Chapter 17: Malled
The lingering scent of sandalwood body wash couldn't compete with the raw hunger radiating off Mike as he watched Trent drain his smoothie glass. Trent slammed the empty tumbler down, a predatory glint in his eye. "Let's not wait. I want my Daddy to feel his fantasy as soon as possible. Today." He licked a stray purple droplet from his lip. "How about a mall trip? We'll git the biggest one, it's only an hour north."
Mike felt his cock twitch against his sweatpants, the images of tight denim and booty shorts still vivid. "Right now?!" he exclaimed, clearly excited.
Trent closed the distance, his hand sliding possessively over Mike’s thick pec, thumb brushing a nipple. Mike sighed, the sensitive nub hardening instantly. "Right now," Trent confirmed. "let's keep that energy high." He leaned in, biting Mike’s earlobe sharply. "Get your wallet. We leave in five."
The drive was a torturous exercise in restraint. The powerful car hummed beneath them, leather seats warm from the sun, but the air crackled with unspent lust. Mike’s hand drifted towards Trent’s thigh, fingers brushing the thick denim covering Trent’s powerful quad. "Your cock looked fucking huge straining in these jeans," Mike murmured, his own erection pressing uncomfortably against his zipper. His fingers crept higher, aiming for the prominent bulge.
Trent’s hand snapped down, catching Mike’s wrist in a vice-like grip before it reached its target. "I need to keep my eyes and attention on the road, Daddy," Trent said, his voice calm but carrying an edge of steel. He didn’t release the grip immediately, his thumb pressing into Mike’s pulse point. "Control. Just a little longer. Save it." He finally let go, placing Mike’s hand firmly back on his knee. "You know me, I can fuck all day, mostly. But sometimes we need to build the pressure. It sometimes makes the release sweeter. Mixes things up." Mike groaned, shifting in his seat, the ache in his balls intensifying. He focused on the highway, the hum of the engine, the scent of Trent’s cologne – anything but the massive outline pressing against Trent’s zipper inches away.
The mall engulfed them – a cavernous expanse of polished floors reflecting harsh fluorescent lights, a cacophony of chatter, piped pop music, and the clatter of shopping bags. The air hung thick with the sickly-sweet smell of Cinnabon and the synthetic tang of cheap perfume. Trent navigated the streams of people with ease, his tall frame cutting a path, heading straight for a high-end denim store known for its unforgiving fits.
Inside, the atmosphere was quieter, cooler. Racks held dark washes and rigid fabrics. Trent moved with purpose, pulling pairs of jeans – slim fits, skinny, tapered – all designed to showcase an ass and package. He held up a particularly dark pair. "These. Wranglers. Classic. And they’ll make your ass look like a fucking shelf." He added a thick, heavy leather belt with a large, ornate silver buckle. "Try these."
The changing room corridor was narrow, lined with identical dark doors. Trent glanced around, the corridor momentarily empty. "Number three," he hissed, shoving Mike inside the small cubicle and slipping in after him before the door clicked shut, plunging them into dim, muffled quiet. The cramped space was filled with the rustle of fabric and their breathing.
Mike fumbled with his belt, the anticipation knotting his stomach. He got his jeans and underwear off, standing naked except for his socks, his sturdy cock jutting out, leaking precum onto the carpeted floor. Trent pushed him firmly against the cool mirror, facing away. "Stay." He grabbed the new Wranglers. "Lift." Mike obeyed, holding his foot aloft. Trent yanked the stiff denim up Mike’s hairy legs, the rough fabric scraping. They were tight. Brutally tight. They hugged Mike’s thick thighs like a second skin, the waistband snug, the seam digging deliberately into the cleft of his ass, forcing his cheeks apart slightly. The denim cupped his heavy balls and thick cock, outlining every contour obscenely.
"Fuck," Trent breathed, running his hands over the denim-clad ass, squeezing the firm globes. "Perfect." He spun Mike around to face the mirror. Mike stared. The jeans sculpted him, making his legs look powerful, his ass prominent and rounded, his bulge pronounced under the stiff fabric. The belt cinched his waist, emphasizing his thick torso. Trent stepped close behind him, pressing his own hard cock against Mike’s denim-clad ass. One hand snaked around to palm Mike’s bulge through the denim, the other undid his own jeans, freeing his massive erection. "Gotta see how they feel... broken in," Trent growled in his ear.
