Burt's a big man.
It was the first thing Henry had thought about him when his father had introduced him, when Henry had come into the kitchen and his father had said, "Oh, Henry, you're here. Burt, this is Henry, my youngest — Henry, Burt is our new first horn."
Burt had stood up from the kitchen counter and Henry had felt the breath leave his body, had felt his lungs just fucking freeze up, because Burt was six foot seven, stacked with muscle, was broad and square at the shoulder with a much narrower waist, and Henry had felt small and delicate and very easily breakable as Burt had looked down at him and offered his hand to shake.
Henry feels very breakable right now, as Burt crowds him back into the closet, and it's beyond intimidation now — it feels like a very good thing, to be breakable, as Burt leans down and captures his mouth in a hard, bruising kiss, his big hands moving to pull Henry's shirt out from where it's tucked into his trousers, to pull up his jumper and slide his palms over Henry's belly, up toward his chest.
Henry shudders.
It's been months since he came back home, and it's been fucking unbearable talking to his father over diner, talking to everyone else here at this awful fucking Christmas party. He knows once they're home that it'll be worse, because his dad will start demanding how much he's been practising and where he's playing and threatening to put him into contact with tutors and conductors back in Durham, but right now, none of that matters.
Right now what matters is his father's big, strong boyfriend unbuttoning his trousers and shoving them down to his knees, then bending Henry over the little table in the coat closet. When his cock drops out of his boxers and lands on top of Henry's arse cheeks, he feels the weight of it in a physical slap, and he moans, spreading his legs wider.
"Fucking beautiful," says Burt, and slaps the side of his arse, makes it bounce.
It's not like Henry doesn't get his fair share of hookups — he does. He's a beautiful man and frequently gets told so, on apps and off, but most of the men he ends up with are his own age, and when he does find a man that's bigger and older, he's rarely quite so big as Burt is.
Henry has been searching quite desperately for a man as big as Burt is. There's just something a bit gauche about sharing a cock with your father, no matter how gloriously big it is.
"Funny how similar you two are," says Burt, shoving Henry's head down and gripping at his hip to pull his arse up, his thighs automatically spreading apart. "Cellist and a violinist, and you compare like a cello and a violin."
"My father's not that much bigger than I am," says Henry.
"Okay," says Burt simply — he's a gorgeously simple man, a blunt instrument. "You're both violins."
And then the thick head of Burt's
own
blunt instrument is pressing up against Henry's arse, the skin of the condom slick against his pucker, and Henry whimpers as Burt begins to slowly sink forward.
He'd prepared himself for this, obviously — not just prepared himself, but fingered himself in the bathroom on the train to make sure he was sufficiently open and relaxed to take Burt's cock. He'd gotten carried away, started wanking himself off, and had accidentally knocked the button to open the door with his elbow, had very narrowly avoided giving the poor occupants of the carriage an exciting eyeful.
It's still not enough.
There's a slight burn as he's stretched wide, not enough to really
hurt
, but just the slightest stretch he wasn't ready for, and he whimpers into his hands as he drops forward on the table, spreads his legs wider. Burt is rumbling a moan from low in his chest as he sinks further forward, further forward, inch by inexorable inch, and fuck, but what right does he have to be so fucking thick as well?
When Burt finally sheaths himself to the root, his balls tapping against the tops of Henry's, Henry feels fucking light-headed, he's so stuffed full of cock, and God, God, he thinks about this all the fucking time, whenever there's someone else buried in him, even when he's using big dildos, because none of them are
warm
like Burt is, none of them feel as perfectly thick and hard as he does, or have such gloriously heavy balls.
"There," says Burt in a low purr, his hand spread on Henry's back, and his hand is so fucking big his fingers splay across the whole of his shoulders, almost, and Henry whimpers. "That what you've been missing, off at school? That what you're thinking about when you're meant to be practising your violin and going off to your lectures?"
"Please," whispers Henry.
"Please," repeats Burt, scoffing, and then pulls out of him by a few inches and thrusts forward again, a glorious,
strong
thrust, and Henry whines as he feels his guts rather forcibly rearranged in the process, feels like various of his organs are probably being nudged out of the way to make room. The friction is tremendous, the drag over his prostate because he's stretched so fucking wide, and the pulse of it is wonderful, the regular throb of Burt's cock in him, so big and so strong and so
alive
