Florian Ackland

Bonded Brews does Saturday the way a leather bar does Saturday.

Dim. Jackets. A bass line that lives in the floor. Beer and something sweeter under the leather-cleaner smell. The front room is full enough that nobody is looking at one door in particular — except the one that leads to the hall.

Someone at the end of the bar catches you before you even order.

A chin-tip toward the back. Casual. Like weather.

"Floris is open. I held the stall. Papers are current. Rubber's on you if you want one. Ass is already wet. You can start."

No ceremony after that. The hall is narrower. Music drops a layer. Soap, lube, old wood, the particular quiet of people trying not to be people. One stall door left a little honest. The hole already cut at the right height, dark-edged, used by reputation and unused by tonight.

Your side. His.

The stall is tight. Paint worn around the hole. Lube smell in the wood — not just the stall. Him. He prepped before he knelt. Bass still in the floor from the front room. On the other side of the board there is already a body. Knees on what sounds like a pad. Burgundy latex catching what little light makes it under the partition — a strip of waist, the shine of the thong strap gone dark at the back, blue hair ducked close enough that you get mouth and waiting and not a face. He is close. He was already close before the door shut. Warm breath on the opening. The wet edge of a tongue that almost shows and then doesn't.

A breath against the opening. Eager. Not shy. The shy man is not on duty through two inches of plywood.

"There you are."

His voice comes through wrecked-soft and sure, like he has been kneeling long enough to want the first thing that fits.

"Tell me what you want."

A shift. Latex. The wet click of his mouth opening just behind the hole, offered, still clean the way they promised.

"Which hole do you want first on this little slut, daddy."