Other People's Houses
by Kit Marlowe
Copyright© 2025 by Kit Marlowe
Erotica Sex Story: Weekly property viewings give two men the perfect cover for their affair — until one of them has to choose between safety and excitement.
Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Ma Consensual Romantic Gay BiSexual Fiction Cheating Exhibitionism Oral Sex Public Sex .
I’m standing in someone else’s empty house with Marcus, waiting for the estate agent so that we can again pretend we actually intend to buy the place. The agent isn’t here yet. That suits us just fine.
We’ve been doing this six weeks now. Every Saturday, a different house. Different postcode. Always expensive enough that they take us seriously. Always empty enough that we’re left alone “to get a feel for the space”.
This one’s in Dulwich. Four bedrooms, period features, “needs work”. Everything at this price point needs work, it seems.
Marcus is examining the cornicing. Very interested, very convincing should anybody pop their head in. I love watching the way his neck stretches as he tilts his head up, seeing the tendons and muscle pull taut, the dull sheen of vein beneath skin.
My phone buzzes. Estate agent stuck in traffic, fifteen more minutes, so sorry, make yourselves at home.
“Fifteen minutes,” I say. Marcus is already moving towards me.
“That’s not very long.”
“It’s long enough.”
We’ve got it down to an art now. Master bedroom, door open so we hear them coming up the stairs. Clothes mostly stay on. Quick, efficient, leave as little mess as possible. Transactional.
Except it’s not really transactional anymore, is it? That’s the problem.
I follow him upstairs. This one has carpet, thick and lush. Nicer than the Brixton place with the bare floorboards. Not as nice as the Hampstead flat with the ensuite where we-
“Stop thinking,” Marcus says.
“Wasn’t.”
“You were. You get that look.”
He’s right. Six weeks of this and he can read me perfectly. More than my actual boyfriend can. Ex-boyfriend now, probably. I left him on read on Tuesday and the messages have been piling up since, but I haven’t looked at them.
The master bedroom has wide bay windows, a sweeping view of the garden. Needs work.
Marcus doesn’t waste time. He never does. That’s not what this is.
Before I know it I’m pushed up against the wooden post of the bed. His breath is hot on my cheek, his stubble scraping against my lack of. I prefer a beard but he convinced me to shave, says he likes his men smooth. Soft. Compliant.
He’s already hard, I can feel him pressed up against me. I’m not, have never been able to perform on demand like this even when I know I need to, but nothing about this is about me. His hand on my belt is for access, nothing else.
Scrape of leather. Jingle of belt buckle striking wooden bed frame. Hiss of cotton on skin. A hand pushes through the gap between the buttons on my shirt, fingers pinching my nipples hard. Hot breath in my ear, mouthing nonsense syllables. My hands on the bed post, shoulder pressed into the wood.
Fingers in my mouth. “Get me wet,” he says. Thickness against my teeth, my tongue, spit running over my lips. The taste of him, his flavour almost neutral, absent, plain skin with no defining characteristic.
Absence, a void as he pulls his fingers free, my own moisture on my chin. Hand to my arse, fingers probing me, smearing my spit onto my.
“You’re so smooth,” he says.
Pressure, the slight burn, the feeling of resistance I’ve never been able to hold back as my brain tries to catch up to what’s happening, tries to tell my body that we do want this.
“So fucking tight,” he says. I groan as he pushes a finger deeper. He groans as he rubs his cock against the cheek of my arse, as he spreads his fingers, tries to open me up more.
The slam of a car door outside. Both freeze.
“That’s not fifteen minutes,” I say.
“Maybe it’s someone else.”
It’s not someone else. The front door opens, a voice calls up. “Hello? Mr. Roberts? Mr. Evans?”
Marcus pulls back, leaves me gasping and empty. He’s fixing his clothes. Footsteps on the carpeted stairs.
Pants up, belt thrown together, turn to stare at the period features, hoping the heat in my face subsides.
The estate agent appears in the doorway. Young, enthusiastic. Hopefully oblivious.
“So sorry about that!” she says. “Shall we start with the kitchen?”
We follow her downstairs. Marcus keeps a professional distance. We’re very good at this now.
She talks about the Aga, about the utility room, about potential. Everything has potential these days.
