Cock Drunk
The music fades away and the hall still glows from the last notes. My heart is still pounding to the rhythm of the bass, I can still feel the adrenaline rushing through my body. Milan gently lowers me off his shoulders and gives me a friendly pat on the back.
Rik immediately jumps up. “Wow! What a performance! I swear, that was the best concert ever.” He nudges me enthusiastically with his elbow. “But hey, we're not going home yet, right? Dorian knows a bar nearby. Good beer, good atmosphere. Are you coming?”
I'm still reeling from the energy of the concert when I feel Milan's gaze. “Do you want to go to the bar?” he asks. At the Home, I wouldn't even have to think about this kind of thing; the rules are clear there. But here, outside the walls, the hierarchy is looser. Here, I can decide for myself.
Rik looks at me expectantly. Dorian looks at me inquiringly, as if he's genuinely interested in what I decide.
“Yes,” I say. “Let's go.”
Milan nods, his smile widening. “Great.” He briefly puts his hand on my shoulder before turning to the rest of the group. “Café het Noorderlicht, right?”
Dorian nods slowly. “Exactly. Time to toast.”
I feel an excitement that has nothing to do with the concert. This feels different. Freer and more exciting.
The café is warm, filled with the buzz of voices and the clinking of glasses. The atmosphere is more relaxed, the beer flows freely. All around me, I see boundaries blurring. Under the influence of alcohol, the submissive boys seem to feel freer. They casually lean against their Dominants, let their touches linger a little too long... let their eyes roam provocatively over their tight pants.
Rik is the worst. He's half leaning against Dorian, giggling. “Sir Dorian,” he sighs theatrically, “you're far too handsome to look so serious.”
Dorian shakes his head amusedly. “Is that so?”
Rik nods exaggeratedly and takes a sip of his beer. “Mmm-hmm. I wish you would rein me in sometime.”
Dorian's mouth twists into a dominant grin. “You've got a big mouth for someone who risks a burning ass tomorrow.”
Rik giggles. “Maybe that's exactly what I want.”
The others laugh and toast, but I remain quiet. My body feels warm, but I don't know if it's from the alcohol or from the presence next to me. Milan.
He sits there relaxed, his legs wide, his posture casually confident. His tight leather pants outline his muscular thighs and... Balder. I try to look away, but it's too late. My gaze lingers. The leather is tight, and I feel my breathing quicken.
Dorian sees it. His eyes sparkle playfully as he leans back and brings his glass to his lips. “Nice view, Jelte?”
I feel caught and tear my gaze away, feeling my cheeks burn. Fuck.
The other guys look up, a few grinning, others with a curious gleam in their eyes. Milan himself doesn't move, but I feel him slowly turning his head, his gaze now fixed on me.
“What?” I mumble, trying to sound casual.
Dorian raises an eyebrow, amusement in his voice. “You were rather... fixated on Milan's family jewels.”
My mouth goes dry. I grip my glass tightly. “I wasn't looking at anything.”
Dorian's lips curl up slightly. “Of course not.”
Milan takes a leisurely sip of beer and leans back a little further. His legs spread even wider. I swear he's doing this on purpose. His eyes light up, just enough to let me know he's already figured everything out. He doesn't say anything. But his eyes say it all.
I bite my lip and force myself to focus on my beer. The conversations around me pick up again, but I feel the heat on my chest. I know Dorian saw it. I know Milan knows.
I can't get it out of my head. I don't dare anymore, but I can't stop my gaze from drifting back to Milan's crotch. Where his private parts are now obscenely and enticingly bulging beneath the leather..
“Do you feel like trying something different?” His voice is calm, warm, but tinged with an underlying message. It's not a question about drinks or a new experience in a bar. It's an invitation.
I swallow. The rest of the group is too busy with each other to notice us. This is between Milan and me.
I know I can't avoid this moment. And I also know that I don't want to avoid it. “Yes.” My voice is firm, faster than I expected.
------
The streets are quieter now. The buzz of the café fades behind us, but the warmth lingers in my body. Perhaps it's not just the warmth of the alcohol.
Milan walks relaxed beside me, his hands in his pockets, as if this were just another night. As if he hasn't been controlling me all evening without saying a word too much.
