Twin Scouts of America

Chapter 2: The Vegas Gambit

🔥 Disclaimer & Content Warning 🔥

This is a work of fiction intended for adults (18+ only). All characters depicted are consenting adults, and all interactions are portrayed within the realm of fantasy. The Twink Scouts of America is a fictional entity, not affiliated with any real organization.

This story contains themes of marital infidelity, erotic temptation, and the slow unraveling of restraint. If you are uncomfortable with stories involving cheating, seduction, and the pull of forbidden desire, this may not be for you.

For those who enjoy a taste of suburban secrets and unspoken cravings--settle in and enjoy the ride. 😈

Dave's suburban life hummed on after Noah--the cul-de-sac alive with sprinklers and kids, the basketball hoop still swaying from Saturday's win. At 45, he was steady--broad-shouldered, buzzed salt-and-pepper hair, a whistle around his neck--but the memory of Noah's pink uniform and sticky, cum-slicked thighs lingered like a sweet ache. Monday rolled in, and Dave coached practice with half his mind on the 18-year-old Twink Scout who'd fallen into his lap, leaving crumbs and a number scribbled on a napkin: Call me, sir -- Noah.

Lisa, his wife of 15 years, bustled in the kitchen that evening, her pottery class mug gleaming on the counter. She was 43, curvy and sharp-eyed, her auburn hair tied back as she chopped carrots for stew. Dave leaned on the island, beer in hand, heart thumping. "Hey, Lis," he started, casual. "There's this electronics show in Vegas this weekend. Thought I might go--check out some gadgets, clear my head."

Lisa's knife paused, her eyes narrowing. "Vegas? No way, Dave. The gutters need cleaning, the garage is a mess, and I'm not wrangling that alone while you're off playing with toys." She resumed chopping, firm. "You're staying put."

Dave's gut sank, but he nodded, sipping his beer. "Fair enough." His mind raced--Noah's voice echoed from their couch tangle: soft, needy, "You're my win." He couldn't let it end there. Tuesday night, sprawled on the recliner, he texted Noah: Hey, it's Dave. You around this week?

The reply pinged fast: Hey, sir! Not local--heading to Vegas for TwinkCon Saturday. Yearly thing for us Twink Scouts, two days of adult only seminars and stuff. Back Monday. A pause, then: If you're up for Vegas, I'd love to see you. Hotel room after the daily events--could be amazing.

Dave's pulse kicked up, imagining Noah in pink, hotel sheets rumpled, cookies scattered. TwinkCon--wild, but perfect. He typed back: Vegas sounds good. I'll figure it out. Text me the hotel? Noah sent the details--Golden Nugget, downtown--and Dave grinned, plotting. Wednesday, he pitched Lisa again over breakfast, toast crumbs on the table. "Lis, that electronics show--I'd really like to go. How about I get you some help around here? New handyman service, Bill Brown's Construction Rangers. They'll knock out the chores."

Lisa raised an eyebrow, sipping coffee. "Handymen? If they're legit, maybe. But you're not sneaking off unless it's squared away." She smirked, softening. "Fine--call 'em. Thursday's good."

Dave dialed the Bill Brown's Construction Rangers that afternoon, voice steady. "Need a guy Thursday, yardwork and gutters, suburban job. Can you send someone?" The voice on the line--deep, smooth--confirmed: "We'll send Marcus, 10 a.m." Dave hung up, texting Noah: Thursday's set. See you Saturday. Noah replied: Can't wait, sir.

Thursday dawned bright, the cul-de-sac sleepy. Marcus rolled up at 10 sharp in a beat-up truck,in a tight black tee and jeans--30s, 6'3", muscled and dark-skinned, with a shaved head and a toolbox slung over his shoulder. Dave met him at the curb, whistle dangling. "Hey, man. Gutters, lawn, maybe the garage if you've got time. Wife's inside with the list."

Marcus nodded, voice low. "Got it, boss. I'll handle it." His handshake was firm, eyes sharp, and Dave felt a flicker of trust. Lisa stepped out, sundress swishing, her auburn hair loose. "Marcus, right? Come in--I'll show you what's what." She waved him inside, and Dave grabbed his keys. "Gonna get a case of beer," he called. "Yardwork's thirsty stuff."

"Get IPA," Lisa shot back, already leading Marcus to the backyard. Dave peeled out, leaving them to it, Vegas simmering in his mind.

Lisa liked Marcus on sight--tall, quiet, a steady presence as she pointed out the gutters. "These haven't been touched in months," she said, shading her eyes. "And the lawn's a jungle--mower's in the shed." Marcus set his toolbox down, nodding. "I'll get it done, ma'am. Anything else?"

She hesitated, then smiled. "Call me Lisa. Garage could use a sweep if you're up for it." He grinned--warm, not slick--and started on the gutters, ladder creaking as he climbed. Lisa watched from the patio, iced tea in hand, his biceps flexing under the black tee. Dave was her rock, but Marcus moved with a grace that stirred her, a quiet confidence she hadn't felt aimed her way in a while.

An hour in, Marcus stripped off his shirt, sweat gleaming on his chest, and Lisa brought him a glass of tea, her fingers brushing his as he took it. "You're good at this," she said, soft. "Most guys half-ass it."

