LENGTH: 7,247 words
This story is included in the anthology, Eight
Three years and Stefan’s yet to find that certain someone who can take him to the precipice of lust, dangle him over the abyss, and shove him headlong into the darkness of his own desire. Someone who drives him to the edge but won’t let him fall. Someone he can trust completely, body and soul, someone he can lose himself in. When a local gay bar called the Code hosts a fetish night, Stefan goes looking to be conquered.
There Stefan meets the man of his dreams, known only as “Master.” But when put to the test, can he prove himself worthy of such a man?
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There at the bar, the guy sinks down to squat in front of Stefan's stool. Still silent, he turns Stefan to face him, spreading Stefan's legs until he's between them. His wide eyes watch Stefan closely, his thin, unsmiling lips not betraying any emotion while Stefan struggles to hold his back. He wants to throw himself at this man -- he wants to be ravished, torn into from behind, latex stripped away as this stranger barrels inside. He feels his heart beating where the boy-shorts cut into his upper thighs and wants to beg this stranger to take him now. But more than that, he wants to be taken without having to ask.
Slowly, the guy rolls back the hem of Stefan's shorts -- just the leg where his dick pulses. He peels the latex an inch or two away from Stefan's cockhead; the shorts are too tight to allow anything more. Some part of Stefan's mind whispers that his dick is out in front of a couple of hundred people, what the hell's he doing here? But the mere fact that he's exposed in a bar and the night doesn't come to a screeching halt around him is enough to make his dick begin to weep. At the first drop of jism, the stranger leans closer, his hair tickling Stefan's thighs, closer, until his hot whiskey-wet lips kiss the tip of Stefan's dick.
"Oh God," he moans. His fingers dig into the guy's arm, claw at the bar. His hips rise up off the stool, but his trembling legs are too weak to hold his own weight and he plops back down. The latex cuts across his erection like a tourniquet, igniting a dull fire in his balls that smolders with lust. A soft tongue rubs across the spongy glans of his cock, tickling him, teasing. Saliva and cum slick the latex around the head of his shaft and the stranger's hand presses down on Stefan's still-sheathed length, kneading him through the shorts, working him toward release. When that mouth closes over his bulbous tip, the stranger tongues a tender spot just below his slit and sucks until Stefan comes with an explosive orgasm that threatens to rip him asunder.
Stefan bucks up off the stool, his hand knocking aside the untouched Russian waiting for him, and white liqueur splatters the bar like the load he shoots into the stranger's willing throat. As the other man stands, Stefan sighs, "Please." His hand trails down the guy's arm, catches for a moment in those strong fingers, then falls to his lap, spent. Take me home, he wants to say, his mind filled with images of the two of them entwined together in someone's bed, but he can't seem to remember how to put those thoughts into words so he just murmurs again, "Please."
The stranger pulls something from his back pocket -- a business card. Tenderly he lifts Stefan's now-limp member and slides the card into the sticky wetness between Stefan's cock and thigh. Then he rolls the latex down again to cover the too-tender tip of Stefan's dick. The paper feels like cardboard shoved into his shorts.
Then the guy fades back into the crowd. No words, not even a name. Stefan reaches for the White Russian, needing a drink, only to find ice cubes melting on the bar.