“Where are we going?” I ask, my voice not as confident as I would like it to be.
“The Leather Inn,” he says calmly. “A place where you can experience something different.”
My breath catches for a moment. My skin tingles. “What do you mean?”
Milan slows his pace. He turns toward me and looks at me. “You're the one who said ‘yes,’ Jelte,” he says calmly. “So I want you to know where you're going.”
I swallow. Balder.
Milan's voice remains controlled, his tone as patient as it has been all evening. “The dynamics are different in there. You'll feel it as soon as you walk in. You'll feel what it's like to be in a place where you can stop thinking and just be.” He pauses briefly.
“It's a place where dominant men are dominant and the submissive boys are submissive. Just like in the Home.” He is silent for a moment.
“But it's different from the Home. It's freer, more sensual. Submissive boys there are not afraid to openly serve their Dominant.”
Milan's hand moves gently to my neck, not forcing, just there. His thumb slides briefly along my cheek, warm against my skin. “I think you'd like to be there. But it's your choice,” he says. “I won't force you into anything.”
My head was already spinning, but this makes me even dizzier.
“When we get there,” he continues, “you can decide for yourself how far you want to go.”
He doesn't mention cock sucking. Nothing explicit. But I know what he’s really saying. I feel the excitement and anticipation. I know I can still say that this is too much for me. But that's not what I want. I lick my lips. I know what this means; what I’m going to do. I nod. “Yes.”
Milan smiles. An approving nod.
His fingers rest against my skin for a moment, as confirmation. “Great, let's go there then.” He lowers his hand and walks on, as if nothing has happened. As if he hasn’t spent the whole evening guiding me to this moment.
I have no idea what awaits me behind that door. But Balder, I want to know.
------
The door closes behind us and the world feels different. Not like the café. Not like the Home.
This is something in between, with a meaning I cannot yet interpret. My first instinct is to act big, keep my back straight, control my breathing. But I feel it immediately. I stand out here. Not because I'm staring, although I probably am, but because I don't yet know how to behave here.
Milan's hand on my neck is the only constant. Warm, firm, present.
I want to say something to him, ask him something, but then my attention is diverted from us.
“Good evening, gentlemen.” A man appears in front of us. Not too old, maybe in his thirties, sharply dressed. He exudes something I can't quite place, not dominance like Milan, not indifference, but a certain authority.
Milan nods briefly to him. “Good evening.” His voice is relaxed, but I can see in his posture that he recognizes this man as someone who has a role here.
“Your first time here?” the man asks, and I immediately notice that the question is directed at me.
I nod briefly in confirmation.
The man smiles slightly. “Welcome to The Leather Inn.” His gaze shifts briefly to Milan and then back to me. “I assume you are aware that the customs here are different from those in other bars?”
I feel nervous, but I nod. “Yes... I think so?”
The man nods slowly. “Excellent. In that case, I will show you to a suitable place.” He gestures, and Milan moves relaxed. I follow automatically.
As we walk between the leather couches and dimly lit tables, I begin to see it. Submissive boys are different here than at the Home. Their demeanor is just as respectful, but the atmosphere is freer. Or no. Not freer. More liberated. I see how they surrender themselves. Physically.
At a table in the corner, I see a boy sitting on the floor next to his Dominant, his head resting against his thigh. The Dominant is talking quietly to someone else, his fingers playing casually through the boy's hair.
A little further on, I gasp for breath, I see a submissive boy on his knees in front of a Dominant. He is sucking him off. Without any hesitation. His head moves in a calm, devoted rhythm. His Dominant doesn't even look directly at him, leaning back with a glass in his hand, relaxed, as if this is the most normal thing in the world.
I feel my face burning. My whole body tenses up. It's not disgust, not fear. More like a heavy feeling. Like a promise to me personally. I don't want to stare, but the image sticks in my head.
Milan walks on calmly. He sees what I see. He says nothing.
The man accompanying us slows down slightly, as if giving me time to take it all in. Then he turns slightly toward me. His smile is still polite, but I sense the underlying message. “It is customary here for Dominants to sit comfortably. And for the submissive boys to be at their feet.”
Milan raises an eyebrow, looking slightly amused. He seems to be waiting for my reaction. He gives me the opportunity to draw a line.
