Chapter 2: The First Service
The next morning I wake up with a hangover that has nothing to do with the bourbon. My cock is still hard, throbbing with a deep, insistent ache that feels like it’s been building for weeks, not days. It’s leaking a steady, frustrating drip into my boxers, the fabric soaked and clinging to the head, every small shift sending a jolt of needy pain through my swollen balls. I didn’t touch it. Not once. The command from last night sits in my head like a weight I can’t shake: hands off until I say otherwise.
I stare at the ceiling for twenty minutes, balls heavy and aching with that hollow, desperate longing for any kind of touch, any relief. It’s been six days since I last came, and the denial is everywhere, in my foggy head, in the constant low-grade horniness that makes my skin feel too tight, in the way my cock twitches at nothing, begging for friction I’m not allowed to give it. I could just do it. Right now. Roll over, wrap my hand around it, stroke a few times, and explode. No one would know. It would be easy. But I don’t. I can’t. I feel like it’s not right anymore. My mind replays every second of the bar, the glass, the taste, the way Kai’s thumb felt in my mouth. I’m forty-two, six-foot-two, 220 pounds of hairy muscle and padding, and I’m already ruined from one fucking night.
Around 10 a.m. my phone buzzes.
Kai: Morning, old man. How’s the dick?
I stare at the message. My thumb hovers. I type, delete, type again.
Me: Still hard. Still denied.
Kai: Good. Send proof.
Proof. I swallow. I stand in front of the bathroom mirror, pull my boxers down just enough, take a quick photo of my swollen, dripping cock, the dark hair around it matted with pre-cum. Send.
His reply is almost immediate.
Kai: Cute. Leaking already. Pathetic.
Kai: But that’s only half the picture. Show a full-body one. Strip completely. Kneel anywhere in your place, bedroom floor, living room, wherever. Thighs spread wide, hands behind your back like you’re already cuffed. Chest out, head up, look straight at the camera. Show me the whole hairy daddy body I’m owning now. Face in frame. No cropping. No hiding. And actually, record yourself doing so while saying out loud, “I’m a big old faggot. I deserve this.”
My heart kicks up hard. Too hard. I read it again. Full body. Kneeling. Hands behind my back. Face in frame. Saying out loud I’m a faggot. No hiding. I sit on the edge of the bed and stare at the phone. A grown man with a job, a mortgage, people who respect me. And now a kid I met last night wants me naked on my knees, looking straight at the camera like I’m begging.
I feel sick. Not just aroused, actually sick. What if he saves it? What if he shows it to someone? What if I send this and he ghosts me tomorrow, leaving me with nothing but regret? My thumb hovers over the keyboard. I type: Kai, I’m not sure about this one. It’s… a lot. I delete it.
Type again: Can we start smaller? Delete.
I close my eyes. Breathe. Remember last night. The glass. The taste. The way he said “good boy” like it was the only word that mattered. My cock throbs at the memory. I hate how much I want this. I hate how scared I am. I hate that the fear makes it hotter.
I stand up. Strip slowly. Shirt. Boxers. Naked in my own bedroom. The carpet feels cold under my feet. I move to the center of the room. Just me and the phone on a small tripod I set up on the dresser (hands-free, so I can pose properly). I drop to my knees. Thighs wide apart. Hands clasped behind my back. Chest pushed out. My soft belly hanging a little, silver-threaded hair catching the morning light, thick thighs trembling. Cock hard, six inches of average meat leaking a thin string onto the carpet. Face flushed under the beard. Eyes wide, scared, but looking straight into the lens.
I hesitate one more time. Finger over the shutter. I whisper to myself: “Fuck it. Just send it. Worst case, I’ll pretend it’s one of those AI pictures. No one will know it’s real.”
So I press record, do the pose, and proclaim how I’m such a faggot. It’s the craziest thing I’ve done for someone I just met.
I stare at the screen, heart slamming. The video is there. Me. Kneeling. Exposed. Terrified. Desperate. My cock is throbbing even more.
Kai’s reply comes 5 minutes later.
Kai: Fuck yes. Look at that. My big old man is kneeling naked on his own floor, hands behind his back, that little six-inch dick dripping like it’s trying so hard to impress. Cute average cock on a big hairy daddy body. Not huge, not tiny, just… perfectly pathetic for what I’m going to turn you into.
