away forty years of constructed identity.Without another word, Bob stood. His legs felt numb. He followed Randy through the side gate, across the immaculate lawn, and into the cool, dark quiet of the neighbor’s house.The door clicked shut, the sound final. They stood in the dim hallway, the only light spilling from the kitchen.Ridge didn’t hesitate. He turned, his presence suddenly overwhelming in the confined space. He cupped Bob’s jaw, his thumb pressing against Bob’s lips. The calloused pad was rough, familiar. So familiar.“Open,” Randy commanded, his voice soft but impregnable.A helpless whimper escaped Bob’s throat as his lips parted. The taste of Randy’s skin—salt, faint soap, pure man—unlocked a flood of sensory memory that buckled his knees. His eyes fluttered shut.“That’s it,” Randy growled, his other hand sliding to the back of Bob’s head, fingers tangling in his hair. Not gentle. Possessive. “Just like you remember.”He guided Bob downward. Bob went, his body operating on an ancient, ingrained script. The coarse denim of Randy’s jeans brushed his cheek. His fingers, trembling, worked the button fly with an expertise that time had not eroded. The zipper hissed down.And there he was. Thicker, heavier than Bob remembered, already fully erect and straining against his briefs. The musky, primal scent of him filled Bob’s nostrils, and a moan was ripped from his chest. God, yes.Randy pushed the briefs down, and his cock sprung free, slapping against Bob’s cheek, hot and impossibly hard. Bob’s mouth watered instinctively.“You remember what to do,” Randy breathed, his voice thick with anticipation. “Show me you still know.”Bob needed no further instruction. He leaned forward, his tongue snaking out to lick a long, slow stripe from base to tip. The taste was electric, a devastatingly familiar flavor that sent a bolt of pure lust straight to his own groin. He took the head into his mouth, swirling his tongue around the crown, savoring the bead of salty pre-cum that greeted him.Randy’s groan was a sound of pure approval. “Fuck, yes. Just like that.”His hands tightened in Bob’s hair, establishing a rhythm, guiding him down. Bob relaxed his jaw, letting the thick length push deeper into his throat. Tears welled in his eyes as he fought his gag reflex, the slight struggle only fueling his submission. This was where he belonged. On his knees. Serving.He hollowed his cheeks, sucking hard as he pulled back up, then plunged down again, taking him deeper each time. The sounds were obscene and beautiful—wet, sucking noises, Randy’s ragged breathing, the soft thud of Bob’s own knees on the hardwood floor.“You were made for this,” Randy grunted, his hips beginning to piston gently, fucking Bob’s face with slow, deliberate thrusts. “All that time… thought you might have forgotten. But you didn’t, did you? This is who you are.”The words should have shamed him. Instead, they set him on fire. Bob moaned around the cock filling his throat, the vibration earning another deep, guttural curse from Randy. He reached down, fumbling with his own belt buckle, desperate to touch himself, to relieve the aching pressure in his own jeans.Randy’s hand shot out, grabbing his wrist. “Ah-ah. Not yet. This is for me. Your pleasure comes later. If you earn it.”The denial was a fresh wave of dominance that made Bob weak. He redoubled his efforts, bobbing his head faster, taking Randy as deep as he could, worshiping every inch with his mouth and tongue. He was lost in the sensation, in the taste, in the overwhelming reality of being under Randy’s control once more. This wasn’t the past. It was now. It was right.Randy’s breathing became ragged, his thrusts more erratic. “Gonna come, Bobby. You ready for it? You gonna take it all like you used to?”Bob’s answer was to deepthroat him, taking him to the hilt, his nose pressed into the coarse hair at the base. He held himself there, looked up, and met Randy’s blazing eyes.The sight was Randy’s undoing. With a roar that was half curse, half triumph, he emptied himself, pulsing hot and deep into Bob’s accepting throat. Bob swallowed greedily, milking every last drop, the taste a devastating victory.When Randy finally softened, he slid out with a wet pop. Bob stayed on his knees, breathing heavily, lips swollen, face flushed.Randy looked down at him, a conqueror surveying his territory. He tucked himself away, a picture of composure except for the satisfied gleam in his eye.“Well?” Randy said, his voice back to that casual, commanding rumble.

