Baby Boy (Fulfill My Fantasies)

“There’s something you should know about my husband,” Sarah whispers into Mathieu’s ear.

Mathieu was minding his own business on the couch, scrolling through Instagram on his phone, but now she has his attention. He puts the phone down so he can look at her.

She has a wicked gleam in her eye and a knowing smirk on her face. Mathieu leans in to whisper back. “And what might that be?” he asks, keeping his tone light and flirtatious. He glances across the room, towards the husband in question, where Wout is sitting with the boys. Jerome is tucked into one of Wout’s arms. Georges is sitting on the floor. Both are staring up at Wout with rapt attention as Wout reads to them from a children’s book settled in his lap. Mathieu has not been paying any attention to the details of the story, but Wout has put on a few goofy voices for various characters, earning him the boys’ laughter.

It’s a wholesome image, entirely at odds with Sarah’s tone of voice. “He likes being called ‘daddy’ in bed,” she says, voice dropping lower and huskier. “The last time I did, he fucked me so hard I couldn’t walk straight for a week.”

Fuck. Mathieu almost chokes on his own saliva. He shifts in his seat. He knew it was going to be something filthy, but this is– he turns his head away so he can try to collect himself, but that’s worse, because then he’s watching Wout smile at his sons, warm and fond, every bit the loving and doting father. He ends up facing a wall which only has a bland, tasteful painting of the Alps. Mathieu’s cock hardens in his boxers. His brain is stuck on the image of it. Sarah’s softer voice breathless and begging, “please, daddy, harder,” as Wout’s longer body looms over hers, fucking her with all the power and control Mathieu knows he possesses.

Sarah had been doing some cleanup after dinner, so Mathieu can’t just grab her hand, drag her upstairs to the master bedroom, have her ride him into the mattress while she spills all of Wout’s secrets into his ears. It’s so tempting, though. Wout can watch the kids for a little while longer.

He gets a little bit of control back, enough to be able to glance in Wout’s direction again. Wout looks up from his book with a quizzical expression on his face. He raises one eyebrow in a question, but Sarah just gives him a little wave. Her smile is mock-innocent. Mathieu’s face feels hot; it must be bright red. He has no idea what this looks like.

Sarah gives Mathieu a pat on the shoulder and goes back to loading the dishwasher. Mathieu would get up to help, but he can’t stop staring at Wout, who has transitioned to making silly faces at Georges as Georges laughs and laughs and laughs. The word is still rattling around in Mathieu’s skull. Daddy. How does Wout react when Sarah says it? How would he react if Mathieu did? Mathieu’s mouth has gone dry. He reaches for his glass of water on the coffee table and takes a huge gulp of it.

It helps a little bit. Mathieu still feels both overheated and chilly, unsure of how to react to any of this. The time after dinner has always been cozy and domestic. Family time. Sometimes, Mathieu doesn’t know what he did to get this lucky, to be welcomed into both their bed and their home, not only allowed but invited into their family unit. He likes seeing this side of Wout, the consummate and doting father, when Mathieu only ever got to see the fierce and dangerous competitor for most of their lives. Except now all his wires are crossed, and his brain is stuck.

He hasn’t recovered at all when Sarah comes back in from her work in the kitchen. She takes Jerome from Wout and gives Wout a lingering kiss. Georges makes impatient, annoyed noises. Mathieu, on the other hand, is enthralled by their easy affection, the way they light up around each other. She says a few low words to Wout before walking over to Mathieu and the couch, Jerome still in her arms. Wout’s smile is radiant as he watches her.

“I’m going to put Jerome down and then turn in early. Wout’s going to handle Georges until it’s his bedtime. The two of you can take the guest bedroom tonight. Try not to make too much noise, hm?” she says. She bounces Jerome in her arms, and he giggles.

Mathieu can only nod mutely in response.

Wout finishes the rest of the book, and then he pulls out a bucket of Legos. Georges is clearly not capable of constructing anything sophisticated yet, but he is still full of smiles as he snaps the pieces together. Wout watches on, praising every tiny, misshapen sculpture Georges presents to him. Mathieu feels like more of his brain dribbles out of his ears with every fond smile Wout gives his son.

Finally, finally, it’s Georges’ bedtime. Wout sweeps up the pieces and dumps them back into the bucket, even as Georges clings to one of his legs.

“I don’t want to go to bed,” Georges whines.

Wout just laughs. He picks Georges up and settles his son onto his shoulders. Georges pouts, but he still wraps his arms around Wout’s forehead. “Unfortunately, we sometimes have to do things we don’t want to do just because it will be better for us later,” Wout says gently. “Remember how grumpy you get when you don’t get enough sleep?”