But I don't draw a line. I nod. “I understand.” My voice sounds flatter than I would like.
The man smiles again and gestures to a more spacious lounge area, shielded from the direct gaze of others, but still part of the room. “Then I suggest you take a seat here,” he says specifically to Milan.
Milan nods briefly and takes his place on the couch. His posture doesn't change. Broad, relaxed, his arm loosely resting on the armrest. As if he has sat here a hundred times before.
My place is not on the sofa. I know that. My place is at his feet. This time... there is no game. No grin from Milan, no playful teasing. This is how it should be here.
The lounge area feels intimate, but not private. We are shielded from direct gaze, but I know that Milan and I are still visible. This is not a hidden space. This is a place where people see how things are.
Milan picks up the menu. Not for me. For himself. I'm not the one who decides here.
A waiter appears, the same staff member as before. He doesn't even really look at me. Not out of disrespect, but because that's how it's done here. “What can I get you, sir?”
Milan calmly scans the menu. No hurry. “A whiskey for me,” he finally says. “And...” His eyes drift to me, but not as a question. “A Midnight Passion for him.”
I frown briefly. I've never had that before. I want to ask what it is, but I know I won't.
The waiter nods, writes it down, and disappears. Milan decides what I'm drinking. And I have no idea what he just ordered for me. My gaze wanders to the bar, where I see the cocktails being poured, stirred, garnished. When I look closer, I see it. Fuck. That straw. Long, pink, and unmistakably shaped like a dick.
I can't stop looking as the bartender places the straw in the glass without hesitation, lightly touching the rim of the drink. The implication is clear.
The waiter returns and places the glasses in front of us. “Here you are, sir.” His voice is polite, unemotional. As if this is the most normal thing in the world.
Milan picks up his whiskey, tilts the glass slightly, and takes a slow sip. He doesn't look at me right away. He lets me simmer.
My fingers tap hesitantly against the glass. But I can't refuse. Not because Milan would force me, but because it wouldn't be appropriate here. I could just drink it without a straw. But that's cowardly. I can feel Milan's eyes on me now. He's waiting.
My lips part slowly and I let the straw slide between them. My tongue touches the rim. I take a sip. The sweet cocktail mixes with the humiliation. I want to hate how this feels. But I don't hate it.
Milan's voice breaks the silence. “It suits you well.”
My fingers tighten around the glass. I don't know if I want to respond.
Milan puts down his whiskey. His hand slowly moves toward my jaw. His thumb brushes my lower lip. He presses against my skin for a moment, pushing the straw a little further between my lips.
My balls tighten. Fuck.
“Would you like something else in your mouth?”
I almost choke. I look up. His gaze is calm, controlled. But I see it. This is his invitation. This is the moment. The air feels heavy. My whole body is pulsing with excitement.
I know what's normal here. I know what I want. I lick my lips. The taste of the cocktail mixes with the anticipation. My voice is softer than I mean it to be. “Yes.”
Milan smiles. Approving. His fingers brush my cheek again. “Good boy.”
I put down the glass. I know this is a moment I will never forget. Slowly, I turn around and kneel between his legs. I feel the warmth of his thighs. His scent hits me.
Milan doesn't move. His hands rest on the armrests of the chair, he is giving me all the space I need to decide for myself. But I know better. For me, there is no longer a free choice. I want this. I need this. He waits. Watches. Guides without guiding.
My fingers slide over the leather of his pants. Warm, smooth, and tight enough to let me feel everything. The hard shape beneath the surface leaves nothing to the imagination. Saliva is already gathering in my mouth. The rest of my body feels overheated.
I swallow and lower my head. Forward, until my lips touch the edge of his pants, just above the zipper. I hear Milan moan softly. A small sign of satisfaction. He already knew I would do this.
Slowly, carefully, I unzip his pants. The smell of leather mixes with the raw, masculine musk of a Dominant boy who has been locked up in those pants all day. My fingers are now sure of their business. When his zipper slides down, there is no doubt about how hard he is. My breath catches. My tongue brushes my lower lip. I feel him subtly tilt his hips, bringing himself just a little closer to me.
“Careful,” he murmurs. Not a warning. A guideline.
