Chapter 15: The Bar Encounter Returns
The fight with Elena had left a metallic taste in his mouth, a corrosive residue that whiskey couldn’t wash away. It wasn’t about the dishes, or the forgotten dry cleaning. It was the look in her eyes, a mixture of hurt and genuine fear, when she’d finally spat it out. “You’re different.You look at me and I don’t know who you are. You complimented the fucking mailman’s ‘strong delivery arm,’ Derek. What is wrong with you?”
The dive bar was a sanctuary of shadows. Neon beer signs buzzed and sputtered, painting the worn wooden floor in sickly shades of red and blue. The air was thick with the ghosts of cigarettes and spilled lager, undercut by a faint, sweet scent of patchouli from a candle burning behind the sticky counter.Derek hunched over a double bourbon, the glass already slick in his hand. The jukebox in the corner cycled through a mournful classic rock ballad, the guitar solo wheezing like a dying man.
He didn’t hear the approach, only felt the presence beside him as a new shadow fell across the bar.
“Seems like the kind of night that deserves better company than John Barleycorn.”
Derek’s head snapped up. Standing there, as impeccably out of place as a diamond in a coal mine, was Marcus. He wore a dark suede jacket over a thin black turtleneck, his expression one of casual, sympathetic interest.
“Mark?” Derek’s voice was tight. “What are you doing here?”
Marcus shrugged, easing onto the stool next to him. He nodded to the weary bartender, who brought him a glass of red wine without asking.“Just passing through.Client meeting nearby ran late. Saw you storm in and thought you might need a friendly face.” He took a slow sip, his dark eyes studying Derek.“Rough one?”
A harsh, humorless laugh escaped Derek. He tossed back the rest of his bourbon, the burn a welcome distraction from the swirling mess in his head. “You could say that.My wife… she’s on a fucking tear. Says I’m acting weird.Flirting with random guys. I don’t… I don’t remember half the shit she’s accusing me of.” He raked a hand through his hair, the gesture agitated. “It’s like there’s… gaps.Lost time. She thinks I’m cheating.Or having a breakdown.”
“Lost time,” Marcus repeated softly, swirling the wine in his glass. The ruby liquid caught the dim light.“That sounds frightening. For both of you.”
“It’s infuriating is what it is,” Derek growled, signaling for another double. The warmth of the first drink was spreading, loosening the knot in his chest. “I’m the same guy.I work hard.I provide. I don’t do… whatever the hell she’s talking about.”
“Of course not,” Marcus soothed. His voice was a low, calming cadence against the jarring music.“Stress can do strange things to the mind. Make you act out of character.” He leaned in slightly, his patchouli scent mixing with the bourbon on Derek’s breath.“You remember our session?After the seminar?How relaxed you felt? How clear everything seemed?”
Derek blinked.The memory surfaced, pleasant but oddly bland.A hotel room. A sense of professional accomplishment.A friendly debrief.“Yeah.Yeah, it was good. Cleared my head.”
“It can be like that again,” Marcus said, his voice dropping almost to a whisper. “You can let all that noise—your wife’s accusations, your own confusion—just fade away.Just for a little while.Give yourself a break.”
The fresh bourbon arrived. Derek drank half of it in one go. The world was starting to take on a soft, golden hue at the edges.His anger felt distant, muffled. Marcus’s presence felt solid, an anchor.“A break sounds good,” Derek mumbled, his tongue feeling thick.
“Just watch the light,” Marcus murmured.
He hadn’t even seen him move, but Marcus’s hand was now extended between them. Not the pocket watch this time, but a simple, polished Zippo lighter.He flicked it open with a sharp snick. A single, perfect flame ignited, steady and bright in the gloomy bar.Derek’s eyes locked onto it immediately. The rest of the world—the bartender’s idle wiping, the distant pool game, the whining guitar—receded into a dull murmur.There was only the flame. It danced, a tiny, captive sun.
“That’s it,” Marcus’s voice flowed around him, smooth as the whiskey now coating his nerves.“Just let go. All that tension in your shoulders… let it melt away.The fight with your wife… just a vague echo.The confusion… dissolving. There’s only the light, and my voice.You’re sinking into a deep, peaceful place. A place where you don’t have to think. You just have to feel.”