Bob hosted a backyard barbecue with his wife Claire and son Jason, while his new neighbor Randy arrived and started to make Bob feel uncomfortable. Randy reminded Bob of their past sexual encounter and commanded Bob to follow him to his house. Bob followed Randy and performed oral sex on him in his house.

The Texas sun beat down on the pristine backyard patio, the smell of charcoal and sizzling beef heavy in the humid air. Bob wiped a bead of sweat from his temple, forcing a smile as his wife, Claire, chatted animatedly with their new neighbor. Their son, Jason, was off somewhere with the neighbor’s boy, two eighteen-year-olds already bonding over video games.

And then there was Randy.

Bob’s gut clenched every time he looked at him. Two decades had been kind, layering Randy’s former quarterback build with a thicker, more powerful solidity. His smile was the same, a flash of white that didn’t quite reach his eyes, radiating a casual, unchallenged authority.

“Another beer, Bob?” Randy’s voice was a low rumble, exactly as Bob remembered. It wasn’t a question. It was a command wrapped in neighborly politeness.

“I’m good, thanks,” Bob said, his own voice sounding thin.

Ridge’s eyes, the color of cold slate, held his. “Nonsense. It’s a welcome party.” He popped the cap off a longneck with a practiced flick of his wrist and handed it over. Their fingers brushed. A jolt, white-hot and involuntary, shot up Bob’s arm. _God, not now. Not after all this time._

Randy’s smile widened a fraction, as if he’d felt it too. He knew. He had to know.

The afternoon bled into evening. Claire went inside to take a call, leaving the two men alone on the patio as fireflies began to dot the deepening blue twilight. The comfortable chatter died, replaced by a thick, heavy silence.

Randy took a long pull from his bottle, his eyes never leaving Bob. “So. Suburbia. Wife. Kid. You built yourself a nice little life, Bobby.”

“It’s Bob.” The correction was weak, automatic.

Randy just chuckled, a deep, knowing sound. “Is it?” He set his bottle down with a definitive *clink*. “You know, I never forgot senior year. That last time. Behind the bleachers.”

Bob’s mouth went dry. He could suddenly smell the dusty aluminum, the damp grass, the musky, overwhelming scent of Randy’s skin.

“You were always so… _eager_,” Randy murmured, leaning forward, his voice dropping to a intimate, conspiratorial level. “Best I ever had. No one since has ever quite… measured up.”

The words hung in the air, a direct challenge. A test. Bob’s heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat of panic and a dark, shameful thrill he’d spent twenty years burying. He tried to look away, but Randy’s gaze was a tractor beam, pulling him back to a place he both feared and, God help him, missed.

“That was a long time ago,” Bob whispered, the words tasting like ash.

“Some things don’t change,” Randy said, his voice absolute. He didn’t move, didn’t gesture. He just sat there, a king on a plastic lawn chair. “I can see it in you. That need. It’s still right there, under the surface.” He let the silence stretch, letting the implication sink in. “My house is empty tonight. The boys are out. Claire looks tired.”

It wasn’t a suggestion. It was a recall to duty. Every fiber of Bob’s adult self screamed to get up, to walk away, to go find his wife. But that other part, the part Randy had owned and expertly shaped, was rising, a submissive tide washing away forty years of constructed identity.

Without another word, Bob stood. His legs felt numb. He followed Randy through the side gate, across the immaculate lawn, and into the cool, dark quiet of the neighbor’s house.

The door clicked shut, the sound final. They stood in the dim hallway, the only light spilling from the kitchen.

Ridge didn’t hesitate. He turned, his presence suddenly overwhelming in the confined space. He cupped Bob’s jaw, his thumb pressing against Bob’s lips. The calloused pad was rough, familiar. _So familiar._

“Open,” Randy commanded, his voice soft but impregnable.

