Chapter 2: Claiming in the Workshop
The memory of Nathan’s cock, heavy and warm in his hand, followed Julian for days. It was a phantom weight, a constant suggestion. He found his eyes drifting to the bulge in Nathan’s jeans during meals, when Nathan stretched on the sofa, a bizarre and unwanted fascination taking root.
The numbness was definitely receding, replaced by a low-grade hum of anticipation and dread that felt disturbingly like being alive.
It was a Tuesday afternoon. Julian was wiping down the kitchen counters, a pointless task in Nathan’s perpetually tidy house, when Nathan’s voice came from the doorway to the garage.
“Julian. Workshop. Need a hand sanding a tabletop.”
Julian’s cloth stilled. The workshop. He’d never been invited in. He’d only heard the sounds from behind the closed door: the whine of the saw, the rhythmic thump of the hammer. He nodded, dropping the cloth, and followed.
The air changed the moment he stepped over the threshold. It was cooler, saturated with the clean, sharp scent of pine and oak, undercut by the oily tang of machinery. Dust motes danced in slanted beams of sunlight cutting through grimy windows. The space was orderly chaos—tools hung on pegboards, stacks of lumber lined the walls, and in the center sat a massive, scarred workbench littered with clamps and a half-finished slab of walnut.
Nathan stood by the bench, his back to Julian, examining a planer. He was wearing a faded black t-shirt, the fabric stretched tight across his shoulders. The denim of his jeans was dusted with a fine pale powder.
“Over here,” Nathan said without turning around.
Julian walked further in, the soles of his sneakers gritting on sawdust-covered concrete. He stopped a few feet from the bench. “What do you need me to—”
He didn’t finish the sentence. In one fluid motion, Nathan turned and closed the distance between them. His hands landed on Julian’s shoulders, spinning him around and shoving him forward, chest-first, over the smooth, cool wood of the massive workbench.
A wrench clattered to the floor. Julian’s breath left him in a shocked gasp. His hands scrambled for purchase, fingers slipping on the polished surface.
“I’ve been thinking about this all day,” Nathan growled, his voice a hot vibration against Julian’s ear. One large hand pinned him between the shoulder blades. The other went to the button of Julian’s jeans, popping it open, yanking the zipper down in a harsh rasp.
“Nathan, wait—” Julian choked out, but his protest was smothered as Nathan hauled his jeans and briefs down to his thighs in one rough pull. The cool, dusty air hit his exposed skin. He was completely vulnerable, bent over the bench, his cheek pressed to the wood. He could smell the mineral scent of oil, the sweetness of the walnut.
He heard the click of a cap. Not the one from the bedroom. This was a industrial-sized bottle, kept on a shelf under the bench. Nathan’s knees nudged Julian’s legs wider apart. Then slick, thick fingers were pressing against his hole, circling once, twice, before pushing in without preamble.
Julian cried out, the sound echoing off the high ceiling. It wasn’t the careful, stretching preparation of the bedroom. This was fast, functional, two fingers driving deep, scissoring him open with a ruthless efficiency that burned. Sawdust tickled his nose.
“Fuck, you’re still so tight,” Nathan muttered, his voice thick with something that wasn’t anger, but a fierce, focused hunger. He curled his fingers, pressing against that spot, and Julian’s hips jerked involuntarily. A moan was torn from him, mingling shame and a shocking jolt of raw sensation.
The fingers withdrew. Nathan’s hands went to his own belt. The metallic jingle was loud in the quiet workshop. Julian heard the drag of denim, the rustle of clothing. He squeezed his eyes shut.
Then the blunt, fat head of Nathan’s cock was there, prodding, demanding. It was hotter than the lube. Harder than anything. Nathan didn’t ask. He didn’t coax.
He just shoved.
Julian screamed. The stretch was brutal, a tearing, white-hot agony that forced its way through him. Nathan buried himself to the hilt in one continuous, unstoppable thrust, his hips slamming against Julian’s ass. The workbench shuddered, tools rattling. Julian’s vision swam, his knuckles white where he gripped the edge. He was pinned, speared, split open on a thickness that felt impossible.
“Christ,” Nathan hissed, a shaken exhalation. He stayed buried for a second, letting Julian’s body clench and spasm around him. Then he pulled back and slammed home again.
And again.