My fingers wrap around his shaft, warm and heavy. But the leather of his pants is in the way. I run into a banal, almost frustrating practical problem: Milan is too big for the length of his fly. I hesitate briefly, feeling the restriction of the leather. Milan smiles, amused. He puts down his whisky, his movement effortless and controlled. With a calm gesture, he undoes the button of his pants, lifts his hips slightly and slides his trousers down just enough. His balls are exposed, clean-shaven, unashamed.
I almost drool. My fingers tighten slightly around the shaft. Now he is all mine, his cock, warm and thick in my hand. My mouth is dry and wet at the same time, my saliva gathering on my tongue, waiting for the moment I taste him.
My lips open, and I let his glans slowly slide over my tongue. The first touch sends a wave of heat through my body. His skin is warm, his taste a mixture of salty and sweet. The taste of Milan. My cheeks hollow, I suck gently. My tongue circles the edge of his glans, a first tribute.
Milan breathes out deeply. His hand rests in my hair, not forcing, but guiding. A guideline, like everything about him. My head moves slowly up and down, my lips sliding further along his shaft. My saliva makes everything wet and shiny.
My body trembles with excitement, but I already know I won't get anything. This isn't about me. This is service. This is the moment when I exist to please him.
His fingers in my hair tense briefly. “Slowly,” he murmurs. “Feel it.”
My stomach tightens at the words. I obey. I slow down, take him slower, deeper. My tongue slides along the underside of his shaft, feeling the subtle pulsations in his veins. My chin almost touches his balls before I pull back, enveloping him again with my mouth.
I disappear into the act, into the heat of his skin and the rhythm he dictates. His moans are low and controlled, but I feel his thighs tense occasionally. He is enjoying himself. He is in control.
I squeeze my thighs together, my own horniness tortures me. My cock is painfully hard in my pants, the pressure unbearable. My hand automatically reaches for the fly of my pants, seeking relief, but just as my fingers touch my pants, I feel it.
“No.” Milan's voice is soft but unwavering. His boot presses against my wrist, not hard, but with enough authority to make me freeze immediately. “Serve me.”
My cock throbs painfully in my pants. My head is spinning. I want to beg Milan for permission to touch myself. But I freeze under his grip. I don't know why he's denying me this. Why he's forcing me to stay in this torture. Maybe I do know. Not in words. But somewhere deep inside me. An unpleasant, intangible memory tickles the edge of my consciousness. The feeling after an orgasm. The emptiness. The panic. The disgust.
To distract myself from my own painfully throbbing cock, I take Milan deep into my throat. I stay still and breathe through my nose, enjoying the feeling of the pulsating cock in my mouth and throat. I swallow a few times to stimulate Milan. It works, he moans approvingly.
A glance. My cheeks glow. My eyes flash open, and I see the shadow of someone at the bar. A dominant man, slightly older than Milan, with a whiskey glass in his hand. His gaze is calm, neutral—not disapproving, not hungry. Just observing.
I want to hide, press my head deeper into Milan's lap, but I know that's pointless. This is a place where submissive boys serve their Dominants. This is normal here. This is what happens.
Milan notices my hesitation. His grip on my hair tightens, just a little more than before. A subtle confirmation. *You're here. Stay here.*
My breath catches. I swallow, feel his glans briefly against my palate before I go deeper again. The observer doesn't move. A moment later, the presence of a second boy feels different. Submissive energy. My gaze flits to the side, briefly.
Another boy. Kneeling. His head rests against the thigh of a Dominant, his gaze briefly meeting mine. His lips are slightly parted, his cheeks as red as mine. He knows what I'm feeling. My own excitement grows, my head a whirlwind of shame and lust.
Milan's hand relaxes slightly. He knows. He let this happen.
I suck harder, ignoring everything but him. I surrender. My own body burns with pent-up frustration, but He is all that matters.
My tongue plays over the shaft as my head moves faster, my saliva dripping down my chin. Milan's breathing is slower, heavier. His thighs tense. I feel it coming.
His grip tightens, he guides me one more time. Until he comes, warm, salty, abundant. His orgasm fills my mouth, and I swallow without hesitation. I pant. My head is empty and full at the same time. My own arousal is hellish torture, but I know I won't get anything. I'm not allowed to.
