This neighborhood used to be the kind of place you only walked through if you had nothing left to lose. Gangs, dealers, and working women on corners. The only gays living here back then where those who liked the anonimity and cheap rent. More importantly, free from the judgement and expectations of suburbanites and other gay men.
Dangerous, yeah. Run-down, yeah. But honest. Everyone had their flaws out in the open, no pretenses, no pretending you were better than anyone else.
With time I blended in. I’d grew into myself here. Survived here. Got older, and became built like a brick wall. I had to because in this place you either looked unbreakable or you got broken. I leaned into the look—ink, muscle, attitude. It wasn’t for show. It was my armor.
Then the years rolled on, and the city crept closer.
Coffee shops. Craft beer bars. Boutiques. Yoga gays with perfect hair and curated social lives. The kind who move into a rough neighborhood and act like they discovered it.
I should’ve hated it. But hell… I didn’t. I liked the way the streets shifted. The longer I lived here, the more the mix of old grit and new polish worked for me. The new ones who moved in were fresh and wide-eyed. I liked the way the streets shifted. And I liked the way my type suddenly became a commodity.
The more put-together the new gays got, the more they wanted someone who looked like me. Someone rough. Someone who didn’t smile pretty. Someone who could make them feel safe on the sidewalk and make them feel anything but safe once the bedroom door shut. And I played the part well.
Most nights, guys followed me home looking for exactly that—someone to put that delicious fear into them. Someone to take control, use them, wreck them, make them beg for more. And I gave it to them. Gladly.
But lately… It was getting tiring. The same wide-eyed boys wanting the same daddy treatment, the same scripts, the same moans. It got to the point where some of these kids practically demanded it. Like I was some walking hood-fantasy.
Sometimes I wanted to shake them and say, You think this is all fun? You think being a badass is cute? Try surviving a night here in the old days, pretty boy.
But, I won’t lie. Sometimes those thoughts were the very thing that pushed me over the edge when I fucked them. Gave them what they came for.
They wanted a “badass”?
Fine. I showed them what it meant to get taken by someone who didn’t learn attitude from porn or TikTok. Someone who learned it from keeping their head down, fists ready, watching their back every damn night.
I’d pin those pretty twinks down, fuck them the way they begged for. And afterward, they’d melt, trembling, blissed out, thinking they’d lived some fantasy.
They never realized I wasn’t acting.
They never understood what fear really was.
They didn’t get that my attitude wasn’t a kink—
it was survival, carved into me long before any of them showed up with their iced coffees and curated outfits.
And that disconnect… it started wearing me down.
I wasn’t tired of sex. I was tired of being a costume for men who didn’t know a damn thing about the life that shaped me.
No one embodied that cocky, curated twink fantasy more than Austin. He was new to our building. Hot as hell, all smooth skin and trouble, he walked like he owned the pavement. Every move he made said he knew the boys wanted to be him and the men wanted to fuck him.
He’d come out young and leaned into the attention early—unbothered, bold, and dripping with that easy-breezy confidence only kids who never had to survive anything seem to have. There was always this spark behind his smile, something mischievous, like he knew you were watching and liked it.
Austin strutted like the whole damn neighborhood existed to look at him. Tall, lean, twinky, and fuckable from every angle.The kind of body that looked effortless but still had enough muscle to make his shirts cling in the right places—he dressed with intent. Crop tops showcasing abs, tanks showing off his shoulders, jeans hugging a perfect bubble ass and a package he never pretended to hide. “Curated hooligan” was the only way to describe him—stylized chaos, designed delinquency. Everything the new version of our hood was becoming.
He’d been in my building almost a year—polite, friendly, too confident for his own good. Worked odd hours at the coffee place around the corner. And when he was home, he was constantly “entertaining.” Guys walked in and out of his place like it had a revolving door. Big guys, thin guys, older, younger—didn’t matter. If it had a cock, Austin had probably had it in his mouth, his ass, or was planning to. The kid got his cardio by fucking half the city.
