Trigger Warnings for this Chapter
- Raceplay / Racial slurs
- Verbal humiliation
- Power imbalance / dominance-submission
All encounters are consensual between adults (28+), but the kink is intense and
may disturb readers sensitive to racial themes.
The Melbourne summer pressed against the windows like a living thing, thick and humid even with the air-con rattling at full blast. Myke sprawled across his leather couch, gym towel still damp around his neck, phone propped on his thigh. Sweat traced the groove between his pecs—firm from years of bench presses, but not cartoonish, just enough to turn heads in the change room. He thumbed the volume down, breath shallow, as the video loaded: a broad-shouldered white guy in a crisp Oxford shirt pinning a lithe Asian man to a hotel desk.
Myke’s hand slipped beneath the waistband of his shorts. His cock—six and a half inches when it mattered, thick at the base—twitched against his palm. He edged slow, thumb circling the head, feeling the familiar ache build. The white guy on screen growled something low, gripped the Asian’s hair, and Myke’s hips lifted off the cushion.
“Take it, chink.”
The word hit like ice water and gasoline at once. Myke’s eyes flew wide; his cock pulsed, betrayed him, and he came in long, shuddering ropes across his abs. The shock lingered longer than the aftershocks. He stared at the ceiling, chest heaving, the slur looping in his head. Progressive. Liberal. Advocate. None of it stopped the orgasm.
He cleaned up fast, showered colder than necessary, and dressed for work—crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled to show forearms earned from deadlifts. The tram ride along St Kilda Road blurred past; he replayed the moment, filed it under edging brain, and stepped into the office.
Ryland was already at their shared pod, feet up, coffee steaming. Two years of inside jokes, weekend barbecues with his girlfriend Ariel, fantasy-footy trash talk. Ryland’s shirt stretched across a chest dusted with dark hair whenever the top button gave up—always had, always straight, always easy to admire from a safe distance.
“Morning, legend,” Ryland said, tossing a protein bar. “You look like you wrestled the humidity and lost.”
Myke caught it one-handed. “Feels like Singapore out there.”
They fell into rhythm—code reviews, stand-up, the usual. Myke led the diversity working group at lunch; Ryland clapped him on the back afterward, proud, like always. Nothing felt off.
Friday drinks started at the Espy, cold pots sliding down easy. The group thinned; someone suggested the beach. Salt wind off Port Phillip, bonfire crackle, bottles passed hand to hand. Myke’s shirt came off first—someone dared him—then Ryland’s, the firelight carving shadows across heavier muscle, thicker arms, the trail of hair dipping beneath his board shorts.
“Race you to the water, Myke,” Ryland grinned, already shucking the shorts.
Myke laughed, tipsy enough to follow. The bay was black glass under the moon. They splashed in, whooping, the shock of cold sobering and sharpening everything. When they surfaced, dripping, Ryland’s body gleamed—broad shoulders, solid pecs, the kind of bulk that came from rugby scrums, not mirrors. Myke’s own frame looked sleek beside him: defined but lighter, swimmer’s lines, a neat patch of dark hair between his pecs trailing down to trimmed pubes.
Ryland’s cock hung heavy even soft, thicker than Myke’s flaccid length by a clear margin. Myke tried not to stare, failed, felt the familiar twitch. They floated, drunk and loose, the city lights a distant shimmer.
“You’re checking me out, fag,” Ryland teased, voice slurred but playful, splashing water.
Myke snorted, heat rising in his cheeks. “Piss off.”
But his cock gave a small, traitorous jerk under the surface.
Ryland just laughed, swam closer, then hauled Myke up the sand when the others called last drinks. Myke was properly wasted—legs unsteady, world tilting. Ryland slung an arm around his shoulders, half-carrying him back to the tram stop, then all the way to Myke’s South Yarra flat.
“Keys, mate.”
Myke fumbled them out. Inside, the air-con hummed blessedly cool. Myke peeled off wet clothes in the bathroom, towelled quick, pulled on loose shorts. He poured Ryland a glass of water in the kitchen, turned—
Ryland stood in the living room, phone in one hand, the other adjusting the front of his jeans. Myke’s laptop sat open on the coffee table, screen still glowing with the paused video he’d cast to the TV earlier that morning—the white guy’s snarl frozen mid-frame, the Asian’s flushed face beneath him.
The slur hung in the air again, tinny from the speakers.