Milan relaxes. His grip on my hair loosens. His breathing slows. His body feels languid and satisfied. He's done. I'm not. I pant. My own arousal pounds in my body, painful and unresolved. My head is foggy, my mouth still wet from him. I wait. But Milan does nothing. No acknowledgment of my frustration. No caress, no reward. Only the sound of his whiskey glass being picked up again. A long, slow sip.
Then he looks down at me with a faint smile. He casually wipes his thumb across my chin, catches a stray drop, and brings it to my lips. “Want some more?”
His tone is light, almost playful. I know he's teasing me, rubbing my desire in my face. But it doesn't matter. My throat still burns with his taste. My body trembles. I want more...
I nod. My lips tingle. My gaze drifts away for a moment. The boy who was looking at me earlier has moved closer to his Dominant. His eyes shine in the twilight. A soft, barely noticeable smile plays around his lips. He knows what I'm feeling.
And Balder, it's unbearable.
------
Milan has ordered a taxi and we are going back to the Home. I have mixed feelings. It has been a fantastic day. I enjoyed the restaurant, the concert... But I am still sitting in the back of the taxi with a throbbing dick in my too-tight pants. Milan is sitting completely relaxed in the passenger seat.
When we walk into the home, I realize how exhausted I am. I just want to go to bed as soon as possible and solve the pressing problem in my pants. But if only life were that simple... Further down the hall, Ivar is leaning casually against the wall.
The last thing I need right now is to run into Ivar. My whole body is overheated, my head a whirlwind of everything that happened tonight. But Ivar? Ivar is a force of nature. And he sees things. He always sees things.
His gaze scans over me and lingers just a little too long on my pants. A knowing smile plays around his mouth. “Well, well,” he murmurs. “Milan took you out for a test drive, huh?”
Can't that guy ever leave me alone?
Milan stops next to me and smiles softly. “Jelte had an exciting evening,” he says dryly.
Ivar's eyes linger on my mouth just a little too long. His grin becomes more calculated, and I can feel the comment coming before he opens his mouth.
“For fuck's sake, Jelte,” he says with his usual mockery. “You had something tasty between those lips last night, didn't you?”
“Fuck off, Ivar.”
But he's not done yet. “No, really, look at yourself.” He taps my lower lip with his index finger. Not hard, but just enough to make my blood boil. “Swollen, a little red... A mouth that knows how to suck a cock.” His eyes twinkle falsely. “Milan, boy, he didn't choke on that monster of yours, did he?”
My stomach clenches. “Shut up.”
Ivar laughs playfully, shamelessly enjoying himself. “What? Modest as always, Jelte?” He leans toward me and whispers, “Or are you afraid that if you open your mouth again, you'll automatically drop to your knees?”
I want to say something back, something sharp, but Milan suddenly moves. His voice is low, lazy, but with an undertone that makes me shiver. “Jelte behaved very well last night.”
My stomach tightens even more, with shame, with anger.
Ivar lets out a snorting laugh and looks at Milan amused. “I'll believe that. Look at him.” He lifts his chin and nods toward my mouth. “A cock suckers mouth to be proud of.”
Milan looks at me approvingly. His eyes sparkle. “He sure has.”
My ears are ringing. “Fuck you both,” I growl, and I pull my head away from Milan's fingers. He just lets it happen. He knows he's already won.
Ivar lets his gaze slide over me once more. This time not mockingly, but appraisingly, analyzing. He turns to Milan. “Can I borrow him for a moment?”
I freeze. “What?”
Milan raises an eyebrow, and I see the amusement in his eyes. He already knows where this is going. “What are you going to do to him?”
Ivar puts on a quasi-innocent face. “Oh, just give him some perspective. Jelte has worked himself up unnecessarily.” His gaze returns to me, his eyes a fraction sharper. “And that's entirely his own fault.”
“Fuck off, Ivar.”
But Milan smiles softly. “Go ahead.”
I shoot him an angry look. “Seriously?”
Milan puts a hand on my shoulder. His grip is firm, compelling. “You brought this on yourself. Ivar is going to explain that to you.”
I want to protest, but Ivar already has me by the arm and drags me, without much effort, into the hallway. “Come on, prince,” he mutters amusedly. “A little private lesson in cause and effect.”