Derek felt his jaw go slack. A warm, heavy sensation blanketed him, starting at the crown of his head and pouring down his body like warm oil.His limbs became leaden. The flame wasn’t just in front of him; it was inside him, spreading a liquid heat through his belly and lower.“Good,” Marcus purred. “Now, the man you were, the angry man sitting at this bar… he’s fading.He’s unimportant. What’s rising is something truer.Something prettier.You feel it, don’t you? That empty space opening up inside your head?That lovely, buzzing silence?That’s where you belong. Empty and ready.”
Derek managed a slow, dumb nod.Empty.Ready. The words made a terrible, thrilling sense.Marcus snapped the lighter shut. The sudden darkness behind Derek’s eyelids was profound.“Come with me,” he said, a command wrapped in velvet.
Derek stood, his movements fluid and uncoordinated.He followed Marcus out of the bar, a compliant shadow. The night air was cool but it didn’t touch him. He slid into the passenger seat of Marcus’s silent, expensive car, his head lolling against the leather.
They drove to a part of the city Derek didn’t recognize, a district of converted warehouses and graffitied shutters.Marcus led him through a side door into a space that smelled of concrete dust and incense. It was a vast, raw loft, sparsely furnished with a few pieces of severe modern furniture. In the center of the room was a large, padded platform, like a bed without frames.
“Stand there,” Marcus said, pointing to the center of the platform.
Derek obeyed, swaying slightly on his feet. The overwhelming emptiness in his mind was now a physical sensation, a yawning void between his hips. He was hard, his erection straining against his jeans, a taut, aching need with no object.Marcus circled him, a curator assessing a piece.He didn’t speak for a long minute. Then, he stepped close, his breath on Derek’s ear. “You’re so desperate to be filled, aren’t you? You’re just a hungry little hole waiting to be used.”
A whimper, high and thin, escaped Derek’s throat.It was an admission.
Marcus unbuckled Derek’s belt, unbuttoned his jeans, and tugged them down along with his boxers.His cock sprang free, rigid and leaking. “Look at you,” Marcus chuckled, giving it a dismissive slap that made Derek jolt.“Pathetic. This isn’t for you to use. It’s just a reminder of what you lack.”
From a black bag on the floor, Marcus produced objects. First, a heavy, polished steel butt plug, intimidatingly thick.He coated it with gel from a bottle.“Turn around.Bend over. Present yourself.”
Derek turned, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs. He bent at the waist, offering his bare ass.He felt the cold, blunt pressure of the plug against his entrance. There was a moment of resistance, a burning stretch, and then it popped inside him with a sickening, full sensation.He cried out, a sharp, feminine sound that echoed in the empty loft.
“Good girl,” Marcus said, his voice dripping with mock praise.
He gripped Derek’s hip with one hand, driving the plug deeper with a brutal, twisting shove that pulled a ragged sob from Derek’s throat. “It feels good to be full, doesn’t it? To have that empty ache packed with cold, hard steel.”
Derek could only nod, his forehead pressed against the cool padding, tears of shame making hot tracks down his temples. His own cock, neglected and throbbing, dripped a clear string of pre-come onto the floor beneath him. Marcus ignored it completely, stepping back to admire his work.
“Now,” Marcus said, his voice clinical. “Let’s give you something to do with that useless mouth.”
He unzipped his trousers, freeing himself, and walked around to stand in front of Derek’s bent-over form. He slapped his semi-hard cock against Derek’s cheek, leaving a wet smear. “Look up.”
Derek’s eyes, glassy and wet, rolled upwards. Marcus’s cock hovered before his lips, a blunt demand. “Open wide, slut. And don’t you dare use your teeth.”
The command bypassed what little will he had left. Derek’s jaw unhinged, his mouth opening into a perfect, slack O. Marcus fed himself into that wet heat, not with passion but with a slow, invasive ownership. He gripped the back of Derek’s head, fingers tangling in his short hair, and began to fuck his face with deep, measured strokes.
Each thrust pushed Derek’s head back, each retreat let him gasp for a second of air that smelled of musk and salt. Marcus watched himself disappear into that willing, stupid mouth, his expression one of detached fascination. “Your throat is learning so fast,” he mused, rhythmically pistoning his hips. “It’s just a sleeve now. A warm, wet hole for my dick.”
