Chapter 1: A Predator's Smirk
Dominic tugged at his shirt collar in the small hallway mirror, the fabric clinging damply beneath his arms. He’d changed three times already, twice to replace the tight undershirt he always wore, and again to change the top. He always got so nervous when first meeting a new mentee. The polo was big enough to give some camouflage to the swell of his chest, unruly even under the tighter layer, and better than the button-down, but its knit felt suffocating in the afternoon heat shimmering through the bay window. He glanced down, adjusting the fabric over his swollen looking pectorals, if you could call them that, a familiar prickle of shame warming his neck. Just man-boobs, the doctor had said years ago, gynecomastia, harmless. Harmless, maybe. Humiliating, absolutely. Paired with the other… inadequacy… it felt like a cosmic joke written on his body.
He'd considered surgery. He'd had referrals and consultations and was so excited to get the damned things removed, to get rid of those shame-inducing, pendulous monstrosities. But then his heart trouble had started. Unusual palpitations, seemingly unrelated to anything. The doctor had prescribed a short course of beta blockers, told him to get fitter, and it all calmed down. Hilary, his wife, had convinced him to not go ahead with the surgery, worrying about exacerbating his condition. She couldn't bear to lose him, she'd said. And that had sealed it for him. Her concerns were paramount. It's the rule he'd always lived by and it had seen him right over the years.
His gaze drifted over the comforting chaos of his office – his sanctuary. Piles of paperwork fought for space with brochures for fiberglass pools and water features. The worn leather armchair by the window bore the permanent imprint of his stocky frame. On the small, cluttered desk beside a sleek, rarely-used laptop sat his three "Pillar of the Community" awards. Each one, larger than the previous, neatly encapsulated the rise of his reputation with his peers and those he'd helped. He’d built a good life. Semi-retired now, pool business ticking over nicely.
His wife Hilary, bless her, was happy. She was his rock. Always busy, rarely a bother. She was in the garden now, her silver hair, softly waved and cut just above her shoulders, framed her face like a halo. Wisps escaped, catching the light and adding to the overall impression of gentle disarray. Her face was a roadmap of a life well-lived. Fine lines radiated from the corners of her eyes, deepening when she smiled, and etched a delicate pattern around her mouth. Her skin, though showing its age, still held a hint of rosiness, a testament to her enduring health. She wore a pair of tortoiseshell glasses that magnified her eyes, giving them a clear, intelligent sparkle. They were the eyes of someone who had seen much, understood more, and never lost her sense of wonder. Her posture was always straight, her shoulders held high, a quiet statement of resilience. There was a calmness about her, a serenity that came from years of navigating life's joys and sorrows. She always seemed at peace with herself and her surroundings, a woman who had learned to appreciate the beauty in every moment, finding an uplifting gratitude in almost everything she did. And he was grateful for her.
He just wished he could mirror that same joy and enthusiasm back at her. He felt dull and uninspired next to her. She never said anything, but he felt that slight emptiness. Mentoring helped. Taking on the ‘difficult’ lads, the ones others gave up on. Offering stability, a listening ear. Seeing them straighten out, check in years later, that filled a hole. Mostly.
The doorbell chimed, deep and resonant. He startled, cursing himself for getting lost in thought again. Ruminating. Right. Daveed Abadi. Twenty-one. A little older than he usually took on, but his mother had been desperate, voice tight on the phone. She'd said he was difficult. Angry since his father had died; an army man, from the Middle East originally. She said she felt he needed a firm hand, a male influence. And his name had been recommended. How could he say no to such a dire need? Dominic took a deep, steadying breath, reflexively pulled his polo away from his chest, and went to answer.
The young man on the doorstep seemed to suck the oxygen out of the hallway.
He leaned against the doorframe, the casual pose barely concealing the power that rippled beneath his skin. He was dressed in simple grey sweatpants and a white tank top, an outfit that did little to hide the sculpted physique beneath. His eyes were dark and intense, framed by thick, perfectly groomed brows that hinted at a fiery insistence simmering just below the surface.
His hair was a dark, glossy wave, carefully styled to frame his face. A neatly trimmed beard traced the line of his jaw, adding a touch of ruggedness to his otherwise refined features. His skin was smooth and dark, hinting at his Arabic heritage.
The tank top clung to his broad chest, showcasing the well-defined pectoral muscles and the hint of dark hair that peeked out from the neckline. His shoulders were wide and powerful, leading down to arms that were thick with muscle. The veins that traced the surface of his biceps and forearms were a roadmap of strength.
His waist was lean and defined, a stark contrast to the bulge straining against the grey sweatpants. The fabric clung to him, leaving little to the imagination, highlighting the hard lines of his thighs and the prominent swell he was barely concealing. It was a blatant and unnecessary to Dominic, a sign of an arrogant attitude, he thought.
His hands were casually tucked into his pockets and he exuded an air of confidence and self-assurance, a man who knew exactly what he wanted and how to get it. His gaze was direct and unwavering, a silent challenge that dared you to meet his eyes. He was a predator in waiting, a force of nature barely contained, so it was no wonder that he would likely be the centre of a lot of trouble. Dominic had seen this before, more often than not.
"Mr. Wheatley." His voice was deeper than expected, smooth.
"Daveed. Come in, come in." Dominic stepped back, gesturing awkwardly. "Make yourself at home. Tea? Coffee?"
Daveed stepped past him, slowly wiping his expensive-looking trainers on the mat. His movements were unhurried, predatory. He scanned the hallway, glanced into the living room, his gaze lingering on the family photos, the slightly dated furniture, before drifting towards the open door of the office. "Nice place." The words held no warmth.
"Thanks. Office is just through there," Dominic said, too quickly. He followed Daveed, feeling like an afterthought in his own home.
Daveed entered the office and stopped just inside the doorway. He didn’t look at the desk or notice the awards, his certificates and curios all ignored for now. His focus was entirely on Dominic. That piercing blue gaze travelled slowly down Dominic’s body, paused deliberately at his chest, then lifted back to his face. Dominic felt a fresh wave of heat flood his cheeks and neck. He resisted the urge to cross his arms.
Dominic was sixty-three, his short, crew cut hair a silvering landscape, white streaks cutting through the remaining dark like snow on a rugged mountain range. He wore round, silver framed spectacles. He carried himself with a hesitant grace, as if apologising for the space he occupied. His shyness was palpable, a cloak he wore to hide a body he’d long been taught to despise. But people always liked him. He was easy, unthreatening and sometimes just unnoticeable.
But beneath that cloak lay a voluptuousness he feared and hated. Dominic was built like a Rubens painting come to life. His chest, always hidden beneath layers of shirts, was a soft, yielding expanse of flesh. Large, useless, pillowy breasts, dusted with a sparse scattering of silvered hairs, spilled over his belly, each tipped with nipples that had always been lifeless and ignored. His stomach, a gentle slope of warmth and softness.
His thighs were thick and solid, a testament to a life lived, of gardening, house maintenance and a fondness for long walks. His buttocks were generous curves that on some might promise a world of sensation, but were always hidden under voluminous pants.
"Cozy," Daveed remarked. He took a few steps in, running a finger along the edge of the desk, starting to pay attention to Dominic's randomly curated space. He picked up the larger of the three awards on his desk, running his finger along the length. He put it down without comment and turned to face Dominic fully. "My mum says you fix problem lads." He leaned back against the desk, arms loosely folded. The pose accentuated his physique. Dominic couldn’t help but note the difference – Daveed’s chest was hard definition under the thin cotton; his own felt soft, betraying him beneath the excessive drape of the polo.
Dominic cleared his throat. "I wouldn't say 'fix', exactly. I mentor. Offer some guidance. Life experience." He moved towards his leather chair, needing the solidity of it behind him. "Your mother mentioned your father passed. That must have been tough."
Daveed shrugged, a ripple of muscle. "Long time ago. Army. Didn't know him much." His eyes flickered over Dominic again, lingering. "You get a lot of lads like me? Lost causes?" He asked as he crossed his legs at the ankles, framing the bulge in his sweatpants even more clearly.
"Nobody's a lost cause, Daveed." Dominic sank into the chair. The worn leather creaked familiarly. "Everyone just needs a new perspective sometimes. A steady influence."
Daveed pushed off the desk and took a slow step closer. The small room suddenly felt much smaller. Dominic caught a faint, expensive scent – citrus and something woody. "A. New. Perspective." Daveed repeated the word slowly, as if tasting it. He stopped directly in front of Dominic’s chair, looking down at him. Dominic had to crane his neck slightly. "And what kind of perspective do you offer, Mr. Wheatley? Business advice? How to sell a pool?" His gaze dropped again, unmistakably, to Dominic’s chest. "Or maybe something more personal?"
Dominic’s throat tightened. The air felt thick, hard to breathe. He gripped the arms of the chair. "I… I share my experiences. Some of them personal, surely. I help young men find their footing. Make better choices." The words sounded hollow, defensive, even to himself.
Daveed’s smirk widened, devoid of humor. He leaned in, just slightly, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. "See, the thing is, Mr. Wheatley…" He paused, letting the silence stretch, his eyes locked onto Dominic's. "...you aren't the only one who has experience mentoring people..." he began to wander the room, aimlessly studying whatever his eyes fell upon. "I'm very good at spotting men who haven't made the best choices. Men who feel… unfulfilled. Like there's a whole world out there they've never touched." His gaze swept pointedly down Dominic’s body once more, a slow, deliberate inventory. "Men who spend a lot of time hiding. So I understand where you're coming from"
Dominic’s heart hammered against his ribs. It was like being X-rayed, every buried insecurity laid bare by this unnerving boy. The carefully constructed persona of the stable mentor, the successful businessman, the contented husband – it felt paper-thin under that blue stare. He felt exposed, more vulnerable than he had in years. Paralyzed. This wasn't a troubled youth needing guidance. This was something else entirely. Something dangerous.
Daveed straightened up, the smirk settling back into place. He glanced around the cluttered office again, his expression unreadable. "Well. This has been… illuminating." He turned and walked towards the door, his movements fluid and assured. He paused in the doorway, half-turning back. His full, thick ass checks tightly stretching the grey cotton. That predatory gaze fixed on Dominic one last time, a silent, unnerving challenge hanging in the air between them. He didn't speak. Just held Dominic frozen in that leather chair with the weight of his knowing, assessing stare. Then he was gone, his footsteps echoing down the hall.
Dominic didn't move. The only sound was the frantic thudding of his own heart and the distant, mocking tick of the grandfather clock in the hall. He suddenly felt cold. He stared at the empty doorway, the carefully ordered sanctuary of his office feeling violated, suffocating. The lack inside of him, the one mentoring usually soothed, yawned wider, darker. Daveed hadn’t just seen him. He’d seen through him. And that look, it hadn’t been judgment. It had been recognition. And something far, far worse: interest.
Dominic remained frozen in the leather armchair, the imprint of Daveed’s stare burning hotter than the afternoon sun beating into the worn rug. Interest. The word echoed, harsh and terrifying. It wasn’t the pity or dismissal he’d braced for, but a predatory appraisal that stripped him bare. He felt flayed open, every buried insecurity – the soft, betraying swell under the layers of fabric, the smaller, shameful inadequacy hidden between his legs – laid grotesquely exposed. His pulse hammered in his ears, a frantic counterpoint to the gentle hum of the radio in the kitchen. The comfortable chaos of his office felt alien, violated. His space had been taken over. Dominated. Even the scent of old leather and dust was now tainted by the ghost of Daveed’s expensive citrus-wood cologne.
A low groan escaped him, born of pure, panicked confusion. He shifted in the chair, leather creaking, trying to reclaim some sense of bodily autonomy. That’s when he felt it. A distinct, unfamiliar pressure against the inside seam of his trousers. Hard. Insistent. His breath hitched. An erection. A full, demanding erection. Not the faint stirrings that sometimes surprised him in sleep, easily ignored. This was vital, urgent. At his age? Now? Triggered by that? Shame crashed over him, hot and sickening, warring violently with the insistent throb. He squeezed his eyes shut, willing it away, but the phantom sensation of Daveed’s blue eyes raking over him only intensified the pressure. The boy’s smirk, the deliberate appraisal of his chest, the implication in his words... Men who spend a lot of time hiding. Dominic’s hand hovered over the bulge, trembling. He should move, get up, splash cold water on his face. Focus on Hilary tending her roses outside. Anything.
The shrill ring of his mobile phone shattered the suffocating silence. Dominic jolted, his heart lurching into his throat. He fumbled for it on the desk, his movements clumsy. "H-Hello?" His voice was rough, unfamiliar.
"Mr. Wheatley." It was him. Daveed. That smooth, deep baritone, laced with an undercurrent of amusement. "Forgot to confirm. Mum insists. Same time tomorrow."
Dominic’s mouth was desert dry. The erection hadn't subsided; if anything, the sound of that voice, so confident, so utterly in control, sent a fresh, unwelcome jolt straight to his groin. He felt pinned, the phone cord a tangible tether to the predator who had just left. "Tomorrow?" he rasped, the word catching. "Are you… are you sure that's necessary? So soon?" He winced at the weakness in his own voice.
A low chuckle vibrated down the line. "Necessary? Let's call it an opportunity. For a new perspective. See you then." The dial tone buzzed, abrupt and final.
Dominic slowly lowered the receiver, the case cool against his sweating palm. See you then. Not a question. A statement. A command. The finality of it, the absolute lack of choice, slammed into him. The carefully constructed walls of his life – mentor, husband, businessman – crumbled under the weight of that simple phrase and the relentless, shameful pressure in his trousers. He was exposed. Seen. And the boy was coming back.
He didn't move from the chair. He couldn't. The near-silence of the house pressed in, amplifying the frantic drumming of his heart and the insistent ache between his legs. Hilary was still outside. The garden gate clicked faintly in the distance. He looked down at his lap, at the undeniable betrayal of his own body. A wave of something dark, reckless, and terrifyingly unfamiliar washed over him. Shame wasn't enough. Fear wasn't enough. There was a raw, pulsing need, ignited by humiliation and that unnerving blue stare.
His hand, still trembling, moved. Not to push the erection down, but to cup it through the fabric of his trousers. The pressure was electric, shocking. A groan, guttural and involuntary, ripped from his throat. He hadn't touched himself like this in... months? Years? Not with this desperate urgency. His other hand rose almost of its own accord, hovering over his chest. Normally, touching the soft swell there brought only revulsion, a reminder of the body that failed him. But now, the memory of Daveed’s gaze lingering there, the way the boy’s own chest had been so defiantly displayed. His fingers brushed the knit cotton covering his left nipple.
A jolt, sharp and unexpected, shot through him. Not pain. Something else. He pressed his palm flat against the soft flesh, fingers splayed. The sensation was jarringly erotic. The fabric rasped against the sensitive nub beneath. He gasped, his hips jerking involuntarily against his trapped hand. He squeezed his cock through the trousers, hard, the dual sensations – the forbidden hardness below, the unexpected sensitivity above – colliding in a dizzying wave. His thumb found the firm point of his nipple through the polo and rubbed, a slow, experimental circle. Pleasure, raw and intense, radiated outwards, making him arch slightly in the chair. It was a revelation, perverse and undeniable. The very part of himself he loathed, the symbol of his inadequacy, it felt good. Really good. Under the imagined heat of Daveed’s knowing stare, it felt powerful.
He abandoned caution. Fumbling with his belt and zipper, he freed his erection. It sprang up, just a nub really, but seeming thick and flushed, a rarity he barely recognized. One hand closed around it, slick with precum, the touch almost scalding. The other pushed the polo fabric up, then the tight undershirt, bunching it under his chin, exposing his soft, hair-dusted chest and the large, soft, pink nipples with rock-hard centres. Cool air brushed the sensitized skin. He looked down, a stranger in his own body. He circled a nipple with a fingertip, then pinched it gently. Fire licked down his spine. He stroked his cock in time with the pinch, the rhythms syncing, building. Sticky fluid oozed from his cocklet, coating his hand. Images flashed, unbidden: Daveed’s smirk, the cut of muscle under white cotton, the way he’d leaned against the desk, the predatory confidence, the bulge in his pants, that smell. Dominic imagined those blue eyes watching him now, seeing him like this, touching himself, exposed.
The shame was still there, a sour tang at the back of his throat, but it was drowned by the rising tide of sensation. He stroked faster, rougher. He twisted a nipple, the sharp pleasure-pain tipping him closer. He was panting now, lost in a haze of forbidden need and self-discovery fuelled by humiliation and the phantom presence of that unnerving young man. His back arched, pushing his chest forward, his cock pulsing violently in his grip. A strangled cry tore from him, raw and unrestrained, as heat flooded over his fingers, hot streaks painting the edge of the desk and floor beneath him.
He slumped, spent, gasping for breath. The silence rushed back in, heavy and accusing. The scent of sex and sweat hung thick in the air. He stared down at the mess on his hand, his trousers thankfully almost entirely unscathed. The carved edge of the wooden desk was dripping with his ejaculate, pooling on the floorboards below. The amount of seed was staggering to him. His memory was of a few small spurts, barely going anywhere, easily cleaned. Shame roared back, obliterating the fleeting pleasure, turning his stomach. He rushed to the small bathroom attached to his office to get cleaned up. Looking in the mirror at his exposed chest, the nipples still peaked and sensitive, able to fully look at his breasts for the first time in years, almost seeing a sensuality to them, before turning away and readjusting his shirts. He cleaned up as best he could, he didn't want Hilary questioning yet another change of clothes on a Thursday afternoon. As he took a breath to steady his guilty conscience, he noticed that beneath the shame, coiling deep in his gut, was something colder: a dark, terrifying understanding. Daveed hadn't just seen through him. He'd unlocked something. And he was coming back tomorrow.
The grandfather clock's ticking grew louder, each beat echoing the frantic pulse in Dominic's ears. Tomorrow. The word hung in the muggy air of the violated office, thick with the lingering scent of sex, shame, and Daveed’s unusual cologne. He scrubbed harder at the faint stain on edge of his zipper, the sting of disinfectant filling his nose failing to mask the deeper humiliation clinging to the world around him. He needed normalcy. Routine. He needed to be Dominic Wheatley again – semi-retired swimming pool salesman, devoted husband, dependable mentor.
He forced himself up. Wandered to the kitchen. The familiar clatter of Hilary putting away dishes should have been grounding. "Everything alright with the new lad?" she asked casually, rinsing a plate. Her back was turned. Safe.
"Fine, fine," Dominic managed, his voice unnaturally bright. "Bit guarded. Understandable, given his history." He suddenly realised how dry his mouth was. He drank a full glass of water as he busied himself filling the kettle, avoiding her reflection in the window. His hands trembled slightly. The phantom sensation of Daveed’s gaze tracing the outline of his chest beneath his hastily replaced shirts made the fabric feel like sandpaper. "Think I'll catch up on some paperwork."
He escaped back to the office, shutting the door firmly this time. Sanctuary? It felt like a cell now. The silence pressed in. He grabbed a folder – quarterly filter sales projections. Mundane. Safe. He stared at the numbers. Revenue streams. Projections. Growth percentages. Meaningless squiggles. His focus shattered. Instead, he felt the insistent throb in his freshly cleaned clothes. His cock was hardening rapidly beneath his trousers. He shifted in the desk chair, leather groaning under his weight. No. Not now.
He tried crossing his legs. The pressure only intensified. Again the image of Daveed leaning against the desk resurfaced, the way the white vest clung to his defined pectorals. The wisps of hair poking out from the collar. The smirk. The deliberate downward glance. Dominic’s hand moved of its own accord, brushing against the soft swell beneath his own shirt. Just a touch. A thrill, hot and insistent, shot through him. Not disgust this time. Arousal, pure and potent. He squeezed gently, cupping his left breast and squeezing, fingers finding the firm nub of his nipple through the layers of cotton. A ragged breath escaped him. The erection surged. He snatched his hand away, gripping the edge of the freshly cleaned desk until his knuckles whitened. Stop it. Stop.
He shoved the sales projections aside. Too quiet. Too still. He needed noise. Action. He went outside. The late afternoon sun was warm on his face. Hilary knelt by the rose bed, pruning shears clicking rhythmically. Peaceful. He grabbed the hose, intending to water the pots on the patio. The spray hissed. He focused on the droplets sparkling on the geraniums. Then a breeze whispered past, lifting his shirt slightly, brushing cool air against the thin underlayer. It sparked a fresh wave of sensation. He imagined rougher hands, colder eyes. Daveed’s hands. Daveed’s eyes. Watching him. The hose slipped from his grip, spraying wildly over the path. Hilary looked up, startled.
"Dominic? Are you alright? You're miles away."
"Fine!" he barked, sharper than intended. He fumbled with the nozzle. "Just clumsy. Sun in my eyes." He couldn't meet her concerned gaze. There was a damp patch on his trousers where streams of precum were gathering, and it felt enormous. Luckily the spasming hose had covered it nicely. He'd never experienced physical reactions like this. He retreated inside again.