I was heading over to my boy. Pulled into his driveway in my big black Ford pickup, engine rumbling low like it knew exactly why we were here. I climbed out of the cab, leather jacket hanging loose over my chest, black tee stretched tight across the muscle underneath. The crunch of my cowboy boots on gravel masked the faint rasp of denim as my thick thighs brushed with every step.
The door wasn’t locked. It never was. I walked straight in, down the stairs to the basement.
He was ready—exactly how he should be. Leather harness framing his pumped chest, jockstrap soaked in his own juice, cigar smoldering between his fingers. Sweat glistening over his muscles. Sitting there like he belonged, waiting for me.
The air was heavy—smoke, sweat, and the faint tang of piss. My boots hit the concrete floor with sharp, echoing steps, aviators still hiding my eyes. His silver gaze snapped to me, hunger already burning.
I took the cigar from him without a word, drew deep, let the smoke burn my lungs. My hand sank into his hair, holding him there. He didn’t move. Just stared up, breathing faster, waiting for my next move.
When we first met online, I’d pegged him as the alpha type—built like a god in his early sixties, tattoos, thick grey beard, eyes that could cut glass. But it didn’t take long to see the truth. He didn’t want control. He wanted to surrender it. To me.
That thought alone had me hard for weeks. The idea of making this silver-daddy muscle beast kneel, making him mine, breaking him down until all that was left was my boy.
The collar around his neck wasn’t just decoration. It was proof. My lock. My mark.
I hooked my fingers through it and yanked him forward, close enough to share my breath. Another drag from the cigar, then I blew the smoke straight into his face. He grinned through it, eyes half-lidded, soaking in the control.
I kissed him—deep, filthy, tongue pushing into him, forcing him to take it. He moaned into the smoke, his mouth clinging to mine while my grip on his collar kept him right where I wanted him.
When I pulled back, he stayed there, kneeling, eyes locked on me like I was the only thing in the world. I stepped closer, my bulge brushing his face.
He leaned in slow, breathing me in—heat, leather, denim. His stare pinned to my crotch as it swelled against the fabric.
“Can I touch it?” he whispered.
I gave a slow nod, cigar hanging from my lips. His grin turned wicked.
His hands traced the length of my bulge, making it throb under his touch, then his tongue slid out, licking along the seam. He was starving for it. I could feel the need radiating off him, every muscle coiled tight with want.
But I wasn’t giving in. Not yet. He needed to ache for it.
“Get up,” I ordered. His head snapped up, confusion flashing across his face.
I slid my jacket back on, flicked ash to the floor. “We’re going out. You’re mine, and tonight the world’s gonna see it.”
His hesitation lasted only a second before that hunger shifted—different now. He knew what it meant. This wasn’t just a scene. This was public. This was me showing him off.
“Vest on. Just the vest. Chaps, jockstrap. Nothing else.”
He nodded, obedient. I grabbed his collar, hauling him toward the front door, pressing in behind him so my cock ground into his back through the leather.
“You’ll be a good boy, won’t you?” I murmured in his ear.
He smiled.
We climbed into my truck, my cigar hanging from my lips. He sat as a passenger, his hand resting on my crotch the whole ride—stroking, gripping, worshipping me in silence.
The bar wasn’t far. His favorite spot. A leather joint, packed with the kind of men who knew him. Muscled, older, respected. But tonight, things had changed.
We walked in.
Every head turned.
People saw him first—tall, jacked, wrapped in leather—but they noticed something different. The swagger wasn’t his anymore. It was mine. He wasn’t leading. He was following. And when they looked at me—leathered up, boots stomping, bulge heavy in my jeans—they understood.
He was owned.
I took a seat at the bar, legs spread wide, cock on display. Ordered myself a whiskey. Got him a beer. Then, without hesitation, I grabbed his collar and pulled him in hard, locking lips, forcing the kiss so everyone could see. It wasn’t tender—it was possession. It was claiming.
Eyes watched, jaws dropped.
When I let him go, he stayed standing by my side, waiting silently, needing my signal. I sipped my drink. He did the same.
My hand dropped to his ass—slid down those chaps, fingers massaging his exposed hole. His eyes fluttered. His knees buckled. The crowd watched, their curiosity turning into raw lust.
They knew now. This muscle god? This beast of a man? He was mine.
His friends started to come over—nervous, curious, aroused. Guys who used to talk to him like an equal now glanced at me first. They introduced themselves, pretending at small talk, but I saw the way they looked—at him, at me, at the tension.
And he? He kept looking at me, silently begging for approval to engage his friends. Wanting to serve.
I’d occasionally tug him close by the collar, kiss him deep again—just to remind everyone who he belonged to. The air was thick with heat, with unspoken want. I couldn’t tell what turned them on more—the idea of fucking him, or being him.
A few got bolder. Their hands slid over his ass, fingers tracing his crack. I didn’t stop them. I watched.
I watched him tremble with arousal. Watched him fall deeper under. He was gone—drowning in the attention, in the humiliation, in the pride of being mine.
He was in heaven.
The room was caught in it—hooked on the power play, the tension between us. Guys stared me down like they were begging for a shot, a signal, anything that gave them permission to join in.