------
Ivar pushes me into a small, locked room, clicks the lock behind him, and only then turns to face me. His posture is relaxed, but his eyes are sharp. “Okay,” he says. “Let's talk about your little tantrum.”
I immediately brace myself. “Milan was a jerk.”
Ivar shakes his head with a mocking smile. “No, Milan was smart. You're the one who got yourself into this mess.”
“Fuck off.”
But he's already moved closer. His voice lowers, becomes more serious. “You needed this. And Milan knew it. If he had let you cum, you would have done the same thing you did with Kasper. Panic. Disgust. Self-loathing. I bet you would have wanted to wash yourself right away. As if that could erase what you just did with such eagerness.”
I involuntarily take a deep breath.
“But look how you feel now. Frustrated, wound up, yes. But you're not panicking. You're not disgusted with yourself. Milan has kept you exactly where you need to be: damn clear about what you really want.”
I turn my head away, the anger swirling in my chest. “Milan lets me fall in his trap first, and then that sadistic bastard lets me stew in my own horniness.”
Ivar's gaze is unyielding. “You know damn well that you've been craving this for a long time. You know what you need. You know what you want. You just don't want to admit it.”
My breathing quickens. “That's not true.”
“Don't lie to yourself,” Ivar's voice is mercilessly calm. “You've known it all along.”
Before I can react, he grabs my wrist. He pulls my pants off my ass in one swift motion and throws me over his knee without any effort.
“What the fuck?!” I struggle, trying to wriggle free, but he holds me firmly in place. “Stop, Ivar! You can't just...”
SMACK.
The first blow lands squarely on my bare ass. My whole body stiffens.
“I can, Jelte.” Ivar's voice is calm, controlled, but unyielding. “You asked Haukon yourself if I could spank you when I think it's necessary.”
SMACK
“And now you need this.”
SMACK. A third blow, this time slightly lower, perfectly measured. The heat spreads immediately across my buttocks.
“Feel that?” Ivar asks calmly, holding my buttocks firmly in place. “Feel how this clears your head?”
I pant, my hands clenching his pants. “Fuck off.” But my voice lacks strength.
SMACK. SMACK. SMACK.
Each blow is as hard as it is precise. No anger. No chaos. A methodical rhythm, intended to push me through something.
“You're angry at yourself, not at Milan.” SMACK. “You know he sees through you, and that makes you furious.” SMACK. “And you know I'm right.” SMACK.
My muscles tense with every blow, but the knot in my stomach begins to loosen. The frustration slowly seeps out of my body.
PATS. PATS. PATS.
My breathing becomes heavier. My head is still resisting, but my body... my body has long since let go.
PATS. PATS. PATS.
Ivar's discipline is firm and unyielding, my butt burns like hell.
Ivar slows down and rests his hand on my buttocks for a moment. He sighs, long and theatrical, like a teacher ending a hopeless lesson. “The problem with you, Jelte, is not that you don't know what you want.” His voice is low, almost casual. “The problem is that you fucking know, and you fight it like it'll change something.”
I squirm my ass in a futile attempt to get away from his hands. “Fuck. You.”
SMACK SMACK
“Ow! Ivar, you bastard!”
Ivar laughs softly and rubs his warm hand over my burning ass. “Oh no, boy. I'm letting you feel this hard.” His thumb presses briefly into the burning flesh. “And you're going to walk around for the next few days with the burning memory in your ass that you're the only one fighting this fight.”
He leans a little closer to me, and I feel his breath against my ear as he whispers, “You can lie to yourself, Jelte. But your body betrays you.”
SMACK. A hard, sharp slap, right on the most sensitive spot.
“You’re just a horny slut, Jelte. Too damn proud to admit you want to be owned by a strict Dominant.”
My breathing falters. My buttocks burn with a sharp pain. My whole body is heated, not just from the spanking.
Ivar slides his hand over my back one more time, almost comfortingly. “There. Reset complete.”
He lifts me up effortlessly and lets me stand. My legs feel weak, my head dizzy. My whole body feels light and heavy at the same time.
Ivar looks at me with satisfaction and winks. “No need to thank me, slut. Just remember who got you out of your head.”
I give him a deadly look, but we both know how the cards are dealt.
