Alpha Stud Mocks My Little Dick in a Bar

The bass thumped low through the floor of the bar, a pulse Damon felt more in his ribs than in his ears. At twenty-eight he had walked past this place a dozen times on his way home from the architecture firm and never once gone in. Tonight the neon had looked less like a warning and more like a dare he was tired of losing. He took a stool at the far end, ordered a club soda with lime so his hands would have something to do, and tried not to look like a man who had never done this before. One sip. That was all. His mouth was dry from nerves, not from liquor, and he wanted his head clear for whatever he had come to find.

He had barely set the glass down when the air beside him changed. A man dropped onto the next stool with the easy weight of someone who belonged anywhere he decided to sit. Broad through the shoulders, arms thick under a black henley, jaw shadowed, eyes the color of wet slate. He looked Damon over once, slow, and smiled like he had already decided the ending.

"First time in here," the man said. Not a question.

Damon swallowed. "Is it that obvious?"

"You've been staring at your glass like it might bite you. I'm Alastair. Thirty-two. Personal trainer. I notice when somebody's holding his breath." He tipped his chin at the soda. "You're not even drinking. Good. I like a man sober enough to know exactly what he's saying yes to."

Heat climbed Damon's neck. Alastair's gaze stayed, heavy and amused, and something in Damon's stomach pulled tight—the old private shame he never let anyone near. He was stirring already from nothing but that look, and he knew, with a sick little thrill, how little there was to find if this man ever reached down. Alastair's compliments came low and filthy-sweet: the line of Damon's throat, the way his fingers worried the lime, the pretty flush on a man who clearly wanted to be told what to do. Each one landed. Each one made the secret between Damon's legs feel smaller and hotter.

"You've got a mouth I want to ruin," Alastair said, leaning in until Damon could smell clean sweat and cedar. "Come sit with me. Darker booth. Less audience. Unless you came here to nurse lime water and go home untouched."

"I came here because I wanted—" Damon stopped. His voice had gone thin. He met those slate eyes and nodded, clear and willing. "Yeah. Booth. I want that."

Alastair's hand settled at the small of his back and steered him through the low light toward a corner where the leather was cracked and the music turned to a distant throb. Damon's pulse hammered. Every step made his insecurity flare—twenty-eight years old, first night in a gay bar, already imagining the moment this muscular, commanding man discovered what Damon had spent his adult life trying not to be seen with. He wanted to be looked at anyway. He wanted, God help him, to be found out.

The booth swallowed them. High backs, a curtain of shadow, the rest of the bar reduced to colored blur and muffled bass. Alastair sat close enough that their thighs touched and didn't pretend it was an accident. Up close he was even bigger—chest filling the henley, forearm veined where the sleeve was pushed back, the kind of body that got paid to be looked at and knew it. Damon felt slight beside him, which only made the wanting worse.

"Tell me to stop and I stop," Alastair said, voice low, one hand already cupping the side of Damon's jaw. "Otherwise I'm going to kiss you like I own the next hour. You good with that?"

"Yes." Damon heard himself say it before he could dress it up. "I'm good. I want you to."

Alastair kissed him like a man collecting on a promise. Mouth hot, tongue sure, no tentative press of lips to see if the other guy would lean in. Damon made a sound he didn't recognize and opened for it, hands clumsy on Alastair's shoulders, kissing back with everything he had. The alpha stud tasted like mint and heat. He bit Damon's lower lip just hard enough to sting, then soothed it, then did it again, and Damon felt his cock twitch helplessly in his pants—small, eager, already leaking against cotton he suddenly hated.

"There he is," Alastair murmured against his mouth. "Nervous little first-timer, kissing like he's starving." His hand left Damon's jaw and traveled down, palm broad over chest, stomach, the waistband of Damon's pants. He paused there, eyes on Damon's face. "I'm going to touch you. Say it."

"Touch me." Damon's breath shook. "Please."

Alastair's hand slid lower and closed over him through the fabric.

The pause that followed was worse than any laugh. Alastair's fingers mapped what was there—careful, thorough, unmistakably finding the whole of it in one easy grip—and his mouth curved, slow and cruel and delighted.

"Oh," he said, soft. "Oh, sweetheart. That's it?"

Damon's face burned so hot he thought he might pass out. He should have pulled away. Instead his hips jerked into that huge palm, a tiny desperate grind he couldn't stop. Alastair felt it and his smile went filthy.

"Look at you trying to fuck my hand through your pants with that little thing." He squeezed, gentle and merciless, thumb rubbing the small stiff shape until Damon whimpered. "I've held flashlights bigger than this. You walked into a gay bar with a cock that fits in a fist with room to spare and you thought nobody would notice? Cute. Pathetic. And hard as a nail for being called out." He leaned in, mouth at Damon's ear, voice dropping into crude, unhurried filth. "Tiny dick. That's what you've got. A nervous little nub getting wet because a man finally put his hand on it and told the truth. You like that? You like hearing how small you are while I play with it?"