We weren’t friends, but we’d shared a “hello”. The first time we fucked, it happened the way these things always seem to find me. I was in my Dodge after work, finishing my cigar, feeling the weight of the day settle. Austin came sashaying down the street like he owned the sidewalk—flip-flops smacking, abs showing, jeans painted on. He spotted me and didn’t hesitate for a second. Kid walked straight up to my car, braced one hand on the roof, and leaned down into my window like he’d been invited.
The move lifted his shirt again, abs tight, smooth, and cocky. His smile said he knew exactly what he was doing. The kid invaded my space like he paid the rent for my car.
“How you doing, Sir? Nice day, isn’t it?”
I exhaled a stream of smoke and grunted, “Good to see you, Austin. And you can just call me Dave.”
“Dave it is, Sir,” he shot back, eyes glinting.
That told me everything.
He rambled about my car— too eager, too smooth, laying it on thick. Talking about how he’d seen the Dodge around, how it totally fit my vibe, how he knew the man driving it had to be someone who didn’t take shit, how he’d hoped it belonged to someone hot and not some balding loser compensating for a small dick.
I smoked, listened, watched him sell the daddy fantasy like he’d rehearsed the lines in the mirror. Then he moved on to admiring my style—black clothes, boots, chains, ink—every damn thing that made me look like the guy he wanted to bend over for.
Playing the game, layering on compliments, it was straight out of the “seduce-the-daddy” handbook. I’d seen it a hundred times. Flatter the big rough man, stroke his ego, play innocent but willing. He didn’t have to say “fuck me.” His whole act was screaming it.
I wanted to snap, tell him flat-out: Kid, I am not your little fantasy. I’m not trying to be anything. This is just who I am—shaped by where I grew up, what I survived, what I had to become. But he didn’t care about that. He wanted the fantasy, not the man behind it.
But to be honest… I was horny. And he was hot, so I let him keep going.
“I see you’re pretty popular on this block,” I said, finally cutting him off.
He smirked again—cocky, pleased with himself.
“You got men coming in and out of your place nonstop.
He smirked. “Haven’t had you come by yet.” It sounded like a challenge.
I let my voice drop, rough and flat.
“I don’t think you could handle me, boy.”
He didn’t even blink. Just reached his hand through the window and onto my crotch, bold as ever, feeling the shape of my cock like he already owned it. I stared at him through cigar smoke.
“You’re big,” he said softly, “but I can handle guys you”
I blew smoke straight into his face, let it wash over him, let him feel the weight of me.
“It’s not my cock you can’t handle,” I told him, voice low. “I don’t play. I take. And I take hard.”
His smirk only widened, as his grip on my groin only tightened. He loved the challenge.
I knew he had no idea what he’d just asked for. So I repeated myself. “I'm not your Tom of Finland fantasy boy. Do you hear me? I don't dress to attract boys like you, this is me. I will make you question your life choices, I make you wish things were different. I will scare you and feed off your fear. I will test your limits, put you in uncomfortable situations.
The more I talked, the more his smile grew. It was always the same with these twinks. They liked the idea of it so much they stopped listening. I was just an idea for them.
With that said, I ordered him to get his hand off my cock unless he was looking to get burned. He didn't move his hand but just stared at me harder. Challenging me. With that I knew we were on.
I took one deep inhale of my cigar, then grabbed his head and leaned in for a kiss. He opened his lips and I exhaled into his mouth before sending my tongue in search of his.
I could tell he was getting worked up from the kiss — already breathing harder, already imagining where this was going. He probably thought we’d go up to his place, strip down, and I’d bend him over the table or shove him onto the bed for a quick, hard fuck. To him, this was just another chance to get railed stupid, another daddy to knock him around and leave him sore for a couple days.
But I had other ideas.
