The Bar

The Bar CoverRed didn’t see his personal Campus Safety cop again (though every now and then he glanced up at the camera, wondering if Officer Campion was on the other side, watching him).

Damn, that should have been creepy, but instead it was just hot.

But Tony was back, even though he was still sick, and Red couldn’t get rid of him. He was even sitting inside at lunch, which he never did, but he genuinely looked like hell. Any other week and Red probably would have felt sympathetic, but not right now.

If he closed his eyes, he could still smell Campion. But then he’d pop wood, so he had to make a rule not to think about it at work. Or in class. Or at meals. Or when his roommate was home.

He had to see Campion again. Had to. Need, not want.

On the third day after The Day, he made Tony ring him up for a book of stamps.

“What, you got some kind of secret admirer? Who’re you sending letters to?”

“If I had a secret admirer, why would I need stamps, dummy? And no, I have bills to pay. Have you ever paid a bill, Tony?”

Tony sneezed, just before handing him back his card. “Nope. That’s why God made parents.”

“Would you just—could you at least use the hand sanitizer? Oh my god, you’re so gross.”

“You suck cock for fun, Redman. Don’t talk to me about gross.”

“Most cock is a lot cleaner than your hands. God.” He shoved his card in the wrong pocket and promised himself he’d dunk it in rubbing alcohol later.

“Oh, jeez, your stamps.” Tony palmed the stamps in between his germ-covered hands. “Here ya go! Have a nice day!”

“You’re a fuckin’ prick, gimme those.”

Tony’s laughter followed him up the wide walkway between The Hub and Commons, until it turned into an explosion of hacking coughs.

Asshole totally deserved it. Though now he’d have to sanitize the whole mail room.

At least Tony had been a distraction; without him, Red realized he was nervous. No, nauseous. This wasn’t like hitting on a guy, this was like hitting on the president, or, okay, maybe not the president, but it was sure as hell scarier than offering to blow some dude at a bar.

Are my hands shaking? They are. They’re fucking shaking right now. He willed his hands to stop shaking and holed up in a phone alcove, which was what they called the little shelves where the all-campus phones lived. He had to do this. Campion wasn’t the kind of guy who pined, he was the kind of guy who wanted to know your move so he could come up with a counter-move, and fuck, this was definitely a move.

Red, trying very hard to steady his hands, scribbled his phone number on the inside of the stamp book. No name, though, because that would be stupid.

Then he bit down on his tongue to keep from vomiting and climbed the stairs to the security office.

Anyone could have been working, but he and Campion seemed to mostly work daytime shifts, so he figured it was worth it to take a chance. If Campion wasn’t there, though, he definitely wouldn’t be leaving the stamps. Because that would be compound stupid.

He almost got nailed by the door opening into him.

“Oh! Sorry! I keep telling them they should have it open the other way!” The lady smiled and held the door. “There you go.”

It was probably better this way. Climbing the stairs and opening the door were two different things, and Red wasn’t all that sure he’d’ve had the balls to go in if someone wasn’t standing there waiting for him to do so.

“Thanks.”

“Sure! See ya, Bad!”

“See ya, Sue.”

Oh holy shit balls. I know that voice. Only last time it wasn’t saying, “See ya, Sue.” 

Red forced his feet to keep walking until he got to the desk, and then he stood there. He knew Campion had seen him by the studious way he didn’t look over. Was he studying? Two big books lay open, and one was flagged throughout with post-its.

His dick pulsed in his pants and he shifted, awkwardly, trying to figure out how to open communications. He cleared his throat.

“Stand there until I’m ready for you,” Campion said, without turning.

Sweat dripped from under Red’s arms, and part of him wanted to say Fuck you, but another part of him, a deeper part of him, wanted to say Yes, sir.

He stood there, face heating, feeling absurd and stupid and like anyone who walked in right now would know exactly what he was doing there, like he had a flashing sign on his forehead that said Please, I’ll do anything if you fuck me again, please.

Well, okay, if he had a sign like that, it would probably be on his ass.

Finally, after three ice ages, Campion turned. No smile. Barely recognition. “Help you with something, kid?”

God, yes.