"Yes," Damon gasped. Shame and arousal tangled so tight he couldn't tell them apart. His cock pulsed against Alastair's palm, leaking a damp spot he knew the other man could feel. "God, yes. Don't stop talking. Please don't stop."

"First time with a man," Alastair said. It wasn't a guess anymore. "Say it."

"It's my first." Damon's hands fisted in Alastair's henley. He was shaking and he didn't care. "First gay encounter. I've never—nobody's ever touched me like this. I didn't know it would feel like this. Please. More. I'll do whatever you want. Just don't stop mocking it. I need—" He broke off, humiliating himself further by rutting into that hand again. "I need you to keep going. I want it. I'm asking."

Alastair laughed, low and pleased, and kissed him again, meaner this time, while his fingers kept working that small trapped length through cloth. "Begging already. Good boy. We're going to make this weird for you in the best way. You're going to sit here in this booth and do exactly what I say, and you're going to thank me for noticing how little you've got to work with. Still a yes?"

"Yes." Damon was so hard it ached, so ashamed he could barely look up, and he had never wanted anything more in his life. "Yes. Tell me what to do."

"Pants open." Alastair sat back just enough to watch, one arm stretched along the booth behind Damon's shoulders, the other hand resting heavy on Damon's thigh. The corner was dark. The music covered small sounds. Nobody was looking. "Pull that tiny cock out where I can see it. Slow. I want a good look at what I'm working with before I decide how to use it."

Damon's fingers fumbled the button, the zipper. Cool air hit his stomach. He pushed his pants and briefs down just far enough and drew himself out, and the sight of his own cock in his hand—short, slim, flushed dark at the head, shining at the slit—made his stomach drop and his pulse spike in the same heartbeat. It looked even smaller against Alastair's thigh, against the breadth of the man watching him with open, hungry amusement.

"Hold it up," Alastair said. "Let me see the whole miserable inch of ambition."

Damon did. His hand nearly covered it. A bead of precum welled and caught the low light. Alastair whistled, soft and mocking, and Damon's cock jumped in his own grip.

"Jesus. You get hard and it still looks like it's trying out for the job. Stroke it. Not fast. I didn't say you get to rush. Two fingers and your thumb, nice and slow, from the base to that little wet tip. Count it in your head. One, two, three, four. That's a full stroke on a cock that size. Anything quicker and you're cheating."

Damon obeyed. The drag of his own fingers was almost too much with Alastair's eyes on him. He went slow, the way he'd been told, squeezing lightly, thumb smearing the leak over the head until it shone. His breath came ragged. Every stroke felt enormous and ridiculous at once—so much sensation packed into so little flesh, his hips wanting to chase it, his pride nowhere to be found.

"Look at that," Alastair said, leaning in to watch from inches away. "Pumping your tiny dick like it might grow if you ask nice. It won't. That's all of you, Damon. A pretty face, a tight little body, and a cock I could jerk off with two fingers while I drink a beer. You leaking for me? Yeah, you are. Dripping down over your knuckles because a stranger told you how small you are and your dick agreed. Say it while you stroke. I want to hear you."

"It's small," Damon whispered. His hand kept moving, slow, obedient, the slick sound obscene in the dark. "My dick is tiny. I'm stroking my tiny cock because you told me to. It feels—fuck—it feels so good when you mock it. I can't stop. I don't want to stop."

"Slower." Alastair's voice cracked like a trainer's, and Damon's hand instantly obeyed, dragging the stroke out until his thighs trembled. "Good. Edge yourself on that little thing. Don't you dare cum yet. I haven't even given you something to fuck. Squeeze the head. There. See how it twitches? Desperate. A full-grown man, twenty-eight years old, sitting in a booth with his pants open, milking a cock that wouldn't fill a shot glass, and loving every second of being watched. You know what that makes you?"

"Tell me." Damon was close already, the slow pace somehow worse than speed, pressure building mean and bright behind his balls. He forced his hand to stay lazy. Precum strung between his fingers. "Please tell me."

"It makes you my favorite kind of toy." Alastair spat into his own palm, a thick glistening strand, and worked it between his fingers until his hand shone. He made a fist—tight, the opening of it slick and obscene, held out between them like an offering and a dare. "Stop touching yourself. Hands on the seat. You're done jerking that little dick with your own fingers. From here on you fuck what I give you."

Damon let go. His cock stood out, small and furious and wet, twitching in the air. He gripped the cracked leather on either side of his hips and stared at that huge spit-slick fist, the hole of it dark and tight and waiting.

"This is your pussy for the night," Alastair said, crude and calm, angling the fist so the slick opening kissed the head of Damon's cock. The heat of it made Damon jolt. "Not a hand. A hole. You're going to fuck it like you're desperate, because you are. Push in. All the way. There isn't far to go, is there? That's all right. A tiny dick doesn't need a deep cunt. It needs a mean, tight grip and somebody laughing while it tries."

