SURRENDERED TO MARTIN - Extreme Submission to a Dominant Older Man

Surrendered to Martin

Extreme Submission to a Dominant Older Man

SILAS THORNE

Copyright  © 2026 Silas Thorne

All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without the express written permission of the author. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Content Warning (+18)     ⚠️

You are about to enter extremely filthy  territory.

No filters. No mercy. No safe words.

Within these pages you will find total submission, hot piss swallowed straight from the source, full scat play, shit-smeared cocks, brutal arse-fucking, and a big, hairy, experienced older man who dominates without apology.

If you’re looking for soft romance or “nice” sex, this is not the book for you.

But if you crave surrendering completely to the thick hands of a dirty, older man — a hairy, ruthless bastard who will drag you into your darkest, most forbidden fantasies…

…then get comfortable.

We’ve been waiting for you.

Index

For Martin.

For teaching me that dominance can be tender,

that the filthy can be gentle,

and that the deepest trust is born the moment you let yourself go completely.

To everyone who dares to explore their darkest, dirtiest fantasies without shame.

To those who know that the forbidden can also be beautiful.

And especially to you — the one who surrenders without holding anything back.

A Thursday Afternoon in the City

You’re in London, late May, one of those classic grey-skied Thursdays that never quite decide whether to rain. You’ve stepped into a small, discreet gay bar near Liverpool Street Station — the kind of place that quietly fills the moment the suited men pour out of the financial district offices. The air is thick: spilled beer, decades of polished wood, and the faint, unmistakable tang of end-of-day male sweat.

You perch on a bar stool, slowly stirring a gin and tonic with a slice of cucumber, when he walks in.

Martin.

Sixty years old, yet he moves with a solid, magnetic presence. A dark blue suit cut to perfection, accentuating broad shoulders and a powerful chest. A fine-striped white-and-pale-blue shirt, the top two buttons undone. His red tie is folded neatly in the breast pocket, discarded the second he left the office. He stands nearly six foot tall, strong and thick-set, with a prominent, rounded belly that strains the front of his shirt above his belt. Around two hundred and sixty pounds of mature, substantial man — wide shoulders, heavy chest, and that soft, heavy curve that shifts slightly with every step. Silver-grey hair swept back, a neatly trimmed beard, and calm, pale eyes that radiate quiet confidence.

Your eyes meet across the room. He stands near the door, still in his suit, and holds your gaze for several long seconds — unhurried, direct. A slow smile spreads across his face, crinkling the corners of his eyes. Then he begins walking toward you, moving with steady, relaxed purpose through the crowd.

He stops right beside you and rests a strong forearm on the bar. His presence is warm and solid, and you can feel the heat radiating from his body.

“Good evening,” he says, his voice deep, warm, and beautifully educated. “You have very lovely eyes. And you’re extremely handsome. May I sit next to you?”

You start talking. He tells you his name is Martin, that he works at an investment firm in the City, that it’s been an endless day of meetings and all he wanted was a quiet drink before heading home. He’s easy, natural, nothing forced. He asks where you’re from, how long you’re staying in London, whether you’ve tried proper fish and chips yet. You laugh with him. His big, warm hand brushes yours when he passes you the second gin and tonic he’s ordered. The touch lingers a second longer than necessary — pleasant, deliberate. His prominent belly gently presses against the edge of the bar as he leans toward you.

Half an hour later you’re in a darker corner of the bar. Martin has one hand on your waist and is drawing you closer. You kiss for the first time. His lips are full, warm, slightly damp from the gin. He tastes of dry gin, mint, and man. His tongue slides slowly into your mouth, exploring, licking yours with calm hunger. You feel the soft, burning weight of his belly pressing against your own — you too are sixty, five-foot-nine, around one hundred and eighty-five pounds, your own soft, rounded stomach melting into his. The fabric of his shirt rubs against your chest. One of his large hands cradles the back of your neck with surprising tenderness, guiding the kiss exactly as he wants it. The other arm wraps around your lower back, pulling you tighter. You can feel his cock beginning to thicken inside his trousers, a heavy bulge pressing against your thigh. Your own arousal rises, a familiar heat pooling in your groin, making you acutely aware of your soft belly rubbing against his.

“Would you like to come back to my place?” he murmurs against your lips, voice low and rough. “I live twenty minutes away. I’m on my own. The car’s just round the corner.”

You say yes.

