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 dick 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 dick dampens the stranger's palm. With one hand Stefan grabs onto the bar to hold himself steady; with the other, he dares to touch the stranger's muscled forearm and feel 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 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, 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 away from Stefan's cockhead, an inch or two; 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 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 towards release. When that mouth closes over his bulbous tip, the stranger tongues a