Realizing I was the broody stranger lurking in the corner was a revelation. I used to wander the baths looking for a spark—waiting to be noticed. But now I knew: I was the spark. The man others hovered near, quiet and unsure, hoping I’d notice them.
It changed everything.
I started playing the part deliberately. Leather jacket, dark boots, cold stare. I let the mood build around me, nursing a beer as the horny sluts circled. They weren’t the bold type—these were the ones who didn’t flirt, didn’t speak, but couldn’t stop watching. I’d catch their glances from the shadows, their arousal practically humming in the air. And when they realized I’d seen them, really seen them—the fear, the desire—it lit something up in me.
It became a game. I’d pick them out, one or two a night. Whisper something low and commanding. “Is this going to happen?” I'd murmur into their ear, watching the way their lips parted, breath catching. They always knew what I meant. Sometimes they'd hesitate. More often, they’d nod, eyes wide, surrendering before the first touch.
I liked the chase, the control, the quiet hunger. We’d disappear into the darker parts of the club, or slip into alleys where danger added another pulse to the moment. I thrived on it—the shadows, the eyes watching, the silent crowd that followed my movements. I could feel their curiosity, their own desires swelling as I claimed another quiet soul. I craved the danger—the possibility of being caught, even watched. That tension was electric.
It didn’t take long before I noticed a few admirers trailing me. They’d picked up on my routine, recognized the role I played. The brooding stranger. The quiet threat. Every time I moved, they watched. Some followed. The power I felt from that presence—the gaze of others wanting to see what I’d do next—only pushed me further into the role. It turned me on more than I expected.
The shadows were mine. The eyes peeking from behind corners, the men stroking themselves in the dark, waiting for the show—they all fed the hunger. They weren’t just there for curiosity. They wanted to see it. To see me take someone. Hard. Without pretense or romance.
When I met my prey in an alley or stall, I’d pull the guy close, feel his breath catch as I grabbed the back of his neck. One long kiss—deep, forceful, commanding. I could feel him tense, feel the bulge grow in his jeans. That’s all the consent I needed. His lips would part, his tongue would meet mine, and I’d let him feel how serious I was. I didn’t need to sweet-talk him—I was already in control.
I’d spin him around, yank his pants down, run my hands along the curve of his back and whisper in his ear. I told him exactly what he was to me. No romance. No promises. Just a hole I was going to use. A hungry slut, an eager cunt. That degradation? It aroused most of them more than anything. They wanted to be reduced, needed to be claimed, used, handled.
My fingers would press inside first—slow, firm, stretching him out while I whispered filth in his ear. I made sure he was ready. I didn’t want hesitation; I wanted eagerness. Needed it. And when I felt that need pulsing through him, I’d press my cock against his hole, rub the head along it, teasing, slick with anticipation. Precum lubing up his hole.
I loved that first push. That stretch. That moment he gasped as I eased in, inch by inch. When I was buried deep, I’d pause, grip his hips, and ask: “You ready for this?” If he was—if he begged—I’d give him everything. I'd slam into him, rough and fast, pinning him against the wall, rocking him with every thrust. The echoes, the gasps, the crowd murmuring behind us—it all fueled me.
Sometimes the onlookers stroked themselves, whispering encouragement, telling me to take him harder. I didn’t need the motivation—but I liked it. I wanted the guy I was fucking to feel humiliated and wanted at the same time, to know he was being watched, used, desired.
Eventually, the pressure would build. I’d feel that surge and lean in close to his ear: “Where do you want it?” His answer decided the rest—whether I emptied myself deep inside him, or pulled out and let him swallow every drop while he stared up at me, eyes wide, tongue eager.
Either way, I’d finish with control. When it was over, I’d zip up, maybe light a smoke, and head back inside. Sometimes he’d follow me. Sometimes he wouldn’t. Either way was fine with me. This wasn’t about love. I wasn’t looking for a connection.