Before Mike could react, Trent had shoved the stiff denim waistband down just enough to expose the top curve of his ass cheeks. He released a glob of spit into Mike’s exposed crack. "I gotta have you, Daddy. Bend for me." Mike obeyed, gripping the safety rail bolted to the wall, presenting his ass, the denim stretched taut across his upper thighs. Trent didn’t hesitate. He dropped to his knees, buried his face between Mike’s spread cheeks, and licked a thick, wet glaze from Mike’s balls straight up to his tailbone. Mike gasped, his head thumping against the mirror. Trent’s tongue was relentless, spearing past the tight ring of muscle, fucking deep into Mike’s hole with wet, sloppy thrusts. He sucked hard on the pucker, pulling it out, making it swell under his lips. The slurping was quieter than usual, a necessary absence in the confined space. Mike moaned, low and guttural, pushing back against the invasion, the rough denim chafing his inner thighs.
Trent feasted, his tongue working in that familiar, possessive intensity. "Such a hungry pussy hole," Trent murmured, his lips vibrating against Mike’s sensitive flesh. "Can’t wait to wreck it in these jeans." He delivered a sharp slap to Mike’s denim-clad ass cheek, the sound echoing. "Clench for me, Daddy." Mike obeyed, the muscles tightening around Trent’s probing tongue, earning another groan from his stepson. Footsteps passed outside the door. Trent froze, his tongue still buried deep. Mike held his breath. The steps faded. Trent resumed with renewed vigour, sucking and slurping until Mike’s hole was a wet, puffy mess, glistening and open. He finally stood, wiping his chin, tucking his hard cock away. "Keep them on," he ordered, his voice rough. He tossed Mike his old clothes. "We're definitely buying two of these. They stay on you." Mike pulled his t-shirt back on over the open jeans, leaving the belt undone, the denim clinging obscenely. He felt the slickness between his cheeks, the persistent ache of Trent’s attentions. They bought the jeans and belt.
Two more stores followed. A high-street fashion outlet yielded tailored flannel shirts – Trent chose one in deep burgundy and another in navy check, insisting Mike try them open over a white vest. In a corner near the knitwear, Trent crowded Mike against a rack of chunky sweaters. "Flannel feels good?" Trent murmured, his hand sliding inside the open shirt, fingers teasing Mike’s nipple through the thin vest. Mike sucked in a breath, his cock straining against the stiff denim. "Fuck, Trent..." Trent pinched the nipple hard, rolling it, sending sparks of pleasure-pain radiating through Mike’s chest. "Gotta test the fabric," Trent grinned, leaning close as if inspecting the shirt placket. His other hand drifted down, palming Mike’s thick bulge through the Wranglers, his thumb finding the sensitive head through the denim and rubbing in tight circles. Mike’s knees nearly buckled, a strangled groan escaping him. A sales assistant walked past, oblivious, humming along to the store music. Trent kept rubbing, his eyes locked on Mike’s, until Mike’s hips jerked, a wet spot blooming on the dark denim. Trent reached his hand inside the waistband, returning with wet, sticky fingers. "Clean", he whispered. Mike ducked down and sucked Trent's fingers until his cum was gone. "Good," Trent breathed, releasing him, kissing him deeply, leaving Mike flushed and trembling. They bought the flannels and some thin, tight-knit sweaters Trent insisted would showcase Mike’s developing tits.
The last stop was a utilitarian basics store. Trent loaded a basket: packs of stark white jockstraps, skimpy black thongs, and skin-tight ribbed cotton vests in white and black. Mike watched, his spent cock stirring again at the thought of Trent peeling him into the tiny garments. As Trent headed for the checkout, Mike touched his arm. "Ok, it's my turn. Something for you. Can you give me 15?" Trent paused and looked at him, squinting. He shrugged. "I'll put the bags in the car and meet you at the Cinnabon". Mike slipped away, weaving through the crowds back towards the electronics megastore he’d spotted earlier.