Wout’s parenting style is so different from the one Mathieu grew up with. When Mathieu’s father said it was time for bed, it was time for bed, no questions allowed. Sometimes, Mathieu is convinced Wout is too soft, too lenient on his sons. Maybe Mathieu’s father didn’t always handle things in the best way with him and his brother, but he taught Mathieu how to be tough and strong. He prepared Mathieu for the harsh realities of the world.

Georges grumbles a bit, but he doesn’t throw a tantrum as Wout walks them upstairs. Mathieu tails behind the two of them. The boys have, somewhat reluctantly, accepted him into their lives. They didn’t know what to make of him at first. He was a strange, new intrusion into their family dynamics. But now Georges treats Mathieu like any other adult he can bother for attention or assistance, and Jerome no longer screams when left alone with Mathieu for more than a minute at a time.

When they get to Georges’ room, Wout lifts Georges off his shoulders and tucks him into bed. Despite his earlier complaints, Georges yawns, and his eyelids droop. Mathieu still doesn’t quite understand children, but when he’s quiet and sleepy like this, Mathieu can admit that Georges is cute.

Wout says, “Good night, schatje,” and kisses Georges’ forehead.

“Good night, daddy,” Georges mutters.

Mathieu’s breath catches in his throat. This is all perfectly innocent, and yet Mathieu’s brain has turned it filthy. He wants– he wants Wout to fuck him blind, then tuck him in and kiss his forehead with all the same tenderness he’s showing to Georges. As a lover, Wout isn’t unkind. He treats Mathieu like Mathieu can take anything Wout dishes out. That’s always worked for Mathieu, too. He’s never had to hold back around Wout before, and he likes that it also applies in the bedroom.

Now, though, all Mathieu can think about is the gentle way Wout cradled Jerome in his arms and how much he wished he had been there instead.

Wout shuts off the bedroom light and closes the door. It latches shut with a quiet click. He turns to Mathieu. “Let’s go to bed, and you can tell me what’s gotten you all worked up tonight.” His eyes have the same wicked gleam Sarah’s did, like maybe they’d learned it from each other, but his expression has that same softness it gets whenever he’s around his sons.

Mathieu doesn’t think he can speak coherent words, so he just nods. The guest bedroom is down the hall, further away from the boys’ rooms than the master bedroom. Mathieu has taken to calling it ‘the sex dungeon,’ which has earned him more than one eyeroll from Wout and affectionate slap on the shoulder from Sarah. The room itself is actually pretty boring, decorated in inoffensive pale blues. Mathieu won’t tell either of them this, but he associates that particular shade with the two of them now, even more so than Wout’s yellow and black kits.

As soon as Wout closes the door behind them, Mathieu is on him, grabbing hold of Wout’s shoulders and yanking him into a kiss. Mathieu already spends most of his free time thinking about kissing Wout (and Sarah, too). Tonight, his desire feels like a living thing crawling underneath his skin.

Wout doesn’t resist. He melts into it, becomes pliant underneath Mathieu’s greedy hands. Mathieu kisses him harder and bites at Wout’s lips. He wants Wout’s skin. He wants to touch it and taste it. Mathieu moans into Wout’s mouth. He paws at the hem of Wout’s shirt, trying to get it up and over Wout’s head. He’s not very successful.

That earns him a laugh from Wout, and Wout pulls back far enough to yank his shirt off. His eyes are squinted. His smile is bright. “You’re in a mood today,” he says.

Mathieu doesn’t have an answer to that. He licks his lips. “Please,” he says.

“Please what?” Wout asks. “You know you need to use your words.” His tone is threaded through with the same gentle correction he used with Georges earlier. It’s so close and so far away from what Mathieu wants.

His mouth fills with saliva. “Please, daddy,” he says. His face heats again, blood pooling in his cheeks. He didn’t expect the simple act of saying out loud to affect him this much. He’s been half-hard since the couch, and now his cock twitches in his boxers.

Wout’s smile turns wolfish, sharpening into a predatory grin. “So that’s what you and Sarah were whispering about earlier? I was wondering about that.”

Mathieu nods. He doesn’t trust his voice. He feels caught, pinned, under the intensity of Wout’s gaze.

“Seems like you’re still having trouble with your words. That’s okay,” Wout says. His tone is tolerant and amused. “Daddy’s here to help.”

Mathieu can’t stop the whimper that emerges from his throat. His cock is fully hard now. He wants pressure and friction and the sweet release of orgasm, but he doesn’t know what Wout wants.

“Oh, you do like this, don’t you? Sarah suspected you might, but I was less sure.” Wout takes a step back. Mathieu almost reaches for him. Wout tilts his head to the side. “Is my baby boy going to be good for daddy and take off all his clothes?”

Mathieu shivers at being called Wout’s (Wout’s) baby boy. His hands are clumsy as he sheds his own layers — shirts, pants, boxers — leaving him naked in the middle of the room. He swallows roughly. He has very little self-consciousness about nudity, but right now, he feels exposed. “Did I–” he forces out. “Did I do good, daddy?” An electric jolt shoots through his body every time he says the word out loud.