Each encounter was a performance, intense and unrelenting. I didn’t speak much. Just a growled command here, a whispered threat there, fingers trailing over tense backs and lips brushing trembling ears. I made sure they wanted it—needed it—before I gave it to them. Some of them begged. Some of them broke. But they always came back, eyes heavy, wanting more.
As the dark, brooding stranger, I’d finally learned how to wear that like armor—and like bait. This new side of me turned into something I fed off. I leaned into it hard, and the more I did, the darker I became. I stopped chasing and started letting them come to me—those shy little sluts, the faggots who couldn’t look me in the eye but still hovered, hoping I’d choose them.
I especially loved them when I was smoking. There was something so fucking masculine about having a cigar in my mouth while some faggot was on his knees choking on my cock. I’d puff slow, savoring the taste of tobacco while his lips wrapped around my dick, taking me deeper and deeper. I even would let him go at it under the bar table, just sitting there with my beer in one hand and cigar in the other, while the bartender poured me another round. He had no clue—or maybe he did. Maybe he wanted to be the one down there too.
The power of it all, being watched while this filthy little slut crawled under the seat and gagged on my cock, only made it better. Leather on my back, boots on the ground, a good cigar between my teeth, and some hungry faggot slobbering on my dick. It was everything.
It turned me into something else. A daddy. A scary motherfucker. And I liked it.
But Something was still missing
Because I knew—deep down—that this whole thing started because I used to be the one looking for a man like me. I wanted to be the boy used like a cumrag, fucked in the alley by some stranger with no name. I didn’t want to be the predator. I wanted to be the prey. I wanted to be the one with my knees scraped raw on the concrete while a real man held me down and spit in my mouth.
But that shit’s hard to find. Two broody fucks don’t connect easy. Too much staring, not enough movement. Too much pride.
If I was going to live that fantasy—really get it—I needed to find a man scarier than me. More dominant. More dangerous. A real trucker-type or biker daddy with a thick beard, heavy boots, cigar in his mouth, and a cock that didn’t ask, just took. But those guys are rare. I started haunting truck stops, biker bars, the kind of places where the air stinks of smoke and sweat and motor oil.
Sometimes they just wanted to talk. Saw something in me—some younger version of themselves. Thought we were the same.
But I didn’t want a fucking mentor.
I wanted a man who’d pull me into his cab, shove my face against the seat, and fuck me like a faggot. No talking. No questions. Just spit, grip, and cock. I wanted to be called a slut, a worthless cunt, to be broken open by someone mean enough to make me take it and like it. I wanted to feel used.
After trying a few truck stops and shady bars, it felt if I was never going to get the kind of man I really wanted—the one who'd fuck me like I neede. I’d decided maybe I would have to start hanging around biker bars. I already looked the part: leather jacket, tight pants, a few tattoos, and a cigar always hanging off my lip. Add a cap, keep my boots dusty, and I fit in just fine.
There was one bar I kept coming back to, out on the edge of the city. You wouldn’t find it by accident. It was the kind of place that looked uninviting to anyone who didn’t know better—half-hidden off a rural highway, no sign out front, just a steel door and the smell of beer and sweat leaking out from inside.
Step through that door, and the place hit you like a punch. Dim lights, long bar, scattered tables, and a haze of smoke from a dozen cigars. Leather everywhere—vests, jackets, chaps. These were real men. Rough, heavyset, muscled, sweating. Most had a beer in one hand and a cigar in the other. Nobody gave a fuck. No rules here.
You’d always find two types: the alphas, at the bar, and the watchers along the walls. The alphas looked like they'd just stepped off a Harley, and the ones who sat along the wall, the cock hungry sluts, all hoping one of the alphas would take notice. A hive of heat and hunger. And I loved it. My whole twisted sex life felt like it was finally walking out in flesh and leather.
That night, I pulled up in my black truck, parked around the side. As I walked up, I caught sight of a scene I have played out often already unfolding in the alley. A massive brute had some cute, young twink bent over—crop top riding high, ass out, moaning while the guy plowed him against the wall. I couldn’t tell who I wanted more—the bull doing the fucking, or the boy getting ruined. Either way, I knew tonight, I wanted in.