Red cleared his throat again. “Um, you—you may have forgotten your stamps. When you—bought them. The other day.” He pushed the stamps across the counter with shaking fingers and didn’t dare raise his eyes to see what Campion’s response was.

“Well. I didn’t know you delivered.”

Red gulped and tried not to swallow his tongue. “Just didn’t want you to go without. Stamps, I mean.”

“Uh huh.” Campion’s huge, gigantic paw stretched out and closed over the little booklet.

Jesus, a spanking with that hand would probably kill him. Or at the very least paralyze him for life. Red couldn’t stop internally freaking the fuck out, but he also couldn’t stop watching Campion’s hands, now holding the stamp book, now opening it, thick fingers tapping on the paper where he knew his own number was written.

“Ain’t that customer service,” Campion said, and he sounded almost amused. Red had no idea if a guy like Campion felt amusement but he didn’t think he was making it up.

Should he talk? Was this a thing where he had to wait for permission? They didn’t even know each other. He slowly, slowly, very fucking slowly raised his eyes.

Campion grinned at him, lips pulled over teeth. “How you doin’, Red?”

I’m either gonna throw up or come in my pants. I haven’t decided which.

“I’m good. Officer.”

The grin got scarier. (And more hot, way more hot, like he wanted to devour Red right there, and how fucking awesome would that be, really?) “You going out tonight? You mentioned it the other day.”

“Oh. Um.” Right answer, right answer, what was the right answer? “Figured I might hit up the Spark. Later.”

“Around ten, huh? No studying tonight?”

“Not for class, anyway.”

Campion’s eyes narrowed. “Good to know. Well, have a good one, Red.” He held up the stamps. “Thanks for bringing these by.”

“Sure. Sure thing. Um. So, bye, then.”

Campion tucked the stamps in his pocket and raised a hand. His right hand. Like he was saying goodbye, except as Red watched, all but two fingers folded down.

Holy shit. I’ve had those fingers in my ass.

Officer Campion dropped his finger-fuck salute and laughed out loud, turning back to his monitors.

Red flew out of there, desperately ducking into the first men’s room he could find. He tugged on his dick way too hard, just the way he liked it, wishing like hell it was Campion’s big damn fist, squeezing and forcing the orgasm out of him.

I am so fucked right now.

When he was done, put back together, reassembled, he washed his hands, splashed water on his face, and stared walking back to the dorms. What the hell had he done? It wasn’t a date. It wasn’t a promise. It was—fuck, what? What the hell?

He didn’t know. But he did know that now he had to find a way to go to the Spark tonight without any of his friends, because “I might be meeting up with a guy who came all over me, then rubbed his jizz into my skin and made me put my clothes back on” really wasn’t gonna go over well.

Oh my fucking GOD. God? If you exist, please don’t let me get raped and killed. Thanks.

* * *

Polly had been the hardest. She knew he was up to something, but she didn’t know what, or how to find out. And everyone else had already moved on.

“Just promise me you won’t do anything stupid,” she’d said, socking him on the arm hard enough to bruise.

Too late. “Promise, Pol. Go keep the kids out of trouble.”

“Yeah, right.”

The minute they disappeared around the corner, Red shut himself in the room and locked the door. Nine. Good. He’d get dressed and get there early. Not that “ten” was a real time, but he didn’t get the impression it was a suggestion either. More like if Campion decided not to show up at all, that was acceptable, but if Red wasn’t there waiting at ten, the game was off.

So not fair. But fuck, fuck, he was hard just thinking about Campion’s hands. He’d drink beer. Guys like him always drank beer.

Red pulled on a tight black shirt and even tighter jeans, tight enough to be uncomfortable. He precisely fucked up his hair, wishing it was just a little longer, and chugged a bottle of water.

The key was not to think. He had to not-think.

Walking to the Spark took him all the way across campus and into town, but it was less than a mile and nine was still early enough. No cars full of drunk assholes lurked at every intersection yet (though he had that to look forward to later). He was sweating hard by the time he got to the bar, about ten minutes early, and flashed his newly-legal ID at the bouncer, feeling weirdly more conspicuous than he used to feel with his fake.

The panic was starting to ease back into his limbs, which was not good. Although, then again, maybe that’s what Campion got off on. He sure as hell seemed to like making Red just stand there trying not to run away in the security office while he took his sweet-ass time looking over.