This cocky little bastard thought he could handle me, and I was going to prove him wrong. I wasn’t going to be another notch on his bedpost. He was going to regret inviting me in — and then, maybe, he’d finally leave me alone. But first? I was going to take exactly what I wanted, and he was going to take it too.
After a long, filthy kiss, he stood there waiting, smug, sure he knew the plan. I grabbed anothet thick cigar from the box and decided, fuck it — I’m going to enjoy this. I clipped it cleanly, lit it, and took the first slow drag. The smoke curled around us as he watched me with wide, eager eyes — like he couldn’t wait for the game to start.
“You can’t really smoke in my condo,” he said.
I exhaled straight into his face. “Don’t worry your pretty little face about that. I’ve got everything under control.”
He smiled — assuming we’d be heading upstairs to my place, not his. But I stepped ahead of him and started walking toward the building, cigar between my lips. He followed close behind, almost bouncing. We passed through the lobby, ignoring the giant NO SMOKING signs. I didn’t care, and I think the rule-breaking turned him on even more.
At the elevator, he pressed the button.
“No,” I said. “We’re taking the stairs. You can walk three flights, can’t you?”
He looked confused but followed me. I walked behind him as we climbed, watching his ass bounce with each step, cigar smoke drifting around us. Every floor, every step, he was getting cockier — turning around like he was already ready for my cock.
I grabbed his ass once, squeezing hard. He looked back and smirked.
On the third floor, he reached for the door to the hallway. Before he could open it, I slammed it shut — hard.
He blinked at me. “Don’t you live on the third floor?”
I smiled. “Of course I do. But that’s not where we are going.”
His eyes went wide a second before I grabbed him and shoved him against the wall. The force surprised him, but he adjusted fast, staring right into my eyes like he wanted more. He leaned in for another kiss — probably thinking he’d repeat what happened in the car.
I grabbed his shoulders and turned him around, slamming him face-first into the wall.
My groin pressed right up against his ass. The cigar hung from my lips as I leaned in, smoke surrounding his cheek as I held his head still with one hand.
“I told you, boy,” I whispered. “I’m not here for romance. I take what I want. If you want to back out, now’s the time.”
“No, sir,” he breathed. “I’m ready for anything.”
I slid my hand down, unbuttoned his jeans, and yanked them straight to the floor, revealing that perfect ass. One hand kept his head pinned. The cigar stayed between my teeth. My other hand spread his cheeks, searching for his hole — and when I found it, I shoved two fingers in without warning.
He gasped — pain, shock, and want all mixed together.
I didn’t wait. I fingered him hard, fast, stretching him open. I was horny as hell, and I wanted him ready now. When he loosened around my fingers, I unzipped my jeans and pulled out my cock — rock hard and dripping.
I took the cigar out of my mouth, spat in my hand, shoved the spit into his hole, then spat again and rubbed it along my shaft.
Not too wet. Just enough that he’d feel every inch.
I lined up behind him and slammed my cock into him, hard. His scream echoed up and down the stairwell, bouncing off the concrete walls.
Once I was fully in, I leaned into his ear.
“This what you expected? Is this what you hoped a badass daddy would feel like?”
“No sir,” he moaned, shaking.
“You want to stop?” I asked.
“No… fuck me sir.”
That was all the permission I needed.
I started pounding him into the wall — brutal, fast, unforgiving. Each thrust shoved his body forward onto the wall; each breath he took was a gasp. I made sure he felt everything — the force, the weight, the burn.
I paused. I could see confusion in his face. I spun him around and pushed him forward by the neck so he was up against the stairwell railing. His cock hung over the edge, dripping pre-cum down the steps. I didn’t even pull fully out — just shoved myself back in and fucked him even harder.
I watched his cock flop wildly with each thrust, pre-cum spraying in strings. I grabbed the rail around him and drove into him with everything I had. I was going to take every damn thing this boy had to give — and he was going to take all of me.
I felt myself getting close.
“You’re gonna take my load, boy,” I growled. “Deep.”
He didn’t even answer — he just braced himself.