Kai: And what’s with the trembling voice? Not proud that you’re a faggot? Haha.
Kai: Who would’ve thought? That belly, that chest hair, those thick thighs spread for me. Mine.
Kai: Keep that video. Watch it every time you get hard today and remember who owns that sad little six-incher now.
I exhale. Shaking. Relief and shame crashing together. The SPH stings more than I expected, but it also makes my cock twitch harder, pre-cum dripping faster.
The rules keep coming.
Kai: New rule: no underwear today. Or tomorrow. Or any other day ever going forward. Nothing between you and your jeans. Understand?
Me: Yes, Kai.
Kai: Say it properly.
Me: No underwear today or any day I see you, Kai.
Kai: Better.
Kai: And when you piss, you sit down from now on. Every time. No standing at the urinal. No aiming like a man. Just drop your jeans to your ankles, leave them there, spread your thick hairy thighs, plant your bare ass on the cold porcelain seat, and let it go like the bitch you are.
Me: Yes, Kai. I’ll sit down every time on the cold porcelain.
Kai: Good boy. One more thing today. Shave everything around your cock, balls, and ass. Completely smooth. Bald. No hair at all in that triangle zone around your pubic area, so it frames your pathetic average cock like a spotlight.
Make the shaft, the sack, the crack, all of it baby-smooth and pink. I want that average cock looking even more ridiculous, tiny and exposed, sticking out from your big hairy belly and chest like it doesn’t belong. Pathetic contrast.
Those words hit me like a punch to the gut. My cock throbs harder, leaking another helpless drop, but my hands are shaking. Horny doesn’t even cover it. I’m burning up, trembling, stomach twisting with that sick mix of terror and need. Why the fuck am I doing this? Shaving myself smooth like some desperate slut, turning my body into his joke? I could ignore it. Delete the messages. Block him. Go back to normal. But I’m so horny right now that I just proceed. I hate how much I want to obey. I hate but love how the humiliation makes me harder.
Kai: I want proof when you get here tonight at 9. Here’s the location. Don’t be late, old man, or I’ll never see you again.
Kai: And when you arrive: strip in the hallway outside my door. Everything off. Fold neatly on the floor. Then knock five times, slow, deliberate. Wait ten seconds. Knock five more. Only then push the door open (it’ll be unlocked), crawl inside, and kneel in the living room doorway exactly like in that video: thighs spread, hands behind your back. Wait quietly until I come get you.
Kai: No talking first. No moving. Just present yourself. Do you understand, faggot?
I gasp at his orders but hesitantly text back, “Yes, Kai.”
Kai: Good, now keep not touching that pathetic boy cock until I tell you otherwise.
Me: Yes, Kai….
The rest of the day is torture. No underwear. Rough denim rubbing my average six-inch cock raw every time I shift in my chair. Every piss sitting down, humiliating, the cold porcelain against my hairy ass reminding me who gave the order. I spend the afternoon in a fog, half-hard, leaking, replaying Kai’s messages on loop. The kneeling video stares back from my phone, the words “little six-inch dick” burning in my brain. It’s been six days since I last came. My balls feel heavy, aching, full.
I leave work early, drive home, shower, try to calm down. Useless. The clock crawls toward evening. It’s 6 p.m. and I start to shave. I have quite thick and manly hair around my cock and balls so it takes me some time to do that. My cock gets really hard the whole time. I really want to touch it, but I feel like it would be cheating.
At 6:45 p.m. I’m already dressed, simple black t-shirt, jeans, boots, no underwear. I sit on the edge of the bed, staring at the time. 6:58. 6:59. My heart starts racing faster. 7:00 p.m. I grab my keys, phone, wallet. No idea what I’m walking into, but I know I’m going.
The drive to his apartment complex takes twenty minutes. Traffic is light. The complex is actually nice and looks like an expensive residence. My mind races the whole way. What if someone sees me in the hallway? What if a neighbor opens their door? What if I can’t do it? What if I do?
I park. Deep breath. Check the time: 7:45 p.m.
I walk up the three flights of stairs. The hallway is dim, quiet. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead. Doors closed. Distant muffled music from one apartment. No one in sight.
I reach his door. Number 912. Heart slamming so loud I swear it echoes.
I stand there for a full minute, frozen.