But I just smiled.
This night was about me and him.
Every time things got too heated—hands getting too bold, touches lingering too long—I stepped in, pulled him close, reclaimed him.
I didn’t have to say a word.
Eventually, I lit a fresh cigar—despite the no-smoking sign. No one said a damn thing. They just watched. Watched him kneel between my legs, eyes locked on me, knowing exactly what that cigar meant.
We were getting close to heading home.
More men gathered—trying to flirt, to talk, trying to get in. But I wasn’t having it.
They could look. They could want.
But they’d never have him.
This muscle god—the one they all used to worship—was mine now. Owned. Collared. And soon, taken.
Before we left, I wanted to give the boys at the bar a show. Let them see exactly what this muscle god was to me—and what was going to happen the second we got home.
I grabbed him by the collar, pulled him in so he stood between my legs while I sat back at the bar. He looked down at me, obedient, breath shallow, waiting.
I took a long, slow drag on my cigar.
Then I pulled him down by the collar, lips just inches from mine. I exhaled—blowing thick smoke into his open mouth. He sucked it down like it was my cock. Like he needed it to breathe.
Another tug on the collar brought him to his knees.
Right there in the middle of the bar.
He looked up at me, eyes on fire, hands rubbing along the bulge in my jeans, mouth begging. But I wasn’t giving him cock—not yet.
Instead, I spat on my boot.
And he knew.
He dropped his head, tongue out, and started lapping it up, dragging his mouth along the leather, licking and cleaning like the good fuckpet he was.
His ass stuck up high behind him—on display. Submission carved into every muscle.
The room watched.
I took another puff of the cigar and let my free hand roam over his backside. I spread his cheeks, slow and deliberate, giving the crowd a clear look at what was waiting for me later. His hole twitched under my fingers.
He kept licking. Worshiping my boot like it was holy.
And the crowd? They were locked in. Hungry.
I grabbed the collar again and pulled him back up—set him on my thigh like he belonged there. His ass rested on my knee, my hand gripping tight as I kept smoking, looking around the bar.
I drained my whiskey. Tapped ash from the cigar.
Then stood.
Still holding his collar, I dragged him behind me to the exit. The bar parted like a wave—every man’s eyes fixed on us, watching, knowing. Thinking about what was coming.
Out at my truck, he leaned against the passenger door, watching me with that raw, impatient hunger. I could see it in his eyes — he needed it now. I took the cigar from my lips, grabbed him by the arm, and hauled him to the back of the truck. The tailgate dropped with a clang. I climbed in, spreading my legs wide, leaning back, cigar lit and glowing in the dark, body relaxed but dangerous. I looked like I owned the fucking night.
“Go on,” I said. “You’ve earned a treat.”
He dropped to his knees immediately. He knew what that meant.
His hands were shaking as he unzipped my jeans and pulled out my thick, hard 8-inch cock—already dripping with precum.
And then he went to work.
Fast. Desperate. Like he hadn’t eaten in days and my cock was his only meal.
His saliva soaked me—dripping down the shaft, pooling in my lap, running to my balls. He licked it all back up like a starving dog, tongue swirling, throat opening, eyes locked on mine.
He was possessed.
From the corner of my vision, I caught the bar’s doorway — a few of the boys had stepped outside to watch. I let them. Let them see my hand in his hair, my boots braced on the tailgate, cigar smoke drifting over his head while he worked me like a man possessed.
I leaned back, thick gar between my teeth, legs wide. A fucking spectacle.
Their eyes weren’t on him.
They were on me.
On the man getting serviced like a boss.
I was close. Too close. But I wasn’t ready to let go. Not here. Not yet.
He was still catching his breath, mouth wet from the work he’d been doing on me, when I put a hand to his chest and eased him back from my cock.
“That’s enough,” I said, voice low. “For now.”
His eyes flashed with that hungry, desperate look, but he stayed where I told him. I slid off the tailgate, boots hitting the dirt, and pointed down.
“Clean them.”
He dropped instantly, head lowering, tongue tracing the leather from heel to toe. The grit from the lot crunched faintly under his knees as he worked. I stood over him, my cigar clamped between my teeth, one hand cupping my balls, watching the way his shoulders moved with each long lick.
The boys at the bar door were still watching, the night air full of the scent of smoke and whiskey. I tapped ash onto the ground beside him, not caring that he saw it. He just kept polishing, licking, sucking at the damp spot where I’d spat earlier until both boots shone under the parking lot lights.
When he was done, I hooked my toe under his chin and forced his gaze up to mine. I leaned in, then hocked up a large ball of saliva and spat it in his open mouth. He swallowed it like it was gospel.
I kept him kneeling there, head resting lightly against my thigh, not touching, not moving—just knowing he was mine until I was ready to take him home and finish what I’d started.
I tucked myself back in, zipped up, stood tall.
He stepped aside while I opened the door for him. He climbed into the passenger seat, obedient.
I walked around, climbed in behind the wheel, cigar still burning, window down.
And as we pulled away, I gave a slow wave to the men outside the bar—every one of them still staring, wondering what it would be like to be him.