Derek gagged, his body convulsing, but Marcus held him firm, driving deeper until his nose was buried in Marcus’s pubic hair. The plug inside him shifted with every choked movement, a constant, filthy reminder of his submission. He was being filled at both ends, used as nothing more than living furniture, and the horrifying truth was a molten wire in his brain: he loved it. The emptiness was being answered with brutal, concrete force.
Marcus came without warning, with a low grunt, his hips stuttering forward as he pumped his release straight down Derek’s constricted throat. Derek swallowed reflexively, the bitter, hot fluid a final, degrading baptism. Marcus pulled out, glistening wet, and wiped himself on Derek’s shoulder.
“On your back,” he ordered, his voice rough.
Derek collapsed onto the platform, legs splayed, the plug a heavy, obscene weight inside him. Marcus loomed over him, producing a heavy, ridged vibrator from his bag. He pressed it against Derek’s trapped, leaking cock, a cruel parody of contact. The buzz was immediate, a violent thrum that traveled straight up his spine.
“You don’t get to come from your cock,” Marcus stated, thumbing the power higher. “You come from your ass. Like a girl. You’re going to shake yourself apart on that plug while I watch. And you’re going to thank me for it.”
The vibration was agony and ecstasy, a maddening stimulus that offered no relief. Derek’s hips bucked uselessly, his back arching off the pad. The pressure inside him built, a coil of pure, desperate sensation centered on that invaded, stretched ring of muscle. His mind shattered into pure, animal need. “Please,” he slurred, drool on his chin. “Please, I need… I need…”
“You need to come,” Marcus finished for him, watching his face contort. “So do it. Be a good girl and come on my toy.”
The orgasm tore through him like a seizure. It was a dry, wrenching thing that ripped a shattered scream from his lungs. His body convulsed, muscles clamping violently around the steel plug, his cock jerking painfully as it spilled nothing but a few clear drops onto his stomach. Wave after wave of submissive pleasure burned through every nerve, leaving him a twitching, sobbing wreck.
Marcus watched, a faint smile on his lips, until the last tremor subsided. He turned off the vibrator. The silence that followed was broken only by Derek’s wet, hiccuping breaths.
“Listen now,” Marcus said, his voice dropping back into that hypnotic, soothing register. He placed a cool hand on Derek’s sweat-slick forehead. “The frustration with Elena, the fights… they’re ash. They’re gone. When you wake, you will feel only a deep, urgent need to reconcile. To make things right.”
Derek’s breathing began to slow, his eyes fixed on a point far beyond the ceiling.
“You will be filled with a specific, wonderful idea,” Marcus continued, weaving the new thread into the tapestry of Derek’s broken will. “You will take her out this Saturday night. Somewhere elegant. You will be the perfect, attentive husband. You will order champagne. You will tell her she’s the only woman for you.”
He leaned closer, his whisper intimate and final. “And you will bring her here. To this loft. You will tell her you rented it for a special, private surprise. When you cross that threshold with her, the door locking behind you, you will feel an immense sense of relief. Of completion. This will be a night she will never, ever forget.”
Marcus removed the plug, cleaned Derek with impersonal efficiency, and redressed him in his rumpled clothes. He led him back to the car, a silent, pliant doll. The city lights blurred past the window.
He dropped Derek off two blocks from his house. “Remember,” Marcus said softly, as Derek stood on the sidewalk. “Make things right. Saturday night. A night she’ll never forget.”
Derek blinked. The vacant haze lifted, replaced by a sudden, compelling clarity. His heart ached with regret over the fight. He needed to see Elena. He needed to hold her. And he knew, with inexplicable certainty, exactly how to fix everything.
He walked home, a man on a mission. He let himself in, the house quiet. Elena was on the couch, her eyes red-rimmed. He didn’t offer weak explanations. He went to her, knelt, and took her hands.
“I’m so sorry,” he said, and the words felt true, fueled by a desperate, implanted longing. “I’ve been a bastard. Let me make it up to you. Please. This Saturday. Just you and me. I’m planning something… special.”
Elena looked at him, searching his face, and saw the earnest depth in his eyes—a depth that was not his own. A flicker of hope, fragile and dangerous, ignited in her chest.
She nodded slowly. “Okay, Derek. Okay.”