I slammed into him, again and again, until finally I buried myself to the hilt and emptied load after load deep into his guts. His whole body shook with each pulse.
When I finished, I pulled out slowly, letting his hole gape. He was trembling, cock dripping, sweat pouring down his chest, my cum slowly oozing out.
I shoved a finger into him, scooped my cum out, and forced it into his mouth. “Clean it.”
He sucked my finger clean, eyes glazed.
I zipped up, and said, “Thanks. That’s what I needed.” Then I walked out the door, letting slam behind me and headed straight to my condo, leaving him slumped in the stairwell, used and shaking.
I expected that to be the end of it. He got what he was looking for and he knew how my raw frustrations played out.
But the next time I saw him on the street, he gave me that same little smirk — the one that said he wanted it again.
I tried ignoring him. Didn’t matter. He started popping up everywhere.
He’d be waiting outside when I got home from work, pretending to scroll his phone while really watching me finish my cigar in the Dodge. Then he started showing up at my gym. Didn’t take him long to figure out my schedule. I’d walk in and he’d already be there — shirt off, stretching slow, bending over right in front of me like he was begging me to take him right there.
The kid was a tease, and he knew exactly what he was doing.
I fought it at first. Tried to stay out of it. But after a few days of that shit, I gave him exactly what he wanted. We fucked a few more times: in the gym’s shower, the corridor, behind the dumpsters, in the car. Always rough. Always filthy. The kid took everything I gave him and still breathed “more.”
But the more I tried to shove him away, the more he showed up. The harder I fucked him, the harder he clung. Every boundary I tried to set just made him chase me more.
I didn’t know how the hell to shake him.
Eventually, it started feeling… stalkerish.
I wasn’t worried — he was scrawny, not a threat — but he was always there. Watching. Waiting. Wanting.
And then he crossed a line.
One night, a good friend came over — a big bear of a man. The kind of guy who drives a black F-150 and has the same mileage I do. We’d usually smoked cigars, sucked each other off, fucked a few times. He was someone who knew how to take a man and how to be taken. He always came dressed ready to go, in full leather, and a cigar tucked in his pocket
I kissed him as he got out of the truck. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Austin across the street watching.
So I turned the heat up.
Let him see the kind of men I go for.
Didn’t think much of it.
We went upstairs, had a brutal, sweaty night, before we passed out.
When morning came, my buddy told me his tires were slashed. Back in the old days, that wouldn’t have shocked me. But now? Too clean. Too specific. Too personal.
Once the tires were replaced, he left. As I was saying goodbye, I spotted Austin across the street again. This time he wasn’t smirking like a boy wanting dick. He was smirking like someone who’d gotten away with something.
I didn’t hesitate.
I crossed the street hard.
He didn’t even move.
Just stood there grinning.
I slammed him back against the wall. People glanced over, then kept walking — they saw he was smiling and figured it wasn’t worth getting involved.
I wasn’t playing.
“Why’d you do it?” I growled.
He stared back, unfazed.
“What if I did?”
“I’ll beat the shit out of you if you did.”
He smirked wider.
“And then you’ll fuck me after. So it’ll be worth it.”
I actually stopped — confused, irritated, turned on, all at once.
“This isn’t a fucking game, kid. What’s your deal?”
That’s when everything in him cracked open.
“I’m sorry,” he blurted. “I just… I’m losing it, okay? I can’t stop thinking about you. Every other guy feels pathetic after you. Nobody fucks like you. Nobody makes me feel anything real. After you fuck me I actually feel… something. And I can’t get it anywhere else.”
His eyes were wild — fear, need, desire all tangled up. Something in him was shaking, but he wasn’t stepping back. He was stepping closer.
And something in me shifted.
I grabbed him and kissed him hard — the first time I’d actually kissed him since the day we met.
It hit him like a shockwave. His whole body jerked against mine, a moan swallowed into my mouth, desperate and hungry. His cock bulged hard against my thigh as I pinned him to the wall, my fingers twisted in his shirt, my cigar taste still on my tongue.