Then I start.
I look around. Nobody’s around. I pull off my t-shirt. Fold it neatly. Place it against the wall.
Jeans next. Unzip. Push them down. Step out. Fold. Add to the pile.
Boots. Socks. Everything off.
Naked. Completely naked in a shared hallway.
Hairy chest heaving. The shaven triangle around my pubic area looks prominent in contrast with the rest of my hairy body. Cock hard and leaking. Thighs trembling.
I knock five times. Slow. Deliberate. One. Two. Three. Four. Five.
I wait ten seconds. Count them in my head. One… two… three… four… five… six… seven… eight… nine… ten.
Then five more knocks.
The door is unlocked.
I push it open slowly…
I crawl inside on hands and knees. Close the door behind me with my foot. Crawl into the living room doorway. Drop to my knees. Thighs spread wide. Hands clasped behind my back. Chest out. Head up. Waiting exactly like in the video.
Minutes pass. Maybe 10 minutes. My heart beats fast.
Then bare feet on tile.
He appears from my back, in grey sweatpants, shirtless. Stops in front of me. Looks down at the exact pose.
“Hi, old man.”
I don’t speak.
He crouches, face close, eyes scanning me slowly from head to toe. “You knocked like I told you. Stripped in the hallway. Crawled in. Good boy. I was watching through the peephole the whole time. You looked so fucking scared… and so fucking hard.”
His gaze drops lower, lingering on my groin. A slow, cruel smile spreads across his face.
“Stand up for a second. Hands behind your back. Let me inspect the shave.”
I rise unsteadily, thighs trembling, hands clasped behind me. My cock juts out, hard and leaking, the freshly shaved triangle stark against the dark hair of my belly and chest. The skin is baby-smooth, pink from the razor, the little six-incher looking… different. Cleaner. More prominent without the hair hiding the base.
He reaches out, fingers tracing the shaved area, cool and deliberate. He pinches the skin lightly, inspects the smoothness, then flicks the base of my cock with one finger, making it bob.
“Fuck, look at that. Big hairy bear with a perfectly bald triangle pointing right to his pathetic average dick. Smooth as a boy’s.” He pauses, tilts his head, and lets out a low, mocking laugh. “Well… at least the shave makes your little six-incher look a bit bigger. Hahaha. Like it’s trying so hard to pretend it’s not completely average. Cute illusion, faggot. But we both know it’s still just a sad, useless dick on a middle-aged body. Pathetic contrast—hairy everywhere else, but this tiny thing all pink and exposed, begging for attention it’ll never earn.”
He laughs again, softer, crueler, then gives the shaft a light slap that makes me gasp.
“You did good, though. Smooth sack, smooth crack, nice clean triangle framing your ridiculous cock. Makes it look like an arrow saying ‘laugh at this little thing.’ Now drop back to your knees. Thighs wide. Ass out a little.”
I sink down, knees on the carpet, thighs spread, leaning forward slightly so my ass is presented.
He moves behind me, one hand on my lower back. “Good. Hold still.”
He spits directly onto my hole, the warm saliva landing with a soft sound. His finger circles once, spreading it, teasing the shaved skin around it. Then he pushes in—slow, deliberate, one knuckle, two, the full finger sliding deep with just his spit for slick.
I moan. Loud. Involuntary. The stretch is raw, sudden, my hole clenching around the intrusion. My cock leaks harder, dripping onto the carpet.
He twists the finger, crooks it, presses against my prostate for a couple of seconds. Just enough to make me whimper, hips bucking slightly.
“Listen to you. Moaning like a bitch from one finger and a little spit. Your shaved hole is greedy already. Smooth and pink, ready for whatever I want. But not tonight. Just a taste.”
He pulls out slowly, brings the wet finger around to my mouth.
“Lick it clean.”
I open without thinking. Tongue working around his finger, tasting myself, the faint bitterness, the humiliation. I suck it clean while he watches, eyes amused.
He pulls it out with a pop. Wipes the last trace on my beard.
“Back to position. Thighs wide. Hands behind back.”
I obey, shaking, hole twitching empty now, shaved skin tingling, mouth tasting of my own ass.
He walks to the couch and sits down, legs spread wide. His cock is still soft but already thick, obscene on his lean frame.
The night is just beginning.