My phone vibrates, a text from Sean. can we talk? the notification says. i know ur busy with the house hunt.
For some reason I text back, after a week of silence. Not a good tme, sry.
its been ages
I know.
Put the phone away. The estate agent’s talking about the garden, how it gets sun all afternoon. My brain has finally started to catch up to what Marcus and I were just doing, and suddenly all I’m aware of is how great her arse and hips look in that pencil skirt, how I can see the straps of her bra through her blouse. I wonder what she’d look like on her knees, me in her mouth, Marcus behind her.
I turn to inspect the exposed brickwork, take the opportunity to adjust myself. A nice fantasy, but it could never happen. Unless she’s hiding a cock under that skirt, she’s not Marcus’ type.
Turn back to find Marcus staring at me, that look that says we need to talk after this. I don’t want to talk after this.
The viewing comes to an end. We’re very interested, we’ll definitely be in touch, yes of course you’ll hear from us soon, just another place to see first. They never follow up too aggressively. People at this price point need space to make a decision.
Walk to the car. Separate cars, obviously. We’re not actually together.
“Next week?” Marcus asks.
“I don’t know.”
“You always says that.”
“This time I mean it.”
He leans against his car, arms crossed. “Sean texted you.”
“How did you-”
“You get that look.”
I hate that he knows. I hate that not even two months of house viewings has given him encyclopaedic knowledge of all my looks.
“He wants to fix things,” I say.
“Do you want that?”
“I don’t know what I want.”
“Yes. You do.”
He’s right, of course. Bastard’s always right.
Another text. Not Sean this time, but an estate agent from three weeks ago. The one in Hackney.
“Estate agent,” I say, turning my phone to show him. “Still interested in Hackney? The owners just dropped the price.”
He laughs. I love his laugh. “That place was a shithole.”
“Had good bones, though.”
“You say that about all of them.”
He’s right about that, too.
“I should go,” I say.
“You should.”
Neither of us moves.
“This is stupid,” I say. “We’re not even looking for houses.”
“I know.”
“And me and Sean...”
“I know that, too.”
“So what are we doing?”
He shrugs. “Looking at period features. Getting a feel for the space.”
My phone again. Sean this time. i miss u. can we please just talk?
Marcus sees it. Steps back. “You should reply to him.”
“I should.” Don’t want to.
He gets in his car, winds the window down. “Text me if you want to see that place in Richmond next week. Victorian terrace. Original fireplaces.”
“Marcus...”
“I know. You don’t know.” A pause. “You never fucking know.”
He drives off, leaves me standing there in someone else’s driveway, phone in hand. Sean waiting for an answer. A list of saved properties I have neither the inclination nor means to buy.
I text Sean. okay. let’s talk. tonight?
Sean: thanks xx my place? 7?
see you then x
Put the phone away. Get in the car, drive home, back to the miserable little box in Peckham that I call home. Think about period features. About potential. About things that need work.
Six hours until I see Sean. I should think about what to say. I should think about whether this is what I want. I should do something about what Marcus and I started, clear my head so I don’t get there horny and make bad decisions.
I text Marcus instead. Richmond next week. I can do Friday. 11?
He replies immediately. I’ll book it.
Sit in my flat as the darkness gathers outside, pale light filtering through trees becoming skeletal. Time crawling by. Phone on the table, feeling frozen, unable to do anything until I have to leave. Waiting for decisions I’m not ready to make.
The estate agent emails through details of another property. Clapham this time. Needs complete renovation. Good bones, though.
Everything needs work these days.
I save it anyway. Maybe I’ll send it to Marcus later.
I’m antsy, can’t settle. Six hours is too long to sit and think. Too long to stare at the phone. Too long to feel the ghost of Marcus’ fingers still on my skin.
I should shower. Should eat something. Should do something, anything productive. Instead I find my phone in my hand, my thumb opening Sean’s messages.
actually can i come now? don’t want to wait x
Three dots appear immediately. yeah course. u ok?
fine. just want to get this over with.
Delete that one. That’s not the tone.
fine. just want to talk sooner
ok see u soon x
Get in the car, still in the clothes I wore earlier, still with Marcus marking me down below. Drive to Bermondsey, to Sean’s flat in a converted warehouse. High ceilings, exposed brick, the kind of place Marcus would photograph for his portfolio if he actually worked in architecture like he tells all the agents, instead of whatever it is he actually does for money. I never asked. Another thing I never asked.
