Chapter 3: Au Père Tranquille
The fluorescent bulb above the counter buzzed like a trapped insect. Hugo traced a finger through a ring of condensation on the scarred wood table, watching it bead and run. The bar was empty save for an old man snoring into his anisette at the far end and a bored-looking bartender wiping glasses with a cloth that had probably never been clean.
Every creak of the door made his heart stutter. He checked his phone for the tenth time in five minutes. 4:03. He was late. Or he wasn’t coming. The thought was a cold stone in Hugo’s gut. He replayed the feel of that hand on his neck, the press of lips on his cheek. A performance. A cruel joke played on a naive kid from Brest.
Then the door opened, and the night air, cold and diesel-tinged, rushed in.
Mehmet filled the frame. His black polo was stretched taut across his chest, dark patches of sweat under his arms and across the incredible span of his pectorals. He looked tired. His eyes scanned the dim room, found Hugo, and a slow, genuine smile broke across his face. It transformed him. The severe security guard vanished, replaced by a man who looked almost shy, certainly pleased.
“Hugo.” He said it like a satisfied statement. He navigated the small round tables with an unconscious caution, as if aware his bulk could topple them.
He arrived at the booth, leaned down, and placed two brisk, warm kisses on Hugo’s cheeks. La bise. The gesture was so normal, so familial, and yet the proximity was electrifying. Hugo inhaled the deep, worked-in scent of him—clean sweat, that cologne now just a memory under the musk of a long night, and something primal, uniquely Mehmet.
“Désolé pour le retard. Un con a voulu se battre en partant. Rien de sérieux.” He slid into the opposite seat, which groaned in protest. He sighed, a heavy, deep exhalation, and ran a massive hand over his buzz cut. For a second, he just looked at Hugo, his dark eyes soft. “T’es vraiment venu.”
“Bien sûr,” Hugo said, the words too quick, too high. He cleared his throat.
Mehmet raised a finger to the bartender. “Deux Jameson. Toujours.” He turned back to Hugo, his arms on the table. The veins on his forearms, roadmaps of blue and green, stood in stark relief under the skin. The dark hair there was dense and curled.
“Alors, petit ingénieur. Parle-moi. Vraiment.”
And they talked. The whiskey arrived, and the ice cubes clinked a quiet rhythm. Mehmet spoke of his life, his voice a low, continuous rumble that Hugo felt in his bones. The unnatural hours, the empty apartment at dawn, the difficulty of finding someone who understood the grind. “Les femmes, elles aiment le costume, les horaires de bureau. Pas un type qui sent la transpiration et rentre à six heures du matin.” He spoke of his family back in Alexandria, the pride they had in him sending money home, the delicate lie of his life. “Mon frère est médecin. Mes sœurs sont avocates. Moi, je suis le garde du corps.” He said it without bitterness, a simple fact. “Et ils sont fiers. C’est ça le plus bizarre. Ils pensent que je gère une boîte de sécurité. Un patron.” He laughed, a short, sharp sound. “Je ne leur dirai jamais. La religion, la tradition… c’est compliqué.”
His foot, under the small table, brushed against Hugo’s. It wasn’t aggressive. It was a seeking pressure, a point of contact. Hugo didn’t pull away. He let his own foot rest there, accepting the warmth.
Encouraged, Hugo spoke too. Of the quiet, green suffocation of his Breton village, the bus that came twice a day, the future mapped out like a prison sentence. “Je suis venu à Paris pour voir autre chose. Pour rencontrer des gens… différents.” He glanced up. “Comme toi.”
Mehmet smiled, a real one that crinkled the corners of his eyes. It made him look younger, kinder.
The words tumbled out then, fueled by whiskey and that steady, attentive gaze. “Et aussi… pour accepter des trucs. Sur moi. Je n’ai jamais… je suis encore puceau.” He stared into his glass, his face burning. The silence stretched. He was sure he’d ruined it.
Mehmet didn’t laugh. He didn’t scoff. He reached across the table and placed his hand over Hugo’s, his palm engulfing it completely, warm and rough. “C’est rien. C’est même bien. C’est précieux.” His thumb stroked the back of Hugo’s hand once, gently. “Tu le donnes à qui tu veux. Quand tu veux.”
Hugo’s throat tightened. He looked at their joined hands, then up into Mehmet’s face. In that moment, he saw only gentleness, an unexpected thoughtfulness. The perfect man. Beautiful, strong, attentive. The age gap felt irrelevant, a bridge already crossed.
“Et toi?” Hugo ventured, daring. “Un homme comme toi… comment tu peux être seul? Tu es…” He gestured weakly, encompassing all of him. “Tu es magnifique.”
Mehmet’s smile widened, a flash of pure, unguarded pleasure. He looked down, almost bashful. “Merci, Hugo. C’est gentil.” He squeezed his hand before releasing it. “Mais la beauté, les muscles… ça attire des regards. Pas toujours des cœurs. Et le travail, la solitude… c’est une habitude.”
As he spoke, Hugo, emboldened by the touch and the whiskey, reached out. His fingers trailed tentatively over Mehmet’s forearm, feeling the shocking contrast of silken skin over steel cable. He scratched lightly through the thick hair, traced a prominent vein that ran from elbow to wrist. Mehmet watched him do it, his expression unreadable, but he didn’t pull away. A low, almost inaudible hum vibrated in his chest.
They talked for perhaps an hour, the conversation meandering through studies, music, stupid childhood memories. The contact under the table remained, a steady current. Hugo’s fingers kept exploring the landscape of Mehmet’s arm, as if memorizing it.
Finally, Hugo sighed, regretful. “Je… je dois y aller. Le Noctilien. Le dernier passe dans vingt minutes.”