Speaking of sweet-ass time. Red got himself a beer—when in Rome—and stood against a wall where he could watch the door. He’d scanned the crowd once or twice, but he figured Campion would make him wait again, so it was cursory at best.

Ten-fifteen. Ten-twenty-two. Ten-thirty.

The beer was gone. Okay. Cut your losses. You’re still in a fucking bar. Hit on someone else, if that asshole’s just playing with you. Easy solution.

He started scoping the likely candidates when he realized he was being scoped in return.

Red’s stomach almost dropped out of his body. Oh fuck. Had Campion been there, the whole fucking time, watching him? He choked back saliva and did his best not to hyperventilate when Campion rose from his chair, a beer in each hand, and crossed the room.

Nothing else existed. Not the irritating pop music, not the two guys making out in the corner, not anything else on earth. Just Campion, taller than life, walking straight at him.

Red wanted to faint, but somehow, even on legs that felt about as substantial as cornsilk, he stayed standing.

“You look like you need another drink,” Campion said, handing him a beer.

“How long have you—I mean—”

“Drink, Red.”

He drank. He felt a little more steady and a little more floaty, simultaneously.

Campion laughed. “You scared, boy?”

Fuck you. “A little.”

“Good.”

Don’t do anything stupid. Sorry, Pol.

“Drink more.”

“I—I already had one.”

“I know. I watched you drink it as you checked your phone. You didn’t think I’d show, huh, Red?”

“I thought maybe you got off on imagining me here waiting for you.”

Quick as a fucking snake, Campion grabbed the hand not holding the beer and pressed it to his crotch. “Well, not fully, but I admit, it was fun watching you work yourself up. Poor baby.”

“Fuck you,” he snapped back before he could stop himself.

Campion laughed again and kept rubbing Red’s hand along his dick, hard in his jeans. “You can beg me, but I don’t like your chances, boy. No, I’d have to be feeling generous, and I’m more just feeling horny.” He let go and for a second, Red kept touching him, out of habit, accelerating force carrying him into it.

He pulled back his hand and sucked down another long gulp of beer.

“That was smooth, the stamps thing. I like your style, Red. Aggressive and timid, all at once.” Campion’s eyes were everywhere, all over the bar, the tables, the bodies grinding against each other on the dance floor. (Or what passed for it; the floor space immediately in front of the juke box, anyway.) “Finish that.”

Another tide of conflicted responses rose up in him, but he ignored them to drink. Maybe Campion was actually gonna make a move on him, not just bat him around like a cat toy. He set the empty glass on a table and opened his mouth—

“Shut up, Red.”

Or not.

Campion set aside his half-gone beer and gripped his neck like he was squeezing the last dregs out of a toothpaste tube. “You want me to stop, you fucking say stop. None of that fancy shit. You got it?”

Oh my holy fuck. “Got it,” Red managed to say, shocked that his teeth weren’t chattering.

Without so much as a “good”, Campion began pulling him (dragging him?) toward the back of the bar.

There was nothing at the back of the bar except the bathrooms. Even the kitchen was on the other side.

Red had never had sex in a bar bathroom, but he’d definitely seen a lot of porn that featured it.

“In here,” Campion growled, jerking him into the bigger of the two stalls. He let go and stood there, back against the stall door (which he hadn’t latched, Red couldn’t help but notice). “On your knees.”

Red dropped because fuck, why the hell else had he let himself be dragged across the bar in front of the whole world? Bathroom blowjob, yes, great, achievement fucking unlocked.

And damn, Campion’s boots were hot. Black fucking leather, blunted point on the toe, square heel. Fuck. Between them and the black jeans, Red could probably just shove a hand in his pants and—

“You like my boots, boy?”

“Yes, sir,” Red breathed, not raising his eyes as Campion’s boots strode forward. He was waiting for the sound of a zipper.

Instead, one of the boots came up, slipped past him, and landed with a muted clang on the toilet bowl.

“Stand up and pull down your pants.”

He scrambled off the floor and did it, uncomfortable standing there with his pants and shorts around his ankles, and his shirt riding high over his belly button.