For a moment — just one — I nearly gave in to the urge to take him right there on the street. To rip his belt open, bend him over the hood of my Dodge, and fuck him so deep the nosy neighbors would learn my name by the way he screamed it.
I wanted to mark him.
Claim him.
Break him open in front of the whole neighborhood so no one would ever mistake who he belonged to.
But that wasn’t the move — not now.
I pulled back, breath rough.
“We’re going upstairs,” I said. “We’re talking. Not fucking. Talking. You understand”
His pupils blew wide.
He nodded.
And he followed me like he was afraid that if he didn’t stay glued to my shadow, I might vanish.
He stuck close — too close — on the stairs. Like he wanted my smell, my heat, the raw energy I’d just fed him. Every step he took matched mine like I was pulling him on an invisible leash.
Inside my apartment, he froze. He looked around at the clean lines, the curated masculine vibe of my place. Dark wood, leather seats and black accents.
His eyes scanned the place. It was not the dump he expected. Not the rough edges he assumed.
A space built with intention.
I pointed.
“Sit.”
The word dropped like a command, not a suggestion.
He sat immediately, sinking into the leather chair like it belonged to me — which it did — and therefore he belonged there too.
I lit a cigar. Took a slow drag. Watched him try not to fidget.
“You and I need to talk,” I said, voice low but sharp. “I’m old enough to be your father. And you’re—”
I gestured at him, cigar between my fingers.
“—in your prime. Fucking your way through every floor. I’m not trying to be another stop on your tour.”
His jaw tightened.
He shook his head hard, almost panicked.
“That’s not what this is, Dave. I swear. I don’t even know what it is yet. But…”
He swallowed.
“I don’t want you as just a hookup. You’re right — I’m not ready for something real. I’m not pretending I am. But maybe what I want is a mentor. Someone older. Someone who… who knows how to be what I’m trying to become.”
Then he said the word.
“A daddy.”
It hung between us.
Wrong. Too intimate. Too loaded.
My face must’ve shifted because he smiled — a small, knowing smile that said he enjoyed the reaction.
He leaned forward slightly, voice low.
“Maybe what I want is to be made into the kind of man you respect.”
That landed.
Hard.
No twink had ever said that to me before — not like that, not with that mix of earnestness and worship and barely-contained need.
I’d never thought about taking on a son.
A protégé.
A boy who wanted to be shaped, molded, hardened by my hand.
But his words lit something deep. A fuse.
I thought about it hard, “Maybe this could work,” I said finally. “Maybe.”
He didn’t hesitate.
Didn’t blink.
He moved.
Slow at first — sliding down from the chair onto his knees — but when he hit the floor, he crawled.
Crawled toward me like he was built for it.
Like he’d been waiting for permission to be on the ground beneath a man like me.
He settled between my legs and put a hand on my thigh, then on my crotch, thumb dragging over the bulge with an unsteady, electric reverence.
I kept smoking.
Said nothing.
Let him make his move.
He unbuckled my belt with slow, deliberate fingers.
Opened my jeans.
Freed my cock — thick, heavy, still smeared with the memory of this morning.
He wrapped one hand around the base, like he was holding something dangerous, and traced along the length with his thumb. Following every vein and contour.
Studying it.
Admiring it.
Almost reverent.
“It’s the first time I’ve seen it up close,” he whispered. “You always fuck me from behind.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“You like what you see?”
His lips curled — not a smirk, not a tease — but a smile full of devotion, hunger, and pure submission.
“Yes, Daddy.”
Then he leaned in.
Opened his mouth.
Wrapped those soft, pretty, reckless lips around the head of my cock.
And as he took the first slow inch of me into his throat, I leaned back, took another drag of my cigar, sipped my coffee, and thought:
This boy has no idea what he’s just signed up for.
This might be the start of something dangerous… and fun
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