You climb into his big, silent black Mercedes. Martin drives with one hand on the wheel and the other resting on your thigh for almost the entire journey. He squeezes occasionally, his thumb stroking the inside of your leg, moving higher but never quite reaching your crotch. The city slides past in orange streetlight, but all you feel is the heat of his hand through your trousers and the low, electric thrum of anticipation in your stomach.

The house is beautiful: a restored Victorian in a quiet, elegant part of Islington. Dark brick façade, a small well-kept garden, warm lights glowing in the windows. Inside it smells of good wood, expensive cedar cologne, and home. The bedroom is upstairs. You climb the wooden stairs that creak softly under his weight. Martin leads you by the hand, fingers laced with yours.

His bedroom is spacious and masculine: deep charcoal walls, an enormous king-size bed with crisp white sheets and a thick duvet, a large window with heavy curtains, and at the far end a marble bathroom with a rainfall shower and an old-fashioned freestanding tub. He closes the door and kisses you again — deeper this time, hungrier. His big hands roam down your back, slide over your arse and squeeze your cheeks with calm possession, parting them slightly through your clothes.

“Shall we get undressed?” he asks softly, almost tenderly, already shrugging off his jacket and laying it over a chair.

You undress slowly, watching each other. His torso is impressive: a broad, fleshy chest covered in thick, soft grey hair, large dark nipples, a heavy, rounded belly that hangs slightly over his groin, powerful rounded shoulders. He steps out of his trousers and boxers. His cock is free — thick, heavy, about seven inches, with a generous foreskin that still covers most of the pink head even when he’s half-hard. His pubic hair is abundant and soft. You both lie down on the bed. The mattress sinks under your combined weight.

You kiss for a long time, body to body. You feel the heat radiating from his skin, the soft weight of his heavy belly pressing against yours — your own soft, rounded stomach sinking into his, creating an intimate, comforting pressure — the thick hair on his chest brushing your nipples. His cock hardens fully against your thigh, hot and pulsing. Martin always takes the lead, but with tenderness: he strokes your chest, gently pinches and rolls your nipples between his thick fingers until you gasp into his mouth.

“I want you to suck me,” he whispers against your ear, nipping your lobe. “Slowly. However you like it.”

You kneel between his spread thighs. His cock is fully hard now — thick, veined, beautiful. You wrap your hand around the hot, heavy base. You pull the foreskin back with agonising slowness, millimetre by millimetre. The head emerges, shiny, glistening with thick, clear precum that stretches in a long, viscous thread under the lamplight. The smell is strong: warm skin, faint day-old sweat, mature man. You lick that glistening drop slowly, savouring it — salty, slightly sweet, sticky on your tongue. Martin sighs deeply and strokes your hair with one big hand.

You start sucking. You take the head into your hot mouth, feeling the foreskin slide forward again over your tongue, then back, covering and uncovering the glans over and over. The cock throbs hard against your tongue, each pulse pushing more precum down your throat. You suck calmly, taking him deeper, feeling the thick veins pulse against your tongue, the girth stretching your jaw. Then comes the first little spurt.

Hot. Salty. Sudden. A small jet of piss hits the back of your throat. You pull off for a second, surprised, a single drop running down the corner of your mouth. Martin looks at you with tenderness and strokes your cheek with his thumb.

“Do you like that?” he asks softly, voice husky.

You nod in silence, heart hammering. You don’t say no. He understands perfectly.

“Only if you really want it… If not, I’ll stop right now and we can do something else.”

You don’t stop. You open your mouth again and take him back in deep. Martin lets out a long, low groan. Then he really starts to piss. Small, controlled streams at first, hot, filling your mouth while you swallow around his thick, throbbing cock. You feel the warm liquid sliding down your throat, the strong, salty, forbidden taste filling you. Then the streams grow longer, stronger. He holds your head with both hands — not roughly, just firm and possessive — keeping you pressed to his groin while he pisses slowly, savouring every second. The sound is wet, gurgling, obscene: the stream hitting your tongue, you swallowing audibly. You swallow everything, breathing through your nose, eyes watering with pleasure, your own cock rock-hard and dripping onto the sheets. The heat of his piss fills your stomach, warming you from the inside in a dirty, exhilarating way that makes you even harder.

When he finishes he lifts you gently, kisses you deeply, tasting his own piss on your tongue and lips. He pulls you tight against his warm, fleshy belly and hairy chest.

“You’re a good boy… I loved that you drank every drop.”

You kiss for a while ...