I stepped inside, ordered a beer, lit my cigar, and leaned back. Nothing hit quite like that first drag of thick smoke curling on my tongue. I could lose myself in it—let it slow everything down. One by one, other alpha guys would join me at the bar, striking up the usual talk: which sluts around us they already had, who gave the best head, who was too whiny to ride dick properly. It was all fun, but none of it got me closer to what I wanted.
Some of the young wallflowers—especially the ones I'd already used—would hover nearby, hoping I'd want a second round. A few bold ones even sat beside me, reminding me of the last time I'd bent them over a dumpster or choked them out behind the bar. I’d smile, buy them a drink, then let them down easy. "Not tonight," I’d say. "Looking for something else."
I was about to give up, another beer in hand, when he walked in.
He looked like trouble wrapped in leather. Six-two, broad as a doorframe, with a thick black beard and short cropped hair. His leather jacket barely held around his chest, his jeans stretched over an ass you could ride all night. The whole room shifted. He wasn’t just another biker—he was a fucking presence. You could tell he’d broken more men than he could count.
He took a seat at the end of the bar, lit a cigar, and when our eyes met, he gave me a single nod.
That was it. I was already sweating. My cock stirred as I tried to play it cool. Nodded back, took another drag, pretending I wasn’t dying to crawl to him like every slut in this place. But I didn’t want to be the dominant tonight. I didn’t want to be the guy doing the fucking.
Tonight, I wanted to be his cunt.
After a few exchanged glances, I made my move. Instead of sitting beside him, I stood along the wall—just like all those sluts had done with me. Let him watch me stand there in the shadows, beer in hand, waiting. He looked confused at first, then intrigued. I saw the moment he realized I wasn’t just another pup sniffing around.
He finally nodded for me to come closer.
I took the seat beside him. We both knew I wasn’t the usual prey. He looked at me, curious.
"What were you doing over there?"
I exhaled smoke, smirked. “You’re one hot motherfucker. I thought you might be tired of these soft boys. Figured maybe tonight, you wanted to be with a real man. Someone like me ”
He chuckled low, savoring it. “Usually I take one of those little sluts out back, get my cock r that's toI leaned in. “I suck cock better than any of those boys. Besides, my arse has not seen cock in so long it's tight as any virgin hole.”
His grin widened. “You think you can handle me?”
“No,” I said. “I know I can. But the real question is—can you fuck a real man? Or do you only break in boys?”
He nodded slowly. “Alright, motherfucker. You want to get fucked like a man, you’re gonna have to earn it. Let’s see what you got.”
We clinked our beers, stood, and left. As we walked out, I caught a few of the regular sluts looking disappointed. Two of their favorite tops just walked out together—and they weren’t getting either of us tonight.
We stepped out of the bar into the heavy dark. The glow from the doorway lit his broad back and that ass—packed into tight denim like it was poured on. My mouth watered thinking about burying my face in it. I knew I was getting wrecked tonight, but a part of me hoped I’d get to take a bite too.
He walked with that swagger only a man who rides a beast can pull off, and sure enough, there it was: a blacked-out Indian motorcycle. My cock twitched at the thought of him straddling it, thunder between his legs.
I pointed to my truck. “Might be easier if we take mine.”
He smirked. “That yours?”
“Yeah.”
He stepped closer. “Then let’s ride. Long as you bring me back here for a beer when we’re done.”
“Deal,” I said. “Better hope that it's open late otherwise we might be drinking the hair of the dog.”
He just grinned, climbed into the passenger seat, and pulled out a cigar. I watched him light it—slow, practiced. The way he held it between his teeth, the way he blew smoke—deliberate. Dominant. I breathed it in like incense.
“I like a man who smokes,” I said.
“Good,” he replied. “Because I like one who listens.”
He grinned, exhaled a thick plume in my direction, and let his hand drift onto my thigh. That casual dominance—like he was already inside me—set something off.