Damon thrust.

The fist swallowed him in one short stroke—hot, wet, clenched so hard his vision sparked. His whole cock disappeared into Alastair's hand and the heel of that palm bumped his pelvis almost at once, a blunt reminder of how little length he had to give. He groaned, loud enough that he bit it off against his own shoulder, and his hips snapped forward again on instinct.

"There you go," Alastair said, tightening until Damon whimpered. "Fuck it. Harder. I want to feel that little thing fighting for every inch it doesn't have. In and out. Don't get shy now. You begged for more. This is more. Use my fist like the desperate pussy it is and don't you stop until I say."

Damon fucked it. Short, frantic thrusts, the slick choke of spit and muscle dragging over every nerve he owned. Each push seated him completely; each pull dragged him almost free before he slammed back in, chasing friction he couldn't get enough of. The booth creaked under him. His pants bunched at his thighs. Sweat gathered at his hairline. He couldn't look away from the place where his small cock vanished into that big fist, over and over, Alastair's knuckles white with how hard he was squeezing.

"Listen to you," Alastair mocked, voice thick with enjoyment, eyes glittering. "Grunting like you're splitting somebody open. You're not. You're rutting a hand with a cock I can cover with my thumb. Pathetic little thrusts. Hear that wet sound? That's all the pussy you're getting tonight, and you're losing your mind over it. Harder. I said fuck it like you mean it. Make that tiny dick work."

"I'm trying," Damon panted. His hips pistoned, clumsy and eager, the head of his cock catching on the tight ring of fingers every time he drove in. Pleasure climbed so fast it scared him. "It's so tight. You're squeezing—fuck—you're squeezing my whole cock. I can feel every finger. I'm going to—"

"Not yet." Alastair twisted his wrist on the next thrust, a cruel little grind that mashed the sensitive underside against his palm, and Damon cried out, hands clawing the seat. "You cum when I let you. Keep fucking. Look at me while you do it. I want to watch your face when you realize this is the best your little dick has ever had, and it's a stranger's fist in a bar."

Damon looked. Alastair's expression was pure alpha amusement—smirk cutting through the heat, eyes dark, body relaxed like he could do this all night while Damon fell apart. That look hit harder than the fist. Damon thrust harder, chasing it, shame pouring gasoline on the pleasure. His balls drew up. His stomach clenched. The slick sounds got louder, messier, spit and precum mixing until Alastair's fist shone.

"Please," Damon heard himself beg, voice cracking. "Please, I can't hold it. It feels too good. My cock—my tiny cock—it's going to cum. Let me. Let me fuck it till I shoot. I want to cum in your hand. I'm asking. I'm saying yes. Please let me lose it."

"Since you asked so pretty." Alastair's fist clamped down, a perfect brutal sheath, and he held it steady for Damon to use. "Go on, then. Frantic. No rhythm. Just a desperate little stud with nothing to stud with, pounding my fist until you empty out. Cum in my hand. I want every drop of that pathetic load right here where I can show it to you."

Damon lost the last of his control. He fucked Alastair's clenched fist in short, wild thrusts, hips snapping, breath breaking into helpless sounds, the tight wet heat milking him from base to tip on every stroke. The orgasm hit like a wire pulled too tight and cut. He drove in as deep as his small cock could go—which was barely anything, which was everything—and came, pulsing hard, shooting thick spurts into the alpha's waiting palm while Alastair watched his face and didn't look away once.

"That's it," Alastair murmured, working him through it with slow, squeezing strokes now that the frantic part was done, wringing the rest out of him. "Give it up. All of it. Look how much you had stored in that little thing. Messy boy."

Damon shook through the aftershocks, forehead dropped to Alastair's shoulder, cock twitching weakly in the fist until there was nothing left. He was wrecked. Satisfied down to his bones. Humiliated so thoroughly he felt light-headed with it, and he wouldn't have traded a second.

Alastair eased his hand free and held it up between them, palm glistening, Damon's cum streaked across his fingers and pooled in the cup of his hand. He smirked, turning it so the low light caught every wet string.

"See that?" he said. "That's what your tiny dick made. Not bad for a first time. Open your mouth."

Damon opened. Alastair fed him his own cum finger by finger, unhurried, watching Damon's tongue work, and Damon licked every drop off without being asked twice—salt, bitter, his, offered on a stronger man's hand. When the fingers were clean Alastair wiped the last smear across Damon's lower lip and kissed it away, possessive and brief.

"Pants up," he said. "You're done."

Damon fumbled himself back together, legs unsteady, face still burning. Alastair walked him to the edge of the bar's side door, one big hand at the small of his back again, and delivered a sharp, mocking slap to his ass that stung through the fabric and made Damon gasp.

"Go home, first-timer," Alastair said, amused and final. "You came in here nervous and you're leaving with my hand still warm from that little cock. Same booth next Friday—you going to bring that tiny dick back and let me mock it worse, or was one fistful of you enough?"