“You’re doing so well,” Wout says. “You’re being such a good boy for me.” The approval in Wout’s voice cuts Mathieu open like a blade, sliding in and finding some tender, vulnerable part of himself that he didn’t even know he had.

“Please,” Mathieu begs. “Please touch me, daddy.” His skin prickles, goosebumps rising. If Wout doesn’t get his hands on him in the next five seconds, he’s– he doesn’t know what, but it’s probably not good.

Wout steps in closer and envelops Mathieu in his long arms. His body is warm and solid and comforting. Mathieu buries his face in the crook of Wout’s neck. Wout says, “See how much better it is when you use your words? Then daddy can give his baby boy what he needs.”

Like this, Mathieu’s cock is nestled where Wout’s hip meets his leg. The soft flannel of Wout’s pants rubs against Mathieu’s sensitive skin, and his hips jerk forward without conscious thought. He could get off like this, just frotting against the hard muscle of Wout’s thigh.

“You’re so eager,” Wout says, teasing.

Mathieu stomach twists. He wrestles his body back under control. He’s spent decades forcing his body to do his bidding through discomfort and pain and exhaustion, and Wout has undone all that careful discipline with a little dirty talk and the promise of sex. “Sorry,” he says, hearing how his voice drifts up in register with embarrassment. “I– I’ll do better next time.” He can show Wout just how good, how well-behaved, he can be.

Wout runs his hands up and down Mathieu’s back, long soothing strokes that melt the tension away. “Shhh, you have nothing to be sorry for,” he insists. “My baby boy hasn’t done anything wrong. Daddy likes that his baby boy is so hard and eager for him.”

“Okay, daddy.” Mathieu nods into Wout’s neck and shoulder, but the heat in his cheeks doesn’t abate. He wishes he knew why this works for him. His insides feel like they’re melting. For a moment, he imagines Wout calling him his baby boy out in public and getting so hard so fast someone would think he was about to get on a podium.

Wout lets go and steps back so he can shed the rest of his clothes. Mathieu loves seeing him naked, loves seeing the way muscle shifts underneath skin, loves seeing how it reshapes itself over the course of a season. He still feels the loss of it. He misses Wout’s touch.

While Mathieu watches, Wout sits down on the edge of the bed with his legs spread, his hard cock curving upward. Mathieu wants to sit on it. He could take it dry. He would revel in the sting and burn of being split open and the way the pain sharpens his focus. He doesn’t move, though, because Wout is studying him with his big, dark eyes, and Mathieu doesn’t dare move until Wout tells him he can.

Wout asks, “Do you want to know what I want my good boy to do for me tonight?” He gestures for Mathieu to come closer.

“Yes,” Mathieu says as he lurches forward. “Anything you want, daddy.” Mathieu has spent much of his life showered in praise — from coaches, teammates, the cycling media, fans, and even, at times, his own father. But right now, he he could rip off one of his arms if it would earn him that fond note of approval in Wout’s voice again.

Wout grabs hold of Mathieu’s hip and reels him the rest of the way in. For a moment, Mathieu wonders if Wout will suck him off right then and there, but Wout just cups Mathieu’s cock in his wide, warm palm. “My baby boy has such a pretty cock. It’s so long and so thick. How would he feel about fucking me with it?”

Mathieu didn’t think it was possible for him to get any more turned on, but he was wrong. He nods his head, jerky and uncoordinated. “Please,” he croaks out. His head spins. His legs feel shaky. He grips Wout’s shoulders for support.

Wout grins up at him, and his eyes are knowing. “There’s no rush,” he says. He lets go of Mathieu’s cock so he can reach into the bedside table for condoms and lube.

Mathieu swallows down the needy whimper. He misses the touch of Wout’s hand, but he also– he wants to be inside Wout. He wants to fuck Wout so well that Wout can’t do anything else but tell him how good he’s being. On the other hand, he’s not sure he can hold it together for that long. Maybe Wout just wants to ride him, hold him down and use Mathieu’s body how he sees fit, and then Mathieu only has to focus on not coming until Wout says he can.

Wout doesn’t say. He just leans back as he coats his fingers with lube and slides them between his legs. “You’ll just have to be patient just a little bit longer as daddy gets himself ready, okay?”

Normally, Mathieu would be all for watching Wout finger anyone with those long, beautiful fingers of his — he could listen to the noises Sarah makes with Wout’s fingers inside her for hours — but right now, it feels like the most excruciating torture ever devised. Wout’s quick and efficient with it, but he still makes these pleased grunts that go straight to Mathieu’s cock. He squeezes his hands into fists to keep them from doing anything he doesn’t want them to do.