Marcus wiped his brow, smiling. "Like doing it right, Lisa. You deserve that." His voice was deep, genuine, and her breath caught. She'd felt frumpy lately--pottery clay under her nails, curves softer than they once were--but his gaze lingered, warm, seeing her.

"Hot out here," she said, fanning herself. "Wanna cool off inside? Break for a bit?" He nodded, following her into the kitchen, the AC humming. She poured more tea, their shoulders brushing as she handed it over. "You're sweet to help," she murmured, closer now.

Marcus set the glass down, turning to her. "You're sweet to let me, Lisa. Beautiful, too--hope you know that." His hand rested on the counter, inches from hers, a question in the space.

Lisa's chest fluttered. Dave's hands were firm; Marcus's hovered, alive. "Been a while since I felt it," she admitted, voice low. "Can you...?"

Marcus stepped closer, slow. "Yeah," he said, soft, and she leaned in, arms sliding around his neck--a hug first, tight, sugar-scented. His hands settled on her waist, feeling her curves through the sundress, her heartbeat quickening. "This okay?" he asked, breath on her cheek.

"Yeah," Lisa whispered, and his lips found hers--soft, sloppy, tasting of tea and salt. It wasn't a grab; it was a gift. She kissed back, tentative, then deep, the counter pressing into her back as his fingers traced her hair. A sigh slipped out, and he pulled back, eyes searching. "You good?"

She nodded, eyes glassy. "Yeah. Needed that." He smiled, tender, thumb brushing her cheek.

They sank to the kitchen floor, limbs tangling, her sundress hiking up as his hands roamed her thighs, warm and full. Her breath hitched, hips shifting against his.

"Lisa," Marcus murmured, thick. "Can I...?"

"Yeah," she breathed, and his hands slid up, tugging her dress higher, fingers trembling as they traced her panties, peeling them down. She freed his jeans, his cock thick and hard against her palm, and he groaned, head tipping back as she stroked, slow, feeling him pulse.

"Like that?" she asked, eyes locked on his, voice a needy hum.

"God, yes," he rasped, tugging her closer. She straddled him, dress bunched at her waist, grinding soft, a wet spot blooming where their bodies pressed. His hands slid under her bra, lifting it off, baring full breasts, nipples peaked and dark. He leaned in, lips brushing one, then sucking, tongue circling gentle, and she whimpered, arching into it, hands clutching his shoulders.

"Marcus..." Her plea was soft, and he growled, flipping her onto her back, tiles cool beneath. He shed his jeans, her dress pooling aside, and hovered over her, their bodies a mess of heat. "Need anything?" he asked, rough with care, one hand bracing beside her head.

"Just you," she breathed, legs parting, pulling him in. He slid against her, slick with want, then inside--slow at first, savoring the stretch, the wet sound as he filled her. She gasped, thighs clamping his hips, urging him deeper. He thrust, steady, then harder, building a rhythm that shook moans from her throat. Spit dribbled from their sloppy kisses, his tongue chasing hers, tasting tea and need as he sucked her lower lip.

"Fuck, Lisa," he groaned, hands under her ass, lifting her, fingers digging into soft flesh as he drove deeper. Her nails raked his back, leaving faint lines, and he shifted, a hand sliding between them, thumb circling her clit--firm, slow, matching his thrusts. She keened, trembling under him, chasing the edge.

"Marcus--more--" Her voice broke, hips bucking up, and he spat into his hand, slicking her further, the wet slide drawing a shudder from them both. He kissed her neck, sucking a mark below her ear, then trailed down--collarbone, breast, a nipple again, teeth nipping as she arched, a sob spilling out.

"Don't stop," she panted, hands fisting his neck, guiding him back to her mouth. Their kisses turned frantic, tongues tangling, spit-slick chins brushing as his thrusts quickened, balls tightening. The tiles chilled her back, but she didn't care--his heat, his groans, his steady arms were all she felt.

"Lisa--gonna--" His warning cut off, body tensing, and he came, hot and thick inside her, spilling deep as he groaned her name. Her orgasm followed, crashing through, cum mixing with hers, dripping onto the floor as she clung, panting.

They slumped, breathless, his arms still around her, holding tight. Sweat and cum cooled between them, tiles sticky beneath, but neither moved. He nuzzled her neck, humming soft. "You good?"

She laughed, shaky and real. "Better than good." Her hand traced his spine, reverent, sweat-slick, and he sighed, content.

"You're beautiful," he mumbled, kissing her jaw. "Always were."

She smiled, chest warm, the kitchen alive again. Dave's truck rumbled up the drive--beer run done--but she stretched, sated. "He's back. You're my secret tonight."

"Guess I am," Marcus murmured, pulling her dress down, and they rose, tangled in the afterglow, yardwork forgotten.

Dave walked in, case of IPA in hand, finding Lisa flushed, Marcus sweeping the garage. "Good work, man," he said, oblivious, texting Noah: Saturday's on. Lisa grinned, thinking--Vegas? Fine. I'll call Marcus again. The cul-de-sac hummed, secrets simmering.