Mastering Stefan

Mastering Stefan By J.M. Snyder 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. August in Richmond is sweltering—even at quarter to midnight, the air is sticky like a wet rag and the humidity takes Stefan’s breath away. He settles for a black latex vest, no undershirt, and a pair of bright blue latex boy-shorts so tight Daisy Duke would be jealous. The shorts make his buttocks look like two round rubber balls, high and tight, and the outline of his c**k bulges along the top of his upper left thigh. The vest, tapering to twin points just above his narrow waist, accentuates both assets. But when he enters the bar, he’s just one more body in the crowded sea that undulates over the dance floor. Music pounds around him like the surf, washing him up to the bar with the rest of the driftwood. He orders a White Russian, his first mistake. Then he eases onto a vacant stool, his second. Just to wait for the drink, he reasons, but sitting at the bar in a place like this is social suicide. After his next Russian, Stefan stops trying to make eye contact with anyone other than the bartender. By his third, he thinks this party is a bust. He stays, if only because the night is young and the drinks are cheap. Between refills he swivels around on the stool, leans back against the bar, and surveys the room around him. In the dim lighting, the bodies meld into one, a primordial animal that gyrates obscenely in time to the music as if m**********g to the beat. The thought turns Stefan on. He has to slide down a little to ease the chafe in his shorts—his d**k tries to swell beneath the latex but the shorts won’t give an inch, and the restriction only makes him harder. He shifts his package a bit, rearranges the goods, until the swollen tip of his c**k ends dangerously close to the bottom hem of the shorts. As he presses against the stiff length, his eyes slip shut at the sweet ache that blossoms in him. And no one to share it with, he thinks. As he turns back for his drink, a shadow detaches itself from the dance floor, heading his way. When Stefan spares a glance over one shoulder, the stranger takes that as an invitation and sidles up next to him at the bar. The guy is a few years older than Stefan, early forties at the most, with long blond hair tied back from his face with a thin leather strap at the nape of his neck. The arm closest to Stefan bulges with strength, the skin rough and ruddy from long exposure to the sun. Raising his glass, Stefan gives the stranger a drunken grin and has to shout over the crowd to be heard. “Hey.” A hand falls to Stefan’s thigh, large fingers clamping down on the erection that strains his shorts. Blunt fingertips trace the length and the latex warms beneath the touch. When the guy looks at him, Stefan’s lower lip is caught between his teeth to bite back a half-muffled gasp that manages to escape anyway. The stranger has eyes like diamonds, so pale they’re almost clear, rimmed with black kohl that gives him a deadly look, and the set of his jaw imbues him with a wrath worthy of any young god. “Please,” Stefan sobs. He wants to give himself up to this man, with his white mesh tank top and his black rubber pants. The fingers on his d**k make it hard to remember a time before their touch. Struggling not to appear too eager and failing miserably, Stefan wants to know, “Where?” The guy doesn’t answer. Far away in another world, the bartender sets another White Russian in front of Stefan, with a tall shot of amber whiskey to accompany it. The stranger knocks back the whiskey, never dropping his gaze from Stefan’s. He holds Stefan prisoner in those crystal eyes, pins him to the stool like a captured moth. The hand on Stefan’s thigh inches higher, the latex rolling up beneath it, until the tip of his d**k dampens the stranger’s palm. With one hand Stefan grabs on to the bar to hold himself steady; with the other, he dares to touch the stranger’s muscled forearm and feels the tendons stand out beneath his fingers. 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 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 d**k 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 d**k 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 d**k 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 d**k. “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 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 c**k, tickling him, teasing. Saliva and c*m 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 d**k. 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.