A helpless whimper escaped Bob’s throat as his lips parted. The taste of Randy’s skin—salt, faint soap, pure *man*—unlocked a flood of sensory memory that buckled his knees. His eyes fluttered shut.

“That’s it,” Randy growled, his other hand sliding to the back of Bob’s head, fingers tangling in his hair. Not gentle. Possessive. “Just like you remember.”

He guided Bob downward. Bob went, his body operating on an ancient, ingrained script. The coarse denim of Randy’s jeans brushed his cheek. His fingers, trembling, worked the button fly with an expertise that time had not eroded. The zipper hissed down.

And there he was. Thicker, heavier than Bob remembered, already fully erect and straining against his briefs. The musky, primal scent of him filled Bob’s nostrils, and a moan was ripped from his chest. _God, yes._

Randy pushed the briefs down, and his cock sprung free, slapping against Bob’s cheek, hot and impossibly hard. Bob’s mouth watered instinctively.

“You remember what to do,” Randy breathed, his voice thick with anticipation. “Show me you still know.”

Bob needed no further instruction. He leaned forward, his tongue snaking out to lick a long, slow stripe from base to tip. The taste was electric, a devastatingly familiar flavor that sent a bolt of pure lust straight to his own groin. He took the head into his mouth, swirling his tongue around the crown, savoring the bead of salty pre-cum that greeted him.

Randy’s groan was a sound of pure approval. “_Fuck, yes._ Just like that.”

His hands tightened in Bob’s hair, establishing a rhythm, guiding him down. Bob relaxed his jaw, letting the thick length push deeper into his throat. Tears welled in his eyes as he fought his gag reflex, the slight struggle only fueling his submission. This was where he belonged. On his knees. Serving.

He hollowed his cheeks, sucking hard as he pulled back up, then plunged down again, taking him deeper each time. The sounds were obscene and beautiful—wet, sucking noises, Randy’s ragged breathing, the soft thud of Bob’s own knees on the hardwood floor.

“You were made for this,” Randy grunted, his hips beginning to piston gently, fucking Bob’s face with slow, deliberate thrusts. “All that time… thought you might have forgotten. But you didn’t, did you? This is who you are.”

The words should have shamed him. Instead, they set him on fire. Bob moaned around the cock filling his throat, the vibration earning another deep, guttural curse from Randy. He reached down, fumbling with his own belt buckle, desperate to touch himself, to relieve the aching pressure in his own jeans.

Randy’s hand shot out, grabbing his wrist. “Ah-ah. Not yet. This is for me. Your pleasure comes later. _If_ you earn it.”

The denial was a fresh wave of dominance that made Bob weak. He redoubled his efforts, bobbing his head faster, taking Randy as deep as he could, worshiping every inch with his mouth and tongue. He was lost in the sensation, in the taste, in the overwhelming reality of being under Randy’s control once more. This wasn’t the past. It was now. It was _right_.

Randy’s breathing became ragged, his thrusts more erratic. “Gonna come, Bobby. You ready for it? You gonna take it all like you used to?”

Bob’s answer was to deepthroat him, taking him to the hilt, his nose pressed into the coarse hair at the base. He held himself there, looked up, and met Randy’s blazing eyes.

The sight was Randy’s undoing. With a roar that was half curse, half triumph, he emptied himself, pulsing hot and deep into Bob’s accepting throat. Bob swallowed greedily, milking every last drop, the taste a devastating victory.

When Randy finally softened, he slid out with a wet pop. Bob stayed on his knees, breathing heavily, lips swollen, face flushed.

Randy looked down at him, a conqueror surveying his territory. He tucked himself away, a picture of composure except for the satisfied gleam in his eye.

“Well?” Randy said, his voice back to that casual, commanding rumble.

Bob, a 40-year-old man, finds his past catching up with him when he moves next door to Randy, his high school tormentor and former sexual dominator.
Bob, who was forced to be Randy’s personal cocksucker in high school, is still deeply submissive and finds himself drawn back into their old dynamic.
Bob struggles with his old feelings of submission and the thrill of being dominated, leading to a sexual encounter with Randy in his home.

Reawakened Desires in Suburban Submission

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