He set a punishing rhythm immediately, hard and fast, each drive punching the air from Julian’s lungs. The wood groaned beneath them. The sounds were obscenely loud—the wet slap of skin, Nathan’s grunts, Julian’s ragged, broken cries swallowed by the rough timber under his face.
Nathan’s hand left his back. It wrapped around Julian’s throat, not squeezing, but holding firm, pulling him up so his back arched and his shoulders pressed against Nathan’s solid chest. The new angle was devastating. Nathan’s cock seemed to reach even deeper, grinding directly into that raw, electrified place with every brutal piston of his hips.
“You feel that?” Nathan’s voice was a harsh, hot whisper in his ear. His breath smelled of coffee. “You feel how deep I am in you? In my workshop. In my space.”
Julian couldn’t speak. He could only gasp, his head swimming. The pain was still there, a sharp core, but it was being wrapped in layers of a relentless, building friction that burned through his nerves. His own cock, trapped and ignored against the underside of the workbench, was painfully hard, leaking onto the concrete below.
Nathan’s teeth found the juncture of Julian’s neck and shoulder. He bit down, not hard enough to break skin, but with a possessive finality that made Julian jolt. “You’re mine,” he hissed against the damp skin. “Every part of you. This tight little ass is mine to fuck whenever I want. Say it.”
Tears welled in Julian’s eyes, from pain, from overwhelm, from the terrifying truth of it. He shook his head, a feeble denial.
Nathan’s thrusts became punishing, jarring Julian’s whole body with their force. “Say it.”
“Yours,” Julian gasped, the word ripped from him. “I’m… I’m yours.”
A low, approving rumble vibrated through Nathan’s chest. His hand slid from Julian’s throat down his front, over his stomach, through the trail of hair, until his big, calloused fingers wrapped around Julian’s achingly hard cock.
He didn’t stroke it. He just held it, a firm, hot fist, as he continued to pound into him. The dual sensations—the deep, internal pounding and the tight, unmoving grip—were too much. The coil in Julian’s gut, wound tight by betrayal and numbness and weeks of this relentless re-programming, snapped.
He came with a shattered cry, his body seizing, convulsing around Nathan’s driving cock. It was an untouched orgasm, ripped from him by the sheer, brutal physics of the fucking. Pleasure, sharp and bright and wholly unexpected, detonated at the base of his spine and raced outward, leaving him trembling and boneless.
Feeling him clench and pulse, Nathan lost his rhythm. His thrusts became frantic, animalistic. He slammed into Julian three more times, his grip tightening painfully on Julian’s cock, and then he stilled, buried to the root. A guttural, ragged roar tore from his throat, muffled against Julian’s shoulder. Julian felt the hot, sudden flood inside him, pulse after pulse, filling the space Nathan had carved out.
For a long minute, the only sounds were their heaving breaths and the faint, distant hum of the refrigerator in the house. Nathan slowly softened inside him, his weight heavy on Julian’s back. He withdrew, and Julian winced at the sudden, empty sensation, the feeling of Nathan’s release beginning to seep out of him.
Nathan gently tugged Julian’s jeans back up over his hips, doing the button and zipper with an odd, careful tenderness. He turned Julian around. Julian’s legs nearly buckled. Nathan held him up, his hands firm on Julian’s arms, and looked him in the face.
Julian knew he was a mess—face flushed, eyes wet, sawdust in his hair. He felt raw, used, and profoundly shaken.
Nathan’s gaze was dark, intense, but the fierce hunger had banked into something quieter, more satisfied. He swiped a thumb under Julian’s eye, catching a stray tear. He didn’t smile. He just nodded, once.
“Good,” he said, his voice rough. Then he bent and picked up the wrench that had fallen, placing it back on the bench with a soft clink. “Go clean up. I’ll finish the sanding.”
Julian walked back to the house on unsteady legs. The soreness was different this time—deeper, more thorough. The phantom weight in his hand was gone. Replaced by the visceral, humming memory of that untouched climax, a betrayal by his own body more complete than any other.
In the shower, as the water washed away the sawdust and sweat, he replayed the roar Nathan had let out into his shoulder. It hadn’t sounded like triumph. It had sounded like relief.
Later, as they ate spaghetti in near-silence, Nathan’s foot found Julian’s under the table. He didn’t say a word. He just left it there, a steady, warm pressure.