He stands. Walks over to the couch with that lazy, predatory stride, sits down, legs spread wide like he owns the entire room, and me. He strips off the sweatpants completely, tossing them aside without a care. Now he’s naked too. Lean, smooth, athletic body, tight abs rippling under flawless skin, defined arms and shoulders that look carved rather than bulky, sharp jaw, dark messy hair falling into eyes that pin me in place with zero effort.
And that thick, heavy cock and balls hanging between his thighs, even soft it’s bigger than mine hard, swinging with casual weight, looking obscene and commanding on his smaller frame. It’s at least 8.5 or 9 inches. His balls are smooth, big and full. I really want to suck it and worship it.
Young, fit, but radiating pure alpha energy in every relaxed line of his posture, the way he manspreads aggressively, thighs apart like an invitation and a threat, arms draped along the back of the couch, owning the space without trying. Head tilted slightly, that smug, knowing smirk playing on his lips, eyes half-lidded but sharp, like he’s already three steps ahead and bored by how easy it is to control me. He doesn’t need bulk or height to dominate; his confidence is absolute, calm, effortless, the kind that makes the air feel heavier around him. Smaller body, but every inch screams power, the kind of alpha that doesn’t shout because he knows no one would dare challenge him anyway.
I feel small, old, weak, emasculated, trembling a little just looking at him, this man half my age, leaner and younger, but so utterly in charge that my knees feel weaker, my shaved little six-incher leaking helplessly, my whole body screaming submission without him saying a word.
Kai: Fuck, look at that hairy daddy body. All spread out and desperate. You want this thick cock, don’t you? Want to taste it. Want to feel it stretch your throat. Want to feel it pulse and shoot down your throat.
He speeds up a little, then slows again. Edging himself right in front of me.
“But you don’t deserve it yet. Not yet. You’re still earning it, old man.”
He strokes harder for a few seconds, head tilting back, a soft groan escaping. Then he stops completely. Lets go. His cock twitches, leaking pre-cum, but he doesn’t finish.
He just sits there, half-hard and glistening, watching me watch him.
“Stay like that. Eyes on my cock. Watch me goon for a while. Watch what your pathetic little dick can’t have.”
He starts again. Slow. Deliberate. Hand sliding up and down the thick shaft. Every few strokes he squeezes the head, making more pre-cum bead at the tip. He smears it over the shaft. Strokes faster. Groans low. Then stops again. Edges. Teases himself. Teases me.
Minutes pass like that. Him stroking, moaning softly, eyes half-lidded but always flicking back to me. Me kneeling, leaking, aching, hands locked behind my back, unable to touch, unable to beg, just watching.
Finally he exhales, lets go completely. His cock still rock-hard, throbbing in the air between us.
He reaches for a pack of cigarettes and a glass ashtray on the table, pulls one cigarette out, lights it with a flick of his lighter. Takes a long drag, exhales smoke toward the ceiling.
“Approach,” he says, calm, voice low. “Still on your knees. Crawl closer.”
I crawl forward, thighs spread, hands behind my back, until I’m between his spread legs.
He looks down at me, cock still hard and leaking in his other hand.
“Open your mouth when I kick your balls.”
My heart stops.
He lifts one bare foot, presses it lightly against my heavy sack, then gives a quick, firm kick, not brutal, just sharp enough to make me gasp and open wide on reflex.
The moment my mouth opens, he spits straight into my mouth.
He stands slowly, cock still hard and glistening, swaying with each step as he walks away from the couch while smoking. I stay kneeling, thighs spread, hands behind my back, heart hammering while I watch his lean, athletic frame disappear into the bedroom. The silence stretches. My cock leaks steadily onto the carpet, the shaved triangle making every drip feel more exposed, more ridiculous.
He returns a minute later, casual as if he’d just gone for a glass of water.
On one hand: a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. In the other: a small pair of silver nipple clamps, chain dangling between them.
He sits back down, legs spread wide again, and lights a cigarette with a flick of the lighter. Takes a long drag, exhales smoke toward the ceiling.
“Chest out,” he suddenly tells me.
I arch my back slightly, pushing my hairy pecs forward. My nipples are already hard from the cool air and the constant arousal. He pinches one between his fingers, rolls it once, I twitch. He then snaps the first clamp onto the tip, right at the very end, the bite sharp and immediate.