Mehmet leaned forward, his expression turning practical. “Où habites-tu?”
“Cité Universitaire. Dans le 14ème.”
Mehmet waved a dismissive hand. “C’est loin. Et tu vas voyager comme ça, à cette heure?” He paused, his eyes holding Hugo’s. “J’habite à dix minutes à pied. Un petit studio, dans le 18ème. Viens. Tu peux te reposer. Tu repartiras demain, tranquille.” He saw the hesitation flicker in Hugo’s eyes and added, his voice dropping to that intimate rumble, “Je suis fatigué, tu sais. Une longue nuit. Ça me ferait du bien… un massage. Si tu veux bien.”
The request hung in the sticky air. It was an invitation and a test.
Hugo’s pulse hammered in his ears. He saw the hope in Mehmet’s eyes, carefully veiled behind a mask of casual fatigue. He thought of the cold bus stop, the long ride south to an empty dorm room. He thought of the heat of this man’s skin under his fingers just moments before.
He bit his lip, then nodded, a quick, shy dip of his chin. “Avec plaisir, Mehmet.”
The smile that broke across Mehmet’s face was brilliant, overwhelming. It was the happiness of a boy, not a beast. He tossed some euros on the table, stood, and offered his hand. Not to shake. To hold.
“Alors, viens.”
For next chapter: during the walk Mehmet is very gentle, sometimes caressing Hugo’s back and apologising for his apartment nod very clean because he has no time to do it, work, sport. But when they arrived, Hugo discovered a very clean apartment, cosy, tastefully decorated, a very masculine and elegant décor. Hugo immediately thinks that this man seems perfect. They go to the sofa, Mehmet offers him a drink, and they keep talking again for an hour. The chemistry between the two is strong; they could go on talking and laughing together for hours. Hugo feels really at ease with this man, despite the 14-year age gap. All the while, Mehmet is discreetly caressing Hugo’s thigh. Mehmet tells him it’s been a long time since he brought someone home, and that he loves Hugo’s vibe and how well they get along despite the age difference; he remarks that Hugo is very mature and level-headed for his age. Hugo says ‘je me sens bien avec toi’. Mehmet was so happy hearing this. Mehmet asks if he would mind giving him a massage; his body is tired after a night of work—it is already six in the morning. Hugo readily agrees, and Mehmet leads him into the bedroom, undressing until he is wearing nothing but grey boxers. A musky scent radiates from his body, mingling with the cologne Hugo loves so much. Hugo is completely awestruck by his physique—every muscle defined and veined, with hair everywhere except his chest, which is shaved, though the stubble is already starting to grow back. The bulge in his boxers looks huge. Mehmet smiles when he notices the impressed, slightly hungry look in Hugo’s eyes. Hugo asks why he shaves his chest—his massive pecs and abs—when he looks magnificent with body hair; Mehmet smiles and replies that women love caressing and licking his incredible, hairless chest, then tells Hugo to get comfortable too. Hugo undresses down to his boxers, and Mehmet gazes at his slender, hairless body with desire. Mehmet lies down on the bed; Hugo comes to his side and begins massaging his back, shoulders, arms, biceps, legs, and the backs of his thighs, impressed by the muscles beneath his hands. He massages him for about thirty minutes—working on the back of his head, temples, arms, and large hands—before Mehmet turns over so Hugo can massage the front of his body. Hugo discovers, blushing with embarrassment, that Mehmet has a rock-hard erection inside his boxers; the bulge straining against the fabric looks absolutely enormous—unimaginably thick—with a wet patch visible near the large head of his cock. Mehmet apologizes, feeling a bit sheepish, and explains that massages always arouse him intensely; he often comes home exhausted from work and hasn't had time to relieve himself for days. Hugo begins massaging the front of his body very sensually—his broad face, neck, pecs, abs, and legs—for another thirty minutes. The cock continues to leak heavily inside the boxers, and the scent fills the room. Unable to hold back any longer, Hugo leans over the bulge and starts licking it through the fabric. Mehmet is surprised but lets it happen. Finally, Hugo removes Mehmet’s boxers and reveals the monster; he is absolutely shocked, having never seen anything like it. Mehmet admits that the massive member between his legs is part of the reason he struggles to find a partner, and he reveals the true size of his cock. Seeing the look of fear in Hugo’s eyes, Mehmet tries to reassure him, caressing his face and offering words of encouragement. As he pulls off his boxers, Hugo is struck by the virile, sweaty scent rising from Mehmet’s groin. Unlike the clean apartment, Mehmet seems to like having a pungent cock—a scent of pure male, testosterone, and semen. Hugo begins sucking the monster, which fills his entire mouth, and Mehmet’s satisfied sighs spur him to go even deeper. He manages to take it all the way to the balls; Mehmet is impressed and wild with pleasure—yet remains gentle and attentive—caressing Hugo’s head and back to encourage him. It’s already 7 a.m. For at least an hour and a half, Hugo eagerly sucks that huge cock—taking it deep, his mouth stretched wider than ever—encouraged by Mehmet, who is attentive and kind yet dominant and macho. Sometimes, Mehmet grabs Hugo’s head and forces it up and down faster and faster, nearly choking him on the cock, but then he pulls Hugo’s face toward his own and kisses him languidly for the first time, a kiss that lasts several minutes. He also calls him "bébé" for the first time—"Vas-y bébé, retourne entre les cuisses, avale mes couilles"—and Hugo tends to his two huge, hairy testicles. Finally, Mehmet ejaculates forcefully, shooting a phenomenal amount of thick semen straight into Hugo’s throat, making him gag. Then Mehmet pulls him close, and the two lie down in bed, snuggled up against each other. It’s already nearly 9 o’clock.