We didn’t talk much as I drove. His fingers grazed my crotch, slow and teasing, like he was just checking his property. Every now and then he’d squeeze. My cock pulsed, but I held it together.
When we pulled into the garage, I turned the engine off. “We’re here, let me show you to my room
He stepped out, looked around, and grinned. “Hold up. Nothing I like better than taking a filthy little slut right where he parks his ride.”
I stared at him, pulse hammering. “You think I’m just giving it up?”
He walked to the back, dropped the tailgate, and slapped it. “You already have. Now get the fuck up here.”
I climbed on. His cigar glowed in the dark. He stepped in close, blew smoke in my face, and kissed me—hard, deep, rough. I groaned against his lips, the taste of ash and want driving me mad.
“Turn around, bitch,” he growled.
I obeyed, my chest hitting the cab, knees wide on the bed. He ripped at my belt, tore at my jeans until the seams split. My underwear? Gone. He spat hard—thick and wet—and let it run down my crack. Then again. His fingers followed, slick and firm, working that spit into me with force.
“You ready to get split open, cunt?” he asked, voice low and dangerous.
“I’m not some hole you can fuck and forget,” I snarled. “You better earn this ass.”
He laughed darkly. “Oh, I’ll earn it. And you’ll fucking thank me.”
Another gob of spit. Then two fingers, then three. I hissed through my teeth—he was rough, relentless. But I took it. Wanted it.
He pulled out. “Time to find out how deep a slut like you can take it.”
And with that, he rammed his cock inside me—no warning, no mercy. He shoved the full eight inches all the way to the hilt. I cried out, half in pain, half in shock. He was huge. Thick. Buried to the root in one brutal thrust.
“Fuck!” I gasped, hands gripping the metal.
“You like that, whore?” he growled, starting to thrust. “That’s how a man ruins a hole.”
I bit down on a moan. It hurt—but fuck, it hurt good.
“You walk around like you’re some tough top,” he snarled, slamming into me, “but right now, you’re just a busted-out little cunt getting filled by a real man's cock. I'll show you how you should train those hungry sluts that hang around you”
I gritted my teeth. “Watch your mouth. I ain’t your bitch.”
He leaned over me, wrapped a fist in my shirt, and yanked me back. “You are tonight, cunt”
He hammered in deep, relentless. The bed rocked with every thrust, metal groaning. I was a wreck—but I gave it back, pushing, grinding, swearing. I wasn’t letting him have it easy, even if I was the one getting fucked.
“Come on, you fuckin’ manwhore,” I growled. “You think you’re breaking me? Better try harder.”
He laughed—pure, low filth. “Tight fucking ass for a loudmouth. You’re clenching like you need my cum.”
“Maybe I do,” I spat. “Fill me, you bastard. Make it stick.”
“Not yet,” he said, pulling out. “You want a load? Earn it.”
He flipped me, shoved his cock to my lips, and I opened wide. He face-fucked me without hesitation, choking me on every inch. I gagged, eyes watering—but I kept sucking. He tasted like sweat, smoke, and power.
“You look good like that,” he said. “All that attitude, and now you’re just a cum-hungry little cocksucker.”
I couldn’t answer. I just moaned around him, taking every brutal thrust. He held my head in place and started to twitch.
“Here it comes, slut. Open that fucking mouth of yours.”
I obeyed. He roared, and hot ropes of cum splattered my tongue, my lips, my throat. I swallowed as fast as I could, greedy for every drop. When I opened my mouth again, he shoved it back in, smearing it all over my tongue and face.
When he was done, he stepped back, panting, watching me lick him clean.
“So?” he asked. “That the kind of fucking you needed, you nasty little cunt?”
I wiped my mouth, took his cigar from his hand, dragged hard and stare him down hard.
“That’s exactly what I needed,” I said. “But don’t think we are done yet.”
He grinned. “You got more fight in you?”
I smirked, flicked ash off the cigar. “This thing ain’t over. Not even close.”
