Chapter 1: The First Night
I’m forty-two, stocky and solid, the kind of body that used to turn heads in my thirties but now carries a comfortable layer of padding over broad shoulders and thick thighs. My chest and belly are covered in thick, dark body hair that’s starting to show silver threads, especially around the collar and down the treasure trail that disappears into my jeans. I’ve got the build of a man who still lifts weights a few times a week, but who also enjoys good food and doesn’t starve himself for definition anymore. People call me handsome in that “rugged daddy” way, kind eyes, short salt-and-pepper beard, a face that looks trustworthy. At 6'2", nobody ever guesses how desperately I want someone to see past all that and treat me like meat.
The bar is half-empty, dim, the kind of place where the leather booths smell like twenty years of spilled beer and quiet secrets. I’m in the corner booth, nursing a bourbon, telling myself this is just one drink before I go home like a responsible adult.
Then I feel it. Eyes on me.
He’s leaning against the far end of the bar, casual as hell. Around 25 years old, maybe 5'11", I can tell even from across the room. White skin that looks almost unfairly smooth under the low lights, dark hair falling messily into his eyes, sharp jawline, and a lean, athletic build that’s somewhere between twink and boxer. Not bulky, but clearly strong, visible definition in his arms and shoulders under the tight black t-shirt, narrow waist, long legs in dark jeans. The kind of body that makes you immediately think “college athlete who never really stopped training.”
He’s not posing or trying to look dominant. He just is. And right now he’s looking straight at me. Our eyes lock. He doesn’t smile. Just lifts his chin once, small, unmistakable. Then crooks two fingers. My pulse slams into my throat.
I stand. My legs feel heavier than they should as I cross the room, boots loud on the worn floorboards.
When I reach him he doesn’t straighten up, just turns his hips slightly toward me, one elbow still on the bar.
“Hi,” I say. Too soft. Too polite for a man my age.
He looks me over slowly — head to boots and back up again, taking his time.
“You always hide in corners like that?” His voice is low, casual, with just a trace of amusement.
I laugh once, short and nervous. “Guess it’s become a habit.”
“Shitty habit.” He flags the bartender without looking away from me. “Another bourbon for him. Same as before.” Then, quieter, to me: “Sit.”
The stool next to him is empty. I take it. Our knees brush when I settle — his leg long and lean against my thicker, hairier thigh. He doesn’t rush to introduce himself. Just watches the bartender pour, slides the fresh glass toward me, then finally says:
“I’m Kai.”
Simple. Like it’s already a fact I should know. I tell him my name. He nods once, like he’d heard it earlier and was just confirming. He takes a slow sip of his whiskey, eyes never leaving mine.
“You come here a lot?”
“Not really anymore.” I shrug, feeling the weight of my own forty-two years in the movement. “Just… felt like seeing if anything still happens.”
He hums. “And what usually happens?”
“Nothing worth remembering.”
Small smile curls the corner of his mouth — sharp, knowing. “Tonight might be different.”
He lets the silence sit between us. Lets me feel how close we’re sitting. Lets me notice how my breathing has already changed, how my jeans are starting to feel too tight across my thickening cock. After a minute he leans in a little. Voice drops lower.
“You’re already half-hard, aren’t you?”
I freeze.
My face burns hot under the beard.
He doesn’t laugh. Just waits, patient.
“…Yeah,” I admit, voice rough, barely audible over the low music.
“Good.” He says it like it’s the most normal thing in the world. Then he glances down at my lap — obvious, deliberate — before meeting my eyes again.
“Bet you’d like to adjust yourself right now. Make it more comfortable.”
I swallow hard. “I would.”
“Don’t.”
One word. Quiet. Final.
My hand, which had started moving toward my thigh, stops dead.
He nods once, satisfied.
“Keep your hands on the bar. Both of them. Palms down.”
I obey. Palms flat on the sticky wood. Thick fingers spread. The hair on my knuckles looks darker against the pale bar top. He studies me for a long moment. Then he picks up his almost-empty whiskey glass, looks inside, and makes a small thoughtful sound. He stands up slowly. Looks down at me with that calm, amused expression.
“Well… I need to pee.”
My stomach drops. He doesn’t say anything else. Just turns, walks the short distance to the bathroom door, and disappears inside. I sit there frozen, heart hammering, hands glued to the bar, cock throbbing uselessly against the denim. The taste of bourbon on my tongue suddenly feels irrelevant. He’s gone maybe three minutes.
When he comes back, he’s holding the same glass — now half-full again. Pale yellow, unmistakable. He sets it down right in front of me on the bar. Doesn’t say a word. I stare at it. My mouth goes dry.
He leans back against the bar again, casual, one hip cocked, like nothing unusual has happened.
“You’re looking at it like you’re thirsty,” he observes, voice soft.
I can’t speak.
He tilts his head.
“Tell me what you’re thinking.”
I lick my lips. Voice cracks.
“I’m thinking… I want it.”
He doesn’t react right away. Just watches my face — the flush creeping down my neck, the way my chest is rising and falling too fast under my shirt.
Then, very quietly:
“Ask nicely.”
My stomach flips again.
“Please…” I swallow. “Can I have it, Kai?”
He considers me for a long second.
Then he pushes the glass closer. One inch.
“Pick it up.”
My hands shake when I lift it.
Still warm from his grip. Heavy.
He watches every movement.
“Bring it to your nose first.”
I do.
The sharp, unmistakable smell hits me. My cock jerks so hard I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep quiet.
“Now drink.”
I hesitate.
His voice drops. “I didn’t stutter.”
I bring the rim to my lips.
Tilt.
The first hot, bitter splash touches my tongue.
I moan, small, involuntary, mortified.
He chuckles under his breath. Soft. Almost fond.
“Fuck. Look at you. Forty-two-year-old bear drinking my piss in a bar like it’s the best thing that’s ever happened to him.”
I finish the whole glass. Every drop. Set it back down empty. Lips wet. Chin damp. Beard glistening slightly.
He reaches over slowly. Uses his thumb to wipe the last drop from the corner of my mouth. Then pushes that thumb between my lips. I suck it clean without being told. He pulls his hand away. Looks me dead in the eye.
“No touching yourself tonight. Not even to adjust. Not even in the shower. Not even when you get home and you’re leaking like a broken faucet. Hands off until I say otherwise. Understand?”
I nod. Fast. Desperate.
“Say it.”
“I won’t touch myself tonight, Kai. Not at all.”
He studies me for another long second. Then he leans in, lips close to my ear. “Good boy.”
He stands up straight. Stretches once like he’s got all night. “Give me your phone.”
I hand it over. Fingers numb. He types quickly. Saves the contact.
Kai.
Slides it back.
“Text me when you get home. Three words only: Still denied, Kai.”
He doesn’t wait for me to answer. Just turns and walks toward the door, long legs carrying him easily through the dim light. I sit there, empty glass still warm in front of me, taste of him lingering on my tongue, cock aching, hands trembling on the bar. I don’t move for another ten minutes. When I finally leave, the night air hits my flushed face like a slap. I drive home with both hands locked on the wheel, no radio, just the sound of my own ragged breathing. The second I step through my door I text him. "Still denied, Kai." His reply comes less than thirty seconds later.
Good.
Nothing else.
I stand in the dark hallway, hard, humiliated, obedient,
and for the first time in years I don’t feel like I’m pretending.
I just feel… seen.