Myke froze. “Shit—sorry, mate, I didn’t mean for you to see that. Really, I’m so sorry.”
Ryland’s eyes flicked to him, then back to the screen. A visible tent strained his zipper. He swallowed. “You into this shit?”
“It’s just—fantasy. Edge thing. Please, forget you saw it.”
Ryland set the phone down slow. Something shifted in his stance—shoulders squaring, jaw tight. “You left it running like you wanted me to see.”
“I didn’t—”
“You trying to fuck with me, Myke?” Voice low, edged now. He stepped closer, towering. “Tease the straight guy with your little race porn?”
Myke’s pulse hammered. “Ry, I swear—”
Ryland’s hand shot out, fisted the front of Myke’s tank, yanked him in until their foreheads almost touched. “Say it again. Swear you’re not begging for it.”
The omission of the slur hung heavy, but the intent burned. Myke’s cock surged, pressing against Ryland’s thigh. Shame twisted; he shoved half-heartedly at Ryland’s chest.
“Ry—Ariel—”
“Ariel and I haven’t fucked in weeks.” Ryland’s voice dropped, rough with frustration. His grip loosened just enough to slide down, palm cupping Myke’s hardness through fabric. “And you—fuck, you’re already leaking.”
Myke whimpered, hips canting forward despite the squirm in his gut. Ryland’s thumb traced the outline, deliberate.
“Been a good mate,” Ryland murmured, almost to himself. “But this? You need punishing for waving it in my face.”
He pushed Myke down—not slammed, but firm—until knees hit carpet. Myke’s hands fluttered up, resisting on instinct, but Ryland threaded fingers through his hair, guiding.
“Open up.”
Myke’s lips parted on a shaky breath, half-protest dying as Ryland unzipped slow. His cock sprang free—eight inches, veined, heavier than anything Myke had taken, the head already slick. The scent hit different: muskier, saltier, undeniably white.
Ryland fed the head past Myke’s lips. The first touch of tongue to skin drew a sharp, shocked moan from Ryland—loud, ragged, hips jerking.
“Fuck—oh fuck, that’s—”
Myke moaned too, muffled, the taste exploding across his senses—foreign, potent, better than any fantasy. His eyes watered, but he sucked instinctively, lips sealing tight, tongue swirling the ridge. He wasn’t usually this submissive—versatile, confident—but the weight, the novelty, unlocked something primal.
Ryland’s knees buckled slightly. “Never—shit—never had an Asian mouth. Never any guy. How the fuck are you this good?”
Myke gagged as more slid in, throat protesting the stretch, but he pushed forward anyway, taking halfway on the first try. Ryland groaned again, deeper, hand tightening in his hair.
“Breathe through your nose. That’s it—Jesus, you’re a natural cocksucker.”
The praise burned; Myke’s resistance flickered—hands on Ryland’s thighs to push away—but his body leaned in, cheeks hollowing, bobbing shallow. He pulled back gasping.
“Ry—wait—”
But Ryland guided him forward again, rhythm building. Myke’s moans turned needy despite himself, vibrating around the shaft. “Too big—fuck, it’s too much—”
Ryland growled, hips rocking. “Take it. You started this.”
Myke’s world narrowed to the pulse in his throat, the iron grip, the forbidden thrill. He squirmed, fighting the pull even as his cock dripped untouched.
Ryland thrust deeper, holding flush. “Knew you’d be perfect for this, chink.”
The word cracked. Myke’s cock jerked, and he came hard—stripes painting his abs, a choked cry around Ryland’s length. “No—fuck—”
Ryland roared, flooding his throat. “Swallow it—good boy—”
Myke did, coughing when pulled free. Ryland tucked away, dominance lingering but eyes softening as he helped Myke up.
“Easy, mate. You right?”
Myke nodded shakily. Ryland pressed water into his hand, voice firm.
“Drink. Bed. I’ll… forget this by morning, yeah? Unless you don’t want me to.”
Myke’s world tilted. Ryland thumbed his lip—possessive—then left.
“Night, Myke.”
The door clicked. The unraveling had only just begun.
[Author’s note: This is my first time writing. Just to be clear—I’m Asian myself, so I
really enjoy this content and wanted to add my own take. Feel free to email
feedback; I’d be glad if anyone’s reading :) - [email protected]]
To get in touch with the author, send them an email.