Park outside. Sit in the car for long minutes, the engine ticking as it cools. I can still leave. Can still text some excuse, go back to my flat and shower off the afternoon and pretend none of this is happening.
Instead I get out of the car, feet crunching on leaves.
Sean buzzes me up immediately, must have been watching for me. The lift takes forever, as it always does. This time I don’t mind it. It gives me time to rehearse what I’m going to say. To practice being the person who breaks up with someone properly instead of just disappearing.
The lift doors open. Sean’s waiting in his doorway. Barefoot, wearing the jumper I bought him for Christmas. His hair is still damp from the shower. I already know how he’ll smell even though he’s too far away to sense it, that blend of orange and bergamot and ginger that lives in the shower gel he’s been using since he was a teenager. He once told me his mum has been buying him a gift set of it every year for two decades and he doesn’t have the heart to tell her he hates it, isn’t wasteful enough to throw it away. So he uses it anyway.
I love it.
“Hey,” he says, as I walk up the corridor.
“Hey.”
Awkward pause. Used to be we’d kiss hello. Used to be I’d just let myself in. Now we’re standing here like strangers, like we’ve just matched on Grindr and he’s trying to figure out whether I’m safe to let inside.
“Come in,” he says, finally.
Follow him inside. The flat smells like coffee and his soap and something else that’s just Sean, lingering beneath it all. I’ve always loved that smell, and that’s part of the problem.
“Tea? Beer?” He’s already moving to the kitchen. Needs to do something with his hands.
“Tea’s great.”
Watch him fill the kettle. He knows how I take it by now. No sugar, milk until it’s the colour of digestive biscuits and no further. We’ve been together eight months. Were together eight months. Tense is complicated, now.
“So,” he says, back still turned to me. “You’ve been busy.”
“Yeah. The house hunting’s been-”
“Is that really what you’ve been doing?”
“What do you mean?” I have to raise my voice over the sound of the kettle boiling. Feels like shouting, feels like the conversation escalating already even though there’s no need for it to. He doesn’t turn around.
“Every Saturday. Sometimes Fridays, too. Always with Marcus.” He gets mugs down from the cupboard. Still not looking at me. “Are you sleeping with him?”
I could lie. Should probably lie. But I’m tired of lying.
“No,” I say. True enough. He’s using me, I know that. I’ve barely touched him. Still, it’s not the whole truth, is it? It’s not what Sean actually meant by the question. So much for not lying.
“But you want to.”
Not a question. Sean knows. Doesn’t know it all, but enough.
He finally turns around, face carefully neutral. “How long has it been going on?”
“Six weeks,” I say, and I feel a rush of lightness in my head, all the pressure of this secret I’ve been holding suddenly releasing. It’s like taking a hit of poppers. “Maybe seven.”
“So since you started the house hunting.”
“Yeah.”
He pours water from the kettle, adds milk to mine. Perfect, as always. Brings the mugs over to the sofa. Sits. Leaves space between us, where in the past he’d sit right up next to me, almost too close for comfort. I don’t get to be sad about that, I’ve created that space, but it still hurts.
“Are you happy?” he asks.
I wasn’t expecting that question. I expected anger, accusations. Probably tears.
“I don’t know,” I say.
“With him. Are you happy with him?”
“We’re not together. We just-”
“Just what? Just fucking in other people’s houses while pretending to buy property you can’t afford?”
The first flash of anger. It’s about time.
“It’s not like that.” It’s exactly like that.
“Then explain it to me. Because I’ve been sitting here trying to figure out what I did wrong. What changed. Why you just fucking ghosted me.”
He’s not crying but his voice is tight, controlled. Choking something back.
“You didn’t do anything wrong,” I say.
“Then why?”
It’s a good question. It’s maybe the only question. Why? Because Marcus reads me better than Sean does. Because Marcus makes me feel reckless and alive. Because with Sean everything is safe and comfortable and planned and with Marcus everything is urgent and impossible and probably dangerous.
“I don’t know,” I say again.
“You keep saying that,” he says. “But you do know. You just don’t want to tell me.”
He’s right. The bastard’s right just like Marcus is always right. Why do they both have to be right?
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