When Wout’s done, he sits back up and tears open a condom packet. He slides the condom over Mathieu’s cock as Mathieu digs crescents into his palms. They’re all clean, but Wout doesn’t like the feeling of come dripping out of him, which Mathieu doesn’t understand at all. So condoms it is.

Wout leans back again, and this time he gestures for Mathieu to follow him. Mathieu clambers up onto the bed after him, though his limbs feel awkward and ungainly.

“You’ve been so good, so patient for me,” Wout says, voice low and soothing, “and now you deserve a reward.”

Mathieu shivers at the tone of his voice. “Please,” he says. “Please, daddy.” Those are the only two words he’s capable of saying right now.

He lets Wout’s hands arrange him where Wout wants him, hips settled between Wout’s spread legs. Mathieu’s hips twitch of their own volition. Wout laughs, gentle and fond. “Almost there, baby boy.” His hand is steady in a way that Mathieu’s isn’t as he positions Mathieu’s cock against his hole. “You remember how daddy likes it.”

Mathieu nods, and he pushes in with one hard thrust. He has to squeeze his eyes shut as he does so. He doesn’t want to come embarrassingly quickly. He has to make this good for Wout, for his daddy.

When he bottoms, Wout likes to get fucked rough and brutal. He’s like Mathieu that way: the pain and discomfort makes the pleasure sweeter. They push each other just as hard in the bedroom as they do on their bikes, and Mathieu usually thrills in this challenge the way he does with every other. He does his best to match his usual pace, even though it’s so much more difficult with the way his head feels stuffed full of wool.

“Yeah,” Wout says, his breath short, “like that. You’re being so good for me." His arms wrap around Mathieu’s shoulders. Mathieu is swallowed up, engulfed, by the heat and the smell and the earth-shaking enormity of Wout’s love and approval.

“Daddy,” Mathieu whimpers. He mashes his face into Wout’s shoulder. He’s just trying to hold on, to keep his body moving the way Wout wants him to. He needs Wout to stop talking.

“Just a little bit more. Daddy’s close. You can make daddy come, can’t you, baby boy?”

Mathieu is falling apart at the seams. He tries to focus on the steady rock of his hips. He needs to be good. He needs to make his daddy come. He can earn those pretty words from Wout’s lips. Wout reaches between their bodies to stroke his own cock. Mathieu can’t open his eyes. His control is only hanging on by a thread. If he sees Wout jerking himself off, Wout’s face scrunched up in pleasure, that thread will snap.

The orgasm rolls through Wout in one long wave. He lets out a low, pleased groan. Mathieu grits his teeth, digs deep, squeezes his eyes tighter. He has always loved the feel of Wout coming all around him, the clench and release of Wout’s beautiful fucking body, but he can’t– he needs to– he can’t let go just yet.

His eyes are still closed when Wout’s hands settle on the back of his neck. Wout pulls Mathieu’s face close so that he can pepper kisses over Mathieu’s cheeks and forehead and nose. “My baby boy was perfect,” Wout murmurs between kisses. “He fucked me so well. He made me come so hard.”

Mathieu whines. He’s beyond words now, but he soaks up every bit of fondness in Wout’s voice.

“Look how good you’re still being,” Wout says. His lips have made it to Mathieu’s ear. He nibbles on the lobe. “Still so hard for me.” He clenches around Mathieu’s cock, and Mathieu sees stars behind his eyelids. “You can let go now. My baby boy deserves to come after all that hard work he did.”

Mathieu sobs as his control unravels completely. He only lasts through another couple rough snaps of his hips before he tips over the edge himself. His mouth makes some more noises, though he has no idea what they are. His fingers dig into the meat of Wout’s shoulders. His body shakes and shakes and shakes.

When he feels coherent enough to form conscious thoughts again, he finds himself on his back. The mattress is soft underneath him. He blinks his eyes open to see Wout looming over him, his expression open and concerned. One of Wout’s hands strokes Mathieu’s hair.

“That seemed intense for you,” Wout says. “How are you feeling?”

Mathieu takes stock of himself. He feels scraped raw, exposed and vulnerable, but also– also clean somehow, and not just because Wout has already disposed of the condom and wiped off all the come. “Good,” Mathieu says. His voice is raspy. He could drop off to sleep right now and wake up refreshed enough to ride up the most miserable mountain in the Tour de France.

Wout wraps an arm around Mathieu’s waist and curls in closer, chest pressed up against Mathieu’s side. Mathieu luxuriates in it, skin against skin. Wout says, “We’ll have to find a way to thank Sarah for this later. Maybe a fruit basket. Or orgasms.”

Mathieu’s eyelids feel heavy. He snuggles in closer to Wout’s body. “I like giving her orgasms,” he mumbles before letting out a large yawn.

When his eyes fall closed, Wout presses a kiss to Mathieu’s forehead. “Good night, schatje,” Wout says.

“Good night, daddy,” Mathieu says back.

FIN.