And Julian, staring at his plate, felt the last of the numbness evaporate. It was replaced by a terrifying, crystal-clear understanding. He wasn’t just living here. He was being rebuilt. And the blueprint was written in the aches of his body and the quiet, possessive pressure on his foot.
The pressure of Nathan’s foot remained, a brand through his sock. Julian twitched, but didn’t pull away. He dragged a noodle through sauce, his appetite gone, replaced by a hollow, buzzing awareness. Every part of him felt reconfigured, his sense of self now orbiting the persistent ache in his ass and the memory of that climax he didn’t ask for.
He washed the dishes. Nathan dried, the domestic rhythm surreal. Water spiraled down the drain, carrying suds and, Julian imagined, traces of what Nathan had left inside him. His skin felt too tight, hypersensitive. When Nathan’s hand brushed his lower back reaching for a plate, Julian’s breath hitched.
“Still sore?” Nathan asked, his tone conversational.
Julian just nodded, staring at the soapy water.
“You will be,” Nathan said, hanging the towel. “Tomorrow, too. Good.”
That single word, ‘good’, lingered in the hallways. It followed Julian to the living room where he pretended to read. It hovered in the bedroom as he changed for bed. Nathan came in later, smelling of toothpaste. He slid under the covers and pulled Julian against him, his palm flattening on Julian’s stomach. He kissed the back of his neck, a dry press of lips.
“My good thing,” he murmured, and sleep took him instantly.
Julian lay awake for hours, parsing the declaration. He wasn’t a person. He was a ‘thing’. A possessed object that had performed well. The numbness was gone, but what replaced it was a form of static, a white noise of acceptance. His body, treacherous and adaptive, already felt the absence between his legs as a waiting emptiness. He fell asleep just before dawn.
The week unfolded within this new blueprint. Nathan fucked him every night with a relentless, proprietary ease. The acts varied—sometimes slow and deep on the bed, other times quick and hard against the bathroom counter. The pain diminished, replaced by a grinding, full-body sensitivity that made his nerves sing. He came every time, now, without Nathan touching his cock. His orgasms were stolen from him, wrested from the sheer mechanical friction of Nathan’s thrusts.
Nathan’s earlier request became a constant refrain. He’d take Julian’s hand and guide it to his hardening length through his jeans as they watched TV. “Think about it,” he’d say, his voice low. Or he’d stand close in the kitchen, his formidable bulge at Julian’s eye level, and ask, “You getting used to the idea?” He was patient, but his patience was a steady, inescapable pressure.
Saturday morning arrived, washed in clean, cold light. Julian was making coffee when Nathan walked in, fully dressed. He came to stand beside Julian at the counter, not touching him.
“Today’s the day,” Nathan said. It wasn’t a question.
Julian’s hand stilled on the coffee pot. The buzzing static in his head focused to a single, piercing note. He looked at Nathan. Nathan’s expression was calm, open, but his eyes were dark with intent.
“I don’t know how,” Julian said, the admission leaving him in a whisper.
“I’ll show you.” Nathan took the pot from his hand and set it down. He led Julian not to the bedroom, but to the living room sofa. He sat down, his knees apart. The bright morning light fell across his lap. “Come here. Kneel.”
Julian’s limbs moved stiffly. The floor was hard under his knees. He was level with Nathan’s waist. The denim strained over his cock, already thick and半硬. The sheer size of the outline was intimidating. Julian’s mouth went dry.
Nathan unbuttoned his jeans slowly. He peeled the fabric back. His cock sprang free, heavy and full, lying against his stomach. It was flushed a deep red, thick with prominent veins, the head broad and damp. Julian stared. He had felt it, taken it inside him countless times now, but seeing it like this was different. It was a fact of monumental, fleshy power.
“Touch it,” Nathan instructed, his voice soft.
Julian reached out. His fingers trembled. He wrapped them around the base. The skin was hot and silken over a core of absolute hardness. It twitched in his hand. A bead of clear fluid welled from the slit. Nathan let out a slow breath.
“Now look at it. Really look.” Nathan’s hand came to cradle the back of Julian’s head, not pushing, just holding. “This is what you’ve been taking. This is what makes you feel good. Get used to the sight of it.”