“Spread ’em wider. Yeah. Bend your knees a little.”

Campion’s leg lowered and he moved until they were close enough to kiss. Then he shifted his weight again and this time he stuck his foot in between Red’s legs before propping it on the toilet seat.

“Hump it,” he said.

Red gulped down stomach acid. “Um…”

“Hump my leg, cocksucker.”

I wish. He half-squatted, trying to keep his balance, having no idea what the hell Campion wanted.

“Here.” Campion’s knee came up, which meant his leg moved higher, catching Red’s balls first, a dry scrape of denim.

He hissed and almost fell. Campion laughed.

“Go on, little Red. Hump my leg. Show me how much you want to come and I’ll think about it.”

Except he wouldn’t. Even if he hadn’t said it already, Red knew this was the game. Campion would make him want it bad, so bad he couldn’t see, and then he’d walk away.

So why the hell was he humping the asshole’s leg right now?

“That’s it. Good boy, hump it harder, really get in there.” Campion started sawing his leg up and down as Red rubbed against it, desperately seeking a better angle on his dick. “That’s right, rub that tiny little clit, Red, rub it nice and hard. Is that how you like it, Red? Nice and hard?”

Campion was holding onto the rail beside the toilet (Dear American Disability Association, Thank you so much for installing wheelchair bars in bathrooms, it’s really good for fucking), working Red rougher now, his jeans starting to leave a less favorable impression on Red’s sac.

“Aw, does that little pink clit want to come? It’s crying! Poor little clitty. Tell me, boy. Tell me about your clit.”

He’d had a boyfriend exactly once who tried to do this level of dirty talk, but Red couldn’t get into it. It wasn’t hot, it made him feel like an idiot.

Except right now he was babbling in time with Campion’s jean-burn slide on his skin. “Yes, sir, please, please let my clit come, please, it wants to come, please let my clit come—”

“You’re little pink clit,” Campion said.

“My little pink clit, my little pink clit—”

The door opened and for a second the music was loud again.

Not hot. Red shut his mouth fast, listening to the man, whoever he was, take a few steps toward the urinals.

“Say it again, boy,” Campion ordered, rubbing him harder now, so Red could feel the boot at his ass on every up-stroke. “Say it!”

“My little—my little pink—” It was just stupid words. He could say the stupid words. “My little pink clit,” Red managed.

“Louder. Tell me what it wants.” Rub, rub, rub.

“My little—my little pink clit wants to come, please, sir—”

The guy taking a piss laughed so loudly it bounced off the tiles. “Damn, that’s hot. You fellas have a good one.”

Music flooded, then receded, and Campion pulled his leg away.

“Well, that was sure interesting, Red. No, don’t touch that thing in front of me. I don’t want to see your clitty clitty go bang bang.”

Red, panting, swallowed convulsively and stared down at Campion’s boots, swamped by shame and arousal and fear. And desire. Desire to kneel again. What’s next? Please don’t leave me here.

“Shit, Red, you got cunt juice on my pants. Hell.” Campion brushed his big fucking paws all down his jeans. “Clean this up, boy. I don’t want your cunt juice on me.”

Red slid back down to the floor, bare and disgusting and ohgod damp on his knees, and shuffled forward, knowing Campion would like it, would like watching him debase himself.

“That’s right, you little slut. You’d do anything right now if you thought I might let you get off, wouldn’t you? Aw, that’s cute, Red.” One paw clamped down on his neck again, pulling him forward, rubbing his face into Campion’s leg. “Clean it up.”

He had no idea if there was even something there, but it hardly mattered. Red sucked denim and leg and tried to work his way up, but the paw knocked him back down.

“Real enterprising, kid,” Campion said, sounding amused again.

Someone else came in to take a leak while he applied his fellatio skills to a square of thick cotton, but he wasn’t pulled off for any more performances.

“You’re done, mouth. Hold up your shirt.”

He tugged his shirt up, trying not to stretch it too much.

“Yeah, that’s good.” Campion pulled his zipper down and there it was again, not the biggest dong Red had ever seen, but thick, fuck, real goddamn thick. Being fucked by that thing must be like taking a fist, not that Red had ever taken a fist.

Jesus. Then again, judging by the size of Campion’s fists