Inside, he found the workstation section. He pointed to the powerful desktop setup he’d seen earlier: twin high-resolution monitors, a sleek tower humming with processing power, a professional-grade keyboard and mouse on an ergonomic L-shaped desk, with matching adjustable chair. "That one," he told the wide-eyed sales kid. "Is it possible to get it delivered, assembled, and set up today? At this address?" The young man said it wouldn't be cheap for same day, but it's possible. He handed over his card – Trent had spent so much on him and he desperately wanted to return the favour – and added a hefty cash tip. "Before six." The kid stammered an agreement. Worth every penny. Trent deserved the best tools for their project.
Mike’s phone buzzed as he exited the store. A message from Trent: The Cinnabon's are looking tasty. He found him leaning against the wall near a kiosk radiating the scent of warm buttery cinnamon and sugar. Trent’s eyes were dark, predatory. He took Mike’s arm without a word, steering him firmly past the queue of families and teenagers, straight towards the sign for the restrooms.
The men’s room was large, tiled in cold white, echoing with the drip of a faucet and the low hum of extraction fans. Two guys stood at the urinals. Trent pushed Mike towards one, taking the space beside him. "Piss," he ordered under his breath. Mike fumbled with the stiff jeans, freeing his cock, trying to aim despite the furious pounding of his heart. He couldn’t go. He glanced sideways. Trent wasn’t pissing. He had his thick, flaccid cock out, stroking it slowly, deliberately, making it swell in his large hand. He met Mike’s gaze, a challenge in his eyes. Watch. Mike stared, transfixed, as Trent’s hand worked, pulling the foreskin back, revealing the plum-dark head, thumbing the slit. It hardened rapidly, becoming the massive weapon Mike knew intimately. The other men zipped up, washed hands, left without a glance. The door swung shut behind them. Silence, except for the dripping tap and Trent’s low groan as his cock reached full, intimidating hardness.
Before Mike could react, Trent moved behind him, the Wranglers yanked down to his thighs. Trent gazed directly at his exposed, still-sensitive hole. "Stay quiet," he commanded, dropping to his knees. He didn’t tease. He buried his face, his tongue spearing deep into Mike’s asshole with a wet, intrusive shloop. Mike gasped, biting his lip, the sensation overwhelming after the lingering sensitivity from the changing room. Trent ate him aggressively, no finesse, just raw hunger, sucking and slurping at the puckered flesh, fucking him open with his tongue, his nose buried deep in Mike’s cleft. The sounds echoed – wet, rhythmic, obscene. Mike trembled, gripping the edge of the urinal, stifling moans into his forearm pressed against the tile.
Thunk. Creak.
The distinct sound of a heavy door unlatching cut through the wet noises. Trent froze, his tongue still deep inside Mike. Mike froze. Slowly, Trent withdrew, turning his head.
The door of the large, accessible cubicle directly behind them stood open. The man inside wasn’t disabled. He was the rugged, ginger-haired guy they’d noticed earlier pushing a stroller with a weary-looking woman. Stocky, built like a farmhand with thick forearms visible under rolled-up plaid sleeves. Rough, masculine features under messy ginger stubble. He stood just inside the cubicle, legs planted wide, his average-sized cock hard in his fist, steadily stroking it. His eyes, a startling pale blue, were locked unblinkingly on Trent and Mike. He didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Just watched, his fist pumping his shaft with deliberate, rough strokes.
Trent stood up slowly, wiping his mouth, his own massive cock jutting obscenely. A slow, dangerous smile spread across his face. He didn’t break eye contact with the ginger man. "Looks like we’ve got an audience, Daddy," he murmured, his voice thick with arousal. He jerked his head towards the cubicle. "Inside. Now." He pushed Mike towards the open door.
The ginger man stepped back wordlessly, sitting heavily on the closed toilet lid, never stopping the slow pump of his cock. His eyes flickered between Trent and Mike’s exposed ass. Trent pulled Mike into the larger space, the door swinging closed behind them, Trent locking it shut. It smelled of disinfectant and male sweat.
Trent gently pushed Mike forward, the stiff denim still bunched around his thighs, making him to stumble slightly towards the stranger. "Make yourself useful, Daddy. Suck his cock. Keep you quiet." Trent’s hand landed possessively on the back of Mike’s neck, pushing him down towards the waiting cock. "Open wide."