Julian obeyed. He saw the ruddy color, the subtle pulse, the way his own fist looked small wrapped around the girth. He smelled Nathan’s musk, clean and sharp and utterly masculine. His own cock stirred in his sweats, a traitorous echo.
“Your mouth, Julian.” Nathan’s thumb stroked behind his ear. “I want to feel your mouth. Just the head. That’s all.”
Julian’s heart hammered against his ribs. He felt a dizzying drop in his stomach, a plunge from a great height. He leaned forward slightly. The broad head nudged against his lips. They were chapped. He opened them.
The taste was salty, musky, profoundly intimate. He flinched but didn’t pull back. He let the fat head rest on his lower lip.
“Good,” Nathan whispered, his fingers threading into Julian’s hair. “Now suck. Gently.”
Julian closed his lips, forming a loose ring. He drew the crown into his mouth. The texture was smooth, the taste more concentrated. He sucked, tentatively. A low groan vibrated from Nathan’s chest. The sound went straight to Julian’s groin.
“Yeah. Just like that. Use your tongue.”
Julian licked the sensitive underside, exploring the slit. More fluid leaked onto his tongue. The act was shockingly lewd, kneeling in the sunlight, yet a strange, quiet focus descended on him. This was a task. A thing he could do, or fail to do. Nathan’s quiet, approving sounds were feedback. His hand in Julian’s hair was guidance.
“More,” Nathan breathed, his hips shifting minutely. “Take a little more. Slow.”
Julian relaxed his jaw, letting another inch slide past his lips. The stretch was unfamiliar, a filling of a different cavity. He breathed harshly through his nose, the scent of Nathan enveloping him. He bobbed his head slightly, finding a rhythm, his tongue working constantly.
Nathan’s control began to fray. His grip in Julian’s hair tightened, not painfully, but with decisive ownership. “Fuck, your mouth is perfect. So soft. Take it deeper now. Go on.”
He didn’t force him. He waited. Julian, his mind blank, surrendered to the directive. He lowered his head, taking more of the length. The thick shaft pressed against the roof of his mouth, then the back of his tongue. His jaw ached. His eyes watered. He gagged, a reflex, pulling back with a wet, choking sound.
“Shhh, it’s okay.” Nathan’s other hand came up to stroke his cheek. “Breathe. Just breathe. Now again. Get it wet. Make it nice and slick for me.”
Julian went back down, saliva coating the length. This time, he pushed past the reflex. The head nudged the entrance to his throat. The feeling of total invasion was profound, overwhelming. He was filled at both ends now—his mind by the scent and taste and weight of Nathan, his body by the cock breaching his throat.
Nathan began to move. Small, shallow thrusts at first, just fucking the wet cavern of his mouth. “That’s it. Oh, yeah. Just like that. You’re sucking my cock so good.”
The filthy praise, delivered in that calm, rough voice, ignited something in Julian’s gut. A desperate, humiliating heat. He relaxed his throat, letting Nathan set the pace. The thrusts grew deeper, more rhythmic. The sounds were obscene: wet sucks, gagging hitches, Nathan’s ragged groans. Tears streamed down Julian’s face freely now, dripping off his chin.
Nathan was fully sheathed in his throat, holding there, when his rhythm snapped. “Gonna come,” he warned, his voice strained and dark. “Swallow it. Take it all.”
He pulled back to the head and then shoved forward one last, deep time. Julian felt the violent pulse against his tongue, then the hot, salty rush flooding his mouth. He gagged, convulsed, but swallowed instinctively, again and again, until Nathan was spent.
Nathan slowly slipped from his lips. Julian slumped back on his heels, gasping, strings of saliva and come on his chin. He wiped his mouth with the back of a shaking hand. He felt shattered, utterly debased.
Nathan tucked himself away, his breathing evening out. He looked down at Julian, his eyes soft, satiated. He leaned forward and cupped Julian’s damp, tear-streaked face. He kissed his forehead, a gesture so tender it was more disorienting than the act itself.
“Perfect,” Nathan said. He stood, pulling Julian up with him. “Coffee’s cold. I’ll make more.”
Julian stood in the sunlit room, the taste of Nathan lingering on his tongue, the blueprint inside him irrevocably altered. He was no longer just a thing to be fucked. He was a mouth to be used. And, a treacherous part of him whispered as he watched Nathan move calmly in the kitchen, he had been perfect.