The Flat Above Soho

All characters in this story are over 18 years of age.

Jamie had always loved the city after dark. London shimmered differently at night - a little rougher around the edges, a little looser, especially around Soho. It was a Friday, just past midnight. Jamie buzzed up, jeans tight over the tiny navy Speedo he'd been sweating in all night, half-hard from the thought of what was waiting. The alley off Old Compton was rank with piss and fag smoke, proper Soho after hours, but it made it feel even filthier - and he loved it.

He'd been invited to a private after-hours party by a guy he'd met at The Yard earlier. Proper silver fox, in a tight leather jacket, accent as smooth as butter, called Mark.

Jamie climbed the tight stairs, the scent of damp brick and cigarette smoke clinging to the walls. When he reached the top, the door swung open to a wide, high-ceilinged flat with bare brick walls and a haze of warm, musky air. Music thudded low - old house tracks, proper classics you only heard if you knew the right basements.

Top floor, three flights up - he knocked once. Mark answered: thick silver beard, chest already bare under a cracked leather harness, heavy bulge outlined through his jeans. Jamie swallowed. Proper daddy. Inside, it was dark and thick with heat. Three other blokes, all older, all dripping in leather, lounging like they owned the fucking place.

All four were older, broad, bearded, and bloody gorgeous. Shirtless already, their bodies heavy with muscle and age, tattoos crawling up forearms, silver dusting thick chests. Each wore leather harnesses - the good kind, thick and heavy, not that Amazon rubbish.

"Get your kit off then, lad," Mark said, voice rough like gravel.

Jamie didn't need asking twice. He peeled off his bomber and his jeans hit the floor revealing the tiny navy Speedo he'd worn beneath his jeans all night, the lycra clinging to every curve, showing every inch of what he was packing. Chest strapped in his black leather harness, nipples peeking hard between the buckles.

He stepped into the middle of the room, flushed with anticipation.

"Fuckin' hell," one of them - a barrel-chested bloke named Rob - whistled. "You’re keen."

Jamie just smiled, cocky. "Isn't that the point?"

"Swap your speedo for this cummy jock". Jamie looked at the black jock that had dried splashes of cum on it. "We've passed it round the four of us all week" Rob grinned while Jamie slid off his speedos and pulled on the filthy jock.

Mark nodded approvingly, dragging a leather sling out from a corner like it had been waiting for him all night. It hung from thick chains bolted into the ceiling beams, swaying slightly. The place wasn’t some sleazy dive - the floorboards were polished, the walls hung with huge abstract paintings, the air scented faintly with oud and tobacco. Proper posh, but dirty in all the right ways.

"Get in," Mark said, voice low.

Jamie obeyed, heart hammering, feeling the cold leather kiss his bare back as he lay into the sling, the cold leather biting against his arse cheeks, legs lifted and spread, his hole twitching, dripping pre already staining the thin straps of his jock. Hands, rough and warm, began working over his thighs, his chest, his stomach. Someone tugged at the leather straps of his harness, making him arch into their touches. Mark spat on him - thick and dirty - and rubbed it in with two rough fingers. Jamie whimpered, grinding back onto the touch.

The first cock breached him with no ceremony - thick, blunt, stretching him until he cried out. No condom. They'd made that clear downstairs. This was bareback only - no half-measures here.

Mark gripped his hair, forcing Jamie to look up at him.

"Take it, boy. Take all of us."

"Greedy little fucker," one of them laughed, slapping his thigh hard enough to leave a handprint.

They took their time. No rush. This was London, after all - the night stretched endlessly when you were high enough on the right kind of buzz.

The first pulled out and the next pushed in without a pause, each one fatter, rougher, hungrier than the last. His hole was dripping now, stretched open and raw, wet with spit and cum and sweat. One man fed his cock to Jamie's mouth, ramming it down until he gagged, spit drooling down his chin.

Soon the room was a tangle of mouths and hands and cocks, the four of them trading kisses over Jamie's body, sharing him like a secret, murmuring filth in accents that curled around him like smoke.

"Good lad," Rob rumbled in his ear, hands firm on his hips as he pressed deeper.

They passed him around like a toy, using his throat, his arse, slapping his thighs, tugging on his harness until the leather dug into his skin. His body was on fire, mind gone. Just sensation now - cocks filling him, mouths on him, hands fisting his hair.

Rob leaned in, whispering filthy things in his ear:

"You're ours now, lad. London bred and London used."

"Proper filthy," Mark added, dragging his beard down Jamie's stomach, tongue teasing into the crease of the cum, spit and lube soaked jock.

Jamie could barely breathe, pleasure tipping over into something dizzying, mindless. He wanted this - craved it. To be used, worshipped, filled. The sling creaked above them, the chains rattling with every thrust and pull, the rhythm building like the throb of the bass through the old floorboards.

He nodded, tears of pleasure slipping down his cheeks, throat raw, hole destroyed, his Speedo stained and twisted around his waist like a badge of honour.

But the night wasn't over yet.

Outside, London carried on - the night buses grumbling down Shaftesbury Avenue, the bins being emptied in the alleys, a siren wailing far off in Vauxhall. But up here, Jamie floated, surrounded by leather, heat, sweat, and the low, dirty promises of four men who knew exactly how to make a lad like him fall apart.

Let me know if you want to hear more.