Mike didn’t hesitate. The command bypassed thought, hitting pure obedience. He dropped to his knees on the cool tile floor, the coarse denim scraping his skin. The man’s gaze never wavered, watching Mike approach. Mike wrapped his calloused fingers around the base of the man’s shaft. It felt almost laughably manageable compared to the thick, veined monster Trent possessed – solid, warm, a familiar weight in his hand, but comfortably sized. He leaned in, his moustache brushing against wiry ginger pubes, and engulfed the entire nearly six inch cock with ease. A low groan rumbled from the man’s chest as Mike’s lips sealed around him.
The taste was salt and musk, clean sweat. Mike hollowed his cheeks, sliding down the shaft with practised ease. It was straightforward, uncomplicated, the entire length fitting comfortably into his mouth and throat without strain. He relaxed into the rhythm, a wet, sucking sound filling the small space, his head bobbing steadily. Above him, the man’s breathing hitched. Rough, calloused fingers, smelling faintly of engine grease, found Mike’s chest through the thin vest and open flannel shirt. They pinched at his right nipple through the fabric, rolling it hard between thumb and forefinger. Mike moaned around the cock in his mouth, the sharp twist of pleasure-pain sparking down his spine. Precum leaked freely from his own swollen cockhead, dripping onto the tiled floor.
Behind Mike, Trent watched, his own massive shaft twitching. He dropped to his knees, his broad shoulders filling the space. "Yeah, Daddy, suck that dick," he murmured, his voice hot against Mike’s exposed ass cheek. "Bet it feels like nothin' after takin' mine." Without preamble, Trent’s tongue speared back into Mike’s stretched, wet hole. A wet, sloppy squelch accompanied the deep intrusion. Trent feasted anew, his lips and tongue working the puffy rim with obscene fervour, slurping and sucking, his nose pressed deep into Mike’s cleft. The double sensation – the cock filling his mouth, Trent’s tongue ravishing his ass – drowned Mike's senses. He sucked harder on the ginger man’s shaft, bobbing faster, the man’s fingers twisting his nipples relentlessly, sending jolts through him.
Trent pulled his mouth away with a wet pop, fingers replacing his tongue, plunging two, then three digits knuckle-deep into Mike’s slick channel. "Fuck, your hole’s suckin' my fingers in," Trent rasped, scissoring them. "You’re gonna cum quick, aren’t ya, bitch? Feel that?" He curled his fingers, pressing hard against the swollen gland inside. Mike screamed almost silently around the cock in his mouth, his body jerking violently, stars exploding behind his eyelids. His orgasm ripped through him, untouched, a hot, thick stream of cum pulsing from his sturdy cock onto the tile floor beneath him, his ass clenching wildly around Trent’s thrusting fingers.
The sudden convulsion, the wet heat of Mike’s climax milking his fingers, triggered the stranger. With a guttural groan, the man bucked his hips upwards, shoving his cock deeper into Mike’s throat. "Fuck yeah, take it!" the man grunted, his fingers digging into Mike’s shoulder. Hot, salty spurts flooded Mike’s mouth as the man came, thick pulses hitting the back of his throat. Mike swallowed convulsively, the taste sharp and bitter.
Trent watched Mike swallow another man’s load, his own control snapping. He ripped his fingers from Mike’s clenching hole, slick with lube and spit. He grabbed his own enormous cock, the purple head glistening with precum, and lined it up with Mike’s gaping, ruined entrance. "Gonna fill you proper now, Daddy," he snarled. He slammed home in one brutal thrust, forcing his thick girth past the puffy, stretched ring, burying himself to the balls. The force drove Mike forward, his face pressing into the ginger man’s thick pecs, who encircled Mike's shoulders, keeping him steady. Trent set a punishing pace immediately, short, jackhammer thrusts that punched the air from Mike’s lungs, his balls slapping wetly against Mike’s cum-smeared ass. "My fuckin' hole!" Trent growled through gritted teeth, gripping Mike’s hips, driving impossibly deeper. "Take my fuckin' seed!" With three more savage thrusts, Trent buried himself to the root and held, roaring into his puffed cheeks as his cock pulsed, pumping thick ropes of cum deep into Mike’s battered channel. The hot flood triggered aftershocks in Mike’s spent cock, a final dribble escaping. Trent slumped over Mike’s back, breathing raggedly, his softening cock still plugged deep.
