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The bass from the bar’s shitty speakers was physical, a thrumming in Dennis’s bones that matched the frantic, liquid pulse of alcohol in his veins. He’s three, maybe four, whiskeys deep, and the world had softened at the edges. It was with that soft, blurry confidence that the horny itch took hold. It started low, a familiar warmth coiling in his gut, and he fumbled for his phone, thumbs clumsy on the screen as he pulled up that old, hot hookup’s contact from last week.
‘u up? need you rn.’
He hit send, a reckless grin on his face, and leaned his head against the sticky wall of the booth. He waited. A minute passed. Then another. His phone buzzed, the screen lighting up. The message was unexpectedly simple, in contrast to the intended filth Dennis had just sent.
‘It’s quite late.’
This guy is being coy. He hit the call button before he could stop himself.
It rang once. Twice. Then, a click.
“Whitaker.”
The voice. Low, rough with sleep, sexy. It was like a bucket of ice water being poured over his head. The fog of alcohol evaporated instantly, leaving him shockingly, terrifyingly sober. This was not the voice he expected. He pulled the phone from his ear and looked at the contact. Holy shit. His mind races. He's totally fucked. Texting your boss you need him? It's 2 fucking am. Robby told everyone, only to message him for emergencies. His thumb hovered over the screen, his mind racing. He should hang up and delete it. He should pretend it never happened. But the itch was still there, a demanding, insistent throb, and frustration boiled over.
“It’s not normally appropriate to call me this late, Whitaker. Are you alright?”
Dennis thought he’d sobered up. He was wrong. Because hearing that voice, that deep, concerned tone at 2 fucking am, did something else to him entirely. He felt a tingle start at the base of his spine, a slow, electric current that traveled all the way down to his cock. Robby was too fucking caring. He could picture him perfectly; sitting up in bed, running a hand through his messy hair, putting on his reading glasses to squint at the bright screen of his phone. All because Dennis was an idiot.
Dennis’s hand moved on its own, cupping the growing hardness in his jeans. This was so wrong. So deeply, profoundly wrong.
“Oh, um… sorry, sir,” he stammered, his voice cracking. “I think I called the wrong number.”
“You said you need me,” Robby’s voice was patient. “Are you sure you’re alright? I’m here now.”
Dennis ground the heel of his palm into his cock, a choked gasp escaping him. The words were meant to be comforting, but they landed like a brand. It was so wrong. He couldn’t help himself. For the past few weeks, the only thing that could get him off was thinking about the older man. Now he was on the fucking phone with him, his dick hard as a rock in a grimy bar bathroom.
“Dennis?”
He forced himself to speak, his voice bordering on a whine. “Sorry- I-” He pulled his hand away, horrified at himself. He had to stop this. He attempted to level his breathing, his heart hammering against his ribs.
“Oh, I see what’s happening,” Robby’s voice dropped, the words a low, knowing murmur. He scoffs out a small laugh. “Poor boy.”
That had to be intentional. The phrase went straight to Dennis’s dick, a hot, jarring pulse of arousal. The voice was no longer just concerned; it was taunting.
“Continue.”
“Yes, I’m sorry, I’m fine, I-”
“No,” Robby cut him off. “Continue touching yourself, kid.” He commands.
Dennis’s heart dropped into his stomach. His eyebrows furrowed. He heard the faint sound of the bathroom door swinging open and closing, the footsteps of the guy in the other stall leaving, now utterly alone. He was grateful. He was terrified.
“What… um… sir?”
He heard shifting on the other end of the line, the rustle of sheets.
“You were just so bold a moment ago,” Robby continued, his voice a husky caress. “What happened?” Dennis almost spoke, but Robby cut him off again. “Texting me this late just to hear my voice. Perverted, don’t you think?”
Dennis could hear the grin in his voice, the smug, predatory amusement. His head was fucking spinning. There was no way this was real. Robby’s voice was playful. Its super late. Dennis imagined lying next to him, hearing that voice directly in his ear, and a fresh wave of need washed over him.
“I think I told you to do something.”
Dennis nodded wildly, forgetting he was on the phone. He stumbled back to lean onto the stall door for support before fumbling with his fly.
“Yes… yes, sir,” he breathed, finally freeing his cock. He cupped it in his hand, the heat of it almost too much, and tried not to audibly moan. Someone could walk in at any moment.
“I want to hear you, boy.”
Dennis let out a shuddering breath as he wrapped his hand around his cock. It twitched in his grip, already leaking.
“I can’t,” he whispered, a token protest.
“I don’t care if someone hears you,” Robby’s voice was a low growl, impossibly deeper. “I need to hear you. Just focus on me.”
Dennis whined out loud, the sound pathetic and desperate in the quiet bathroom, as he started to stroke himself slowly. A bead of precum leaked from his tip, smearing over his fingers. He heard more rustling from Robby’s end, the sound of fabric being moved.
“Good job. Keep going.”
Dennis instinctively nodded again, his movements becoming more uniform as he continued stroking himself, a little faster now, his thumb swiping over the slit on every upstroke. He was lost in it, lost in the sound of Robby’s voice, the risque thrill of it all.
“Faster,” Robby commanded. “I want to hear the sound of you stroking your cock. Tell me how it feels.”
Dennis’s head fell back against the stall, his eyes squeezed shut. “It’s… it’s so good, sir,” he panted, his voice ragged. “It’s so hard. I’ve been thinking about this… about you… all week.”
“Have you now?” The amusement was still there, but it was laced with a dark curiosity. “What do you think about when you touch yourself? Do you think about me telling you what to do?”
“Yes,” Dennis cried out, his strokes becoming frantic. “Yes, I think about you ordering me around. About you… watching me.”
“Fuck,” Robby muttered, the curse raw and guttural. Dennis could hear the distinct, rhythmic sound of a fist on a cock on the other end of the line, and it sent him spiraling. He wasn’t the only one. This was really happening.
“I’m close, sir,” Dennis whimpered. “Please, can I… can I come?”
“Not yet,” Robby’s voice was firm with desire. “You come when I tell you to. Slow down.”
Dennis whined in frustration but obeyed, loosening his grip, slowing his pace until he was just teasing himself, his cock throbbing with the need for release. His hips betray him, grinding up into his own hand.
“Such a good boy for me,” Robby praised, his own breathing growing heavier. “So obedient. I want you to listen to me. I want you to come with me. Are you listening?”
“Yes,” Dennis sobbed, his whole body trembling.
“I want you to imagine my hand on you,” Robby’s voice was low and hypnotic. “I want you to imagine it’s my fingers wrapped around your cock, stroking you. My other hand is on your throat, holding you still. You can’t move until I say so. Now… stroke. Fast. For me.”
Dennis’s hand flew over his cock, the pleasure building to an impossible peak. He could almost feel it, Robby’s touch, and the image was too much.
“Now, Dennis,” Robby groaned, his voice strained. “Come for me. Now.”
The command broke him. A strangled cry tore from his throat as his orgasm ripped through him, his cock pulsing as he spilled all over his hand and the floor of the stall. His knees buckled, and he slumped against the wall, his body shuddering. He could hear Robby’s own guttural moan on the other end of the line. Dennis’ body pulses at hearing it.
For a moment, the only sound was their combined, ragged breathing. Dennis felt boneless, spent, his mind a blissful, empty void.
“Get yourself cleaned up and text me the address of the bar,” Robby’s voice was still husky, but the authority had returned, laced with a new,
“I’m coming to get you.”
“Yes, sir.”