I gasp, body jerking, a low whine escaping my throat. The pain is bright, stinging, shooting straight to my cock, making it twitch and leak harder.
He clamps the second one the same way, quick, precise, no mercy. The chain hangs between them, pulling slightly with every breath I take. The pain settles into a deep, throbbing ache. It hurts. Fuck, it hurts. But there’s something else under it, a twisted heat, a rush that makes my hole clench empty, my caged little dick throb uselessly against the bars. I’m panting, eyes watering, but I don’t pull away. I can’t. I don’t want to.
He picks up the cigarette again, takes a drag, exhales slowly.
“If you scream,” he says, voice calm, “you go home right now. No clothes. No goodbye. Just walk out naked and pantless like the desperate faggot you are. So keep quiet. Breathe through it.”
I bite my lip hard, nodding once. The clamps bite deeper with the movement. Pain flares. Pleasure twists underneath. My whole body is shaking.
He looks satisfied. “Good.”
“Open your mouth,” while suddenly kicking my balls quite hard. My mouth opens involuntarily.
He flicks ash straight onto my tongue the moment my mouth opens from another sharp breath.
It lands heavy, warm, bitter. The taste is chemical, dry, revolting, like burnt paper mixed with something metallic and wrong. My tongue recoils instinctively, curling back in my mouth, every nerve screaming to spit it out, to gag, to close. But I freeze. Mouth still wide. Ash sitting there untouched.
This is the first time anyone has ever used my mouth like this.
Not in thirty years of secret hookups. Not in any dark bar corner or backroom. I’ve sucked cock, swallowed piss, taken loads down my throat—but never ash. Never been turned into an ashtray. The humiliation crashes over me like ice water. My brain short-circuits for a second: I’m forty-two, a grown man, hairy, stocky, respected in the real world, and right now I’m kneeling naked in a stranger’s apartment with cigarette ash on my tongue, clamps biting my nipples, balls throbbing from a kick, and I’m not spitting it out. I’m not fighting back. I’m holding my mouth open like a good object.
I could. I could close my mouth. I could stand up. I could walk out.
But I don’t.
The thought barely forms before it dissolves.
All that’s left is this burning need to be of service. To please him. To be useful of this man half my age... To take whatever he gives, cum, piss, ash, pain, humiliation, because every time I obey, something inside me quiets. The ache in my balls, the throb in my clamped nipples, the drip from my small cock, it all feels right when I’m serving. There’s something really driving me about serving this man who’s smaller and much younger than me.
So I hold it open. Mouth gaping. Ash bitter on my tongue. Heart slamming. Balls throbbing from the kick. Nipples screaming under the clamps.
I stay exactly like that, trembling, exposed, obedient.
“Hold it open. Don’t swallow yet.”
I do. The bitter ash sits on my tongue while he takes another drag, watches me with that same calm, amused expression.
“Good ashtray,” he murmurs. “Now swallow.”
I swallow. The taste is sharp, acrid, humiliating. The clamps tug with every swallow, pain blooming fresh across my chest. He smiles, takes another drag, and the night continues.
He flicks more ash. Again. Again. Each time the same ritual: he taps my balls quite heavily with his foot, sharp enough to make me gasp open, then drops the ash straight onto my waiting tongue.
“Hold it. Don’t close. Don’t swallow yet.”
I freeze, mouth wide, bitter ash piling up on my tongue while he takes another drag, watches me with that calm, amused expression. The clamps pull tighter with every ragged breath. My nipples throb in rhythm with my heartbeat. My cock leaks steadily, dripping onto the carpet below.
After the third flick he pauses, cigarette glowing between his fingers.
He lifts his foot again, presses it against my heavy sack, then gives another quick, firm kick, sharp, controlled, making my whole body jolt and my mouth snap wider from the shock.
“Yeah… swallow now.”
I swallow hard. The ash goes down dry, acrid, humiliating. The pain in my balls flares bright, then settles into a dull throb that somehow makes my hole clench and my caged dick twitch harder.
He smiles. Takes another drag.
“Open again.”
I open. Mouth wide, tongue out.
He flicks more ash. It lands heavy on my tongue.
“Hold it. Don’t close.”
I hold. Mouth open, ash bitter and accumulating. The clamps bite deeper with every tremble. Tears prick my eyes from the strain, the pain, the shame.
He exhales smoke slowly over my face. Multiple times. All the time I’m still opening my mouth feeling like a joke. But my cock keeps getting hard from all these treatments.
He kicks again, same spot, same sharp sting. My body jerks, mouth snaps shut from the reflex.
“Swallow now.”
I gulp it down roughly. The taste coats my throat. My balls ache in waves. My body shakes, but I don’t close my legs. I can’t. I won’t.
He repeats it. Again. Again.
Kick. Hold. Swallow.
The ash builds up between kicks. The pain in my sack becomes constant, throbbing in time with my clamped nipples, my leaking cock, my empty hole.
After 20 minutes or more, my voice is gone, only soft, choked whimpers escape when he kicks. My tongue is coated in gray bitterness. My balls feel swollen, tender, punished.
He takes one last drag, stubs the cigarette out in the ashtray.
“Good ashtray,” he murmurs, voice low and satisfied. “You swallowed every bit without spilling. Even with your pathetic little balls getting kicked for motivation. Maybe someday you deserve to swallow the cigarette butt as well. What do you think, fag?”
I moan low in my throat, voice soft and broken. “Yes, Kai… please, Kai.”
He laughs, short, sharp, delighted, then stands slowly. He picks up the glass ashtray, still warm from the stubbed-out cigarette, and places it carefully on top of my head like I’m a table or something.
He leans forward, wipes a stray tear from my cheek with his thumb, then pushes it into my mouth.
“Clean that too.”
I suck it clean automatically.
He sits back, legs spread, cock still hard and glistening.
“Stay right there. Mouth open. Tongue out. We’re not done yet.”
“Don’t drop the ashtray on your head. I want you to stay still and be my cute table.” he says, voice low and matter-of-fact. “If you drop it, you go home right now. Keep it balanced. Be still. Be my good little table.”
My cock twitches hearing that alone.
The weight is light but precarious. Every tiny movement makes it wobble. My neck strains to hold steady, clamps tugging on my nipples with each breath, hole still hungry for more of his finger, cock leaking steadily onto the carpet. The ash tray sits there like a crown of shame.
He turns away, walks to the TV stand, grabs a controller, and drops back onto the couch. Legs spread wide. Naked. Cock still half-hard, glistening.
He starts a game. Some shooter. The room fills with the low hum of the console, gunfire, explosions from the speakers. He doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t speak. Just plays.
Minutes drag. Five. Ten. Fifteen. My arms ache from staying locked behind my back. My thighs burn from holding the spread position. The clamps bite deeper with every shallow breath. The ashtray wobbles once, twice, I freeze, muscles screaming to keep it level. A drop of sweat runs down my temple. My cock throbs uselessly, denied and dripping.
I can’t help it. A soft, needy moan escapes me.
He doesn’t pause the game. Just speaks, voice flat and calm, eyes still on the screen.
“Be quiet.”
I bite my lip, try to swallow the next sound.
Another minute passes. Another moan slips out, small, involuntary.
He sighs, like I’m an annoying pet. Pauses the game. Finally looks at me.
“I said be quiet.” His tone is demeaning, almost bored. “Objects don’t make noise unless I want them to. You’re not a man right now. You’re furniture. A table. Furniture doesn’t whine. Furniture doesn’t moan. Furniture stays silent and useful. If you can’t be quiet, you’re not useful. And useless things get thrown out.”
He leans forward slightly, voice dropping lower, colder.
“So shut the fuck up. Or I’ll take the clamps off, take the ashtray off, and you crawl out of here right now, naked, pantless, dripping, and alone. No clothes. No goodbye. No chance to meet another real man like me. Just a pathetic middle-aged bear living a boring life. You want that?”
I shake my head frantically. The ashtray wobbles. I freeze again.
He smiles, satisfied. “Good. Silent. Still. That’s my boy.”
He unpauses the game. Goes back to playing.
I stay there. Kneeling. Shaking. Silent. Aching. The ashtray balanced on my head like a crown of shame. Nipples throbbing under the clamps. Hole empty and needy. Cock denied and continuously dripping.
Minutes stretch into what feels like hours.
He plays. Ignores me completely.
I’m nothing but an object now.
And somehow, that makes me even hornier... I feel tonight is going to be a long one…