Or to serve me.
The drive back was slow and deliberate.
The boy couldn’t keep his hands off me. One palm on my thigh, the other brushing my cock through my jeans, over and over. I’d let him stroke for a few seconds, then remove his hand, just to watch the need burn hotter in his eyes.
Every now and then I’d catch him staring at me while I drove—cigar between my lips, smoke rolling from my mouth—like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to fuck me or worship me.
I wanted him starving by the time we got home.
When I pulled into his driveway, I took a long final draw on my cigar and threw it aside. I grabbed his collar, yanked him in close, and exhaled thick smoke into his face. Then I kissed him hard—tongue deep, hand tight on the collar, choking him just enough to make him gasp as he sucked the smoke from my mouth.
His cock was like a steel rod pressing against me. I slid my hand down, cupped him through the leather, made him moan loud enough for the neighbors to hear.
I got out of the truck first. He followed slowly—partly because his erection made it hard to walk, partly because he knew exactly where this was headed.
Inside, I sat down in his big leather chair, legs spread, bulge front and center. He went to drop to his knees instantly, but I stopped him with a raised hand.
“Not yet, boy. Daddy needs a drink… and a cigar.”
He got it. Whiskey—large pour, ice. Then he went to the drawer and pulled out the monster—an 80-ring lunatic stick. That was his signal. That meant he wanted to be worked over.
He placed the drink on the table beside me, slid the cigar between my lips, and lit it. I took my time with that first drag, filling my lungs before blowing the smoke straight into his face. He held the lighter longer than he needed to—like he was getting off on the flame, the heat, the ritual.
I hooked a finger into his jockstrap, tugged him close. Felt the thick, leaking heat of his cock pressing into my palm. His leather was warm against my tongue as I traced along his shaft through the strap. Then I freed him—his 7-inch cock springing out heavy and wet with precum.
I grabbed the base, brought the head to my lips, and tasted him. Thick, salty, raw. My tongue swirled over the head, sucking down the leak before sliding my mouth lower, deeper, until I had him fully buried in my throat.
He groaned—low and guttural—his hands twitching like he didn’t know whether to hold still or grab my head. I reached behind him, slipped my fingers under the leather at his ass, found his hole already stretched and slick. The boy had prepped himself for me.
I pulled back, wiped my mouth, and looked up at him. “Smoke that cigar, boy.”
He took it, lips closing around it like he’d done it a hundred times. And he had—that was the point. This was a man who’d been serviced while smoking plenty of times. Now he was the one holding the cigar while me, his owner, worked his cock.
That confusion—of me being in the role he normally gave others—just made him hotter.
My fingers worked his hole as he drew on the cigar, exhaling slow, his cock twitching in my hand. I could feel he was close, but I wasn’t giving him that.
I let go. Spun him around.
Bent him over hard so his ass was in my face. I buried my tongue in his hole, deep and messy, lapping up the musk and slick, feeling him grind back against me, desperate.
But this ass was ready. Too ready.
I stood, plucked the cigar from his lips, and put it back between mine. That was the signal—playtime was over.
I shoved him forward, bending him hard over the arm of the chair. Rubbed my cock along his hole, teasing, making him beg. Then I slammed into him in one brutal stroke.
He took it—his whole body shuddering, a raw yell tearing from his throat before dropping into a deep groan as I bottomed out, balls heavy against him.
I pulled back and drove in again, harder. Again. Again. The rhythm turned savage, my hips pounding him while smoke curled from my mouth, drifting into the air between us.
He was gone—moaning, pleading, his voice breaking as I fucked him harder, faster. Hours of tension, the teasing at the bar, the drive home—it all poured into every thrust.
I grabbed his harness, yanked him upright so his back was against my chest, and kept slamming into him. My teeth grazed his ear as I growled, “Mine.”
That was all it took.
I drove deep, holding him locked against me as I unloaded inside him—stream after stream, filling him until I could feel it dripping down my cock.
His body went slack against me, but I kept my grip, my cock still buried, the smoke from my cigar curling up past both our faces.
I stayed inside him for a long moment, letting him feel the weight of my cock still deep, the heat of my breath against his neck. My hand was still locked on his harness—reminding him he was being held, not just standing there.
When I finally pulled out, the sound was obscene, and my cum spilled down his thighs. I didn’t let him move. I reached for my cigar, took a slow drag, and blew the smoke over the mess running down his legs.
“Don’t touch yourself,” I said. My tone was calm now, but the command was solid steel.
I stepped back and let him stand on his own, swaying a little, flushed, breathing hard. I took my drink, sipped slow, then tipped the glass to his lips so he could have some—because I wanted him drinking from my hand, not his.
He swallowed, eyes still hazy, and I wiped the corner of his mouth with my thumb before shoving that same thumb between his lips. He sucked it automatically.
“Go clean up,” I said, “but don’t shower. I want my scent on you.”
He nodded, still standing tall but with that posture that said owned. When he came back, I was in the chair again, cigar in hand, legs spread. I made him kneel between them—not to service me again, but to stay there. Quiet. Close.
That was aftercare my way—keeping him where I could look down and know he was exactly where he belonged