Silence descended, broken only by harsh breathing and the drip of the tap outside. The ginger man pushed Mike’s head off his chest with a grunt. Trent pulled out slowly, a thick stream of milky white fluid immediately leaking from Mike’s reddened hole, running down his thighs and joining the mess on the floor. He tucked himself away, zipping his jeans. He pulled a sleek black business card from his wallet and pressed it into the ginger man’s damp palm as the man stood, tucking himself away. "That's us, if you ever need," Trent said, his voice rough but calm. The man glanced at the card, then back at Trent, a flicker of something unreadable in his pale eyes. He nodded once, pocketed the card, and unlocked the cubicle door, walking out without a backward glance, leaving the door ajar.
They cleaned up hastily with damp paper towels, the silence heavy. Mike pulled up his Wranglers, almost enjoying the chafe and the deep ache. Trent adjusted his own clothes. They walked out into the mall corridor, the bright lights and noise jarring after the cubicle’s intensity. Without speaking, they joined the Cinnabon queue. The sickly-sweet aroma of icing sugar and cinnamon was overwhelming. Trent bought a full box of six. It was 2:30 PM.
The drive home was quiet, the scent of warm cinnamon rolls filling the car, sharing a bag of roasted almonds to stave off the temptation to inhale the buns. Mike stared out the window, the physical sensations – the ache in his ass, the lingering taste of the stranger, the ghost of fingers on his nipple – an interesting counterpoint to the surreal normality of suburban traffic. They pulled into the driveway just after 3:30 PM.
In the kitchen, Trent brewed strong coffee while Mike arranged the gooey buns on a plate. "Fuckin' rare treat, these," Trent muttered, grabbing one and tearing off a huge, icing-laden chunk. "But we earned it today." They ate in comfortable silence at the breakfast bar, the sugar rush a counterpoint to their exhaustion.
Half an hour later, the doorbell chimed. Trent frowned, not expecting anything. Mike ran to the door first. Two men in plain grey overalls stood there with a large, flat-pack trolley loaded with boxes. "Delivery for Mike," one stated blandly. Mike directed them to the living room. They worked with quiet efficiency, assembling the sleek L-shaped desk, setting up the powerful twin monitors, the humming tower, the ergonomic chair. They plugged in cables, tested the screens. Throughout, they barely glanced at Trent or Mike, their movements impersonal. Trent watched, stunned, leaning against the wall, a half-eaten Cinnabon forgotten in his hand.
"Mike...?" he finally managed, his voice thick. "This... an editing rig? Fuck, this is top tier." He walked around the setup, running a hand over the cool metal of the chair. The installers finished, handing Mike a clipboard to sign. "All set," the lead man said, expression neutral. They packed their tools and left without another word.
Trent stared at the gleaming setup, then at Mike, genuine awe on his face. He’d orchestrated the clothes, the filming, the fucking – always the initiator. This... this was Mike stepping up, understanding the need, taking action. "You did this?" Trent breathed. Mike nodded, a small, proud smile touching his lips. "Wanted you to know you're appreciated. Proper tools for the best editor," he said as he came up behind Trent and hugged him. The raw gratitude in Trent’s eyes was overwhelming. He loved this – Mike asserting himself, surprising him, investing in their thing.
Just as the delivery van pulled away, Trent’s expression shifted back to familiar, dark possessiveness. He pointed to the plush cushions on the sofa. "Grab one of those," Trent commanded, his voice dropping low. "Keep it under the desk." He strode towards the new chair, already pulling his shirt off over his head. "You're gonna be suckin' my dick while I edit that raw footage from yesterday." He sat down heavily, the chair sighing under his weight, and started unbuttoning his jeans. Mike met his gaze, heat flaring anew in his belly. They shared a look – a spark of shared filth, promise, and ownership. Mike snatched up the cushion. Together, they hurried towards the desk, Mike already dropping to his knees. Behind them, faintly, the sound of the delivery men’s laughter drifted back from the driveway before their van door slammed shut.