Chapter 1: Soy Milk and Mockery
The saloon doors swung shut behind him with a tired squeal and a thump, cutting off the dry, dusty heat of the street. Inside, the air was a thick soup of whiskey, leather, and the tang of old sweat. A low hum of laughter and the clink of glasses rode over the creak of the ancient oak bar, which seemed to sag under the weight of generations of elbows.
Prodya’s boots scuffed the sawdust floor, sticking slightly in the patches of spilled beer that shone like dark stars under the flickering neon. He felt every eye in the place, though only a few actually looked up. The old-timers at the rough-hewn tables just nursed their glasses, their pride as worn as the wood.
He made for the bar, his heart doing a nervous two-step against his ribs. The harness under his shirt—a secret frame of leather and steel—felt suddenly obvious, a brand against his skin.
Silas looked up from polishing a glass, his salt-and-pepper mustache twitching. He didn’t smile. “Kid.”
“Just a… just a drink,” Prodya said, trying to deepen his voice. It cracked anyway.
“Whiskey’s the special.”
Prodya’s throat closed. He couldn’t. The smell alone turned his stomach. “Got any… soy milk?”
The low hum in the bar died for a second. Someone at a table coughed. Silas stared, his expression unreadable. Then, with a slow blink, he reached under the counter and produced a small, pristine carton. He thumped it on the bar. “On the house.”
A deep, rumbling laugh rolled out from the shadows near the wall. “Soy milk. Christ alive.”
Vance unfolded himself from his chair. He was big, not just tall, but solid, like a tree stump with a beard. His plaid shirt was open at the collar, revealing a thatch of dark chest hair. His eyes, dark and knowing, fixed on Prodya. “You lost, boy? Stable’s down the street.”
Daltry appeared beside him, a silent, broader shadow. He had a scar above one eyebrow and hands that looked like they could wrench a steering wheel from a column. He didn’t speak, just took a slow sip of his beer, his gaze a physical weight.
“I’m not lost,” Prodya said, heat flooding his face. He fumbled for the carton.
“Look at him. Pink as a peony,” Vance said, sauntering over. He leaned on the bar, his forearm brushing Prodya’s. The contact was electric. “What’s a fresh piece like you doing in a place like this? Lookin’ for something?”
“Just a drink.”
“That ain’t a drink.” Vance tapped the carton. “That’s what babies suck on. You a baby?” His voice was a low tease, a predator playing with its food.
Prodya’s mouth was dry. The harness felt like it was burning him. He shook his head.
“Prove it,” Daltry said, his voice a gravelly shock. It was the first word he’d spoken.
Vance’s grin widened. He hooked a finger in the neck of Prodya’s shirt. “All dressed up like a real cowboy. Let’s see what’s under the costume.”
“Don’t—” Prodya’s protest was a whisper. He didn’t move. He couldn’t.
With a sharp tug, Vance pulled. Buttons pinged against the bar. The shirt fell open.
The bar went quiet, the silence now heavy and complete. Under the dim amber light, the intricate leather of the harness was stark against Prodya’s smooth skin. It cinched his waist, crossed over his chest, a deliberate architecture of submission.
Vance whistled, low and long. “Well. Ain’t that a surprise.” His rough thumb stroked a strap over Prodya’s sternum. “All laced up and nowhere to go.”
Shame washed through Prodya, hot and cold. But under it, a treacherous thread of excitement snapped taut. They saw him. They really saw him.
“Bar’s closed, Silas,” Vance said, not looking away from Prodya.
The bartender gave a slow nod. He pulled a blind down over the door’s window with a final rattle. The old-timers, wise to the world, simply drained their glasses and shuffled out a back door without a word.
It was just them now. The neon buzzed.
“Up you go,” Vance said, his voice leaving no room for argument. Hands—Vance’s and Daltry’s—gripped his hips and hauled him onto the sticky bar. The wood was cold and rough against his bare back. He stared up at the water-stained ceiling, exposed.
Vance loomed over him, a mountain of heat and intention. “Open up.”
The command was simple. Prodya parted his lips, a tremble running through him. He expected a kiss, violence, something. He didn’t expect Vance to unbutton his own jeans, freeing his thick, heavy erection. He didn’t expect the blunt, salty pressure against his tongue.
“There you go. Nice and easy,” Vance murmured, his hand tangling in Prodya’s hair, not gentle. Prodya’s eyes watered. He gagged, then relaxed, finding a rhythm dictated by the push and pull of Vance’s grip. The world narrowed to the smell of musk and denim, the taste of skin, the low, approving groan from above.
He heard Daltry moving beside him, the rustle of clothing, the snap of a cap. A cool drizzle of lubricant hit his lower belly, then a thick, calloused finger pressed inside him. Prodya gasped around Vance, his body arching. The dual invasion was overwhelming, a filling, stretching certainty.
Vance pulled himself free from Prodya’s mouth with a wet pop. “My turn back there.”
They switched places with a rough, practiced efficiency that spoke of wordless understanding. Daltry’s cock filled his mouth, different, thicker. Vance positioned himself between Prodya’s splayed legs.
“This what you wanted, baby cowboy?” Vance asked, his voice husky. He wasn’t waiting for an answer.
The entry was a slow, inexorable burn that stole Prodya’s breath. Vance didn’t stop until he was fully sheathed, his hips flush against Prodya’s thighs. For a moment, they were still, locked together. Prodya felt owned, in a way that was terrifying and perfect.
Then Vance moved, and thought dissolved.
The pace was punishing, a deep, driving rhythm that shook the bar. Daltry thrust in time with Vance’s movements, fucking Prodya’s mouth in a syncopated counterpoint. Prodya was a vessel between them, full to bursting, strung on a wire of exquisite tension. Sounds spilled from him—muffled whimpers, choked moans—lost in the slap of skin and the ragged breathing of the men using him.
He came untouched, a shocking, silent convulsion that ripped through him, leaving him shuddering. Vance cursed, his rhythm faltering, then driving harder. He finished with a guttural groan, pumping heat deep inside. Daltry followed, spending himself down Prodya’s throat.
For a long minute, the only sound was their panting. The weight on him shifted, lifted.
Prodya lay wrecked on the bar, slick with sweat and spend. The harness was soaked, the leather dark. He felt hollowed out and profoundly seen.
Silas appeared at the edge of his vision. The bartender picked up the forgotten carton of soy milk. He shook it once, then upended it over Prodya’s chest and belly.
The liquid was shockingly cold. It pooled in the hollow of his throat, dripped over his sides onto the worn wood, mixing with everything else. It was absurd, final, a baptism of mockery.
Silas dropped the empty carton onto Prodya’s heaving stomach. “You forgot your drink.”
Vance’s laugh rumbled out again as he zipped his jeans. He leaned down, his beard scratching Prodya’s cheek. “Not so shy now, are you?”
They left him there, stepping out into the night with the casual air of men finishing a beer. The saloon doors swung shut.
Prodya stared at the buzzing neon sign casting its sickly glow over his ruined body. He brought a trembling hand up, touched the cool, sticky mess on his skin. A slow, wobbly smile broke through the shock. He hadn’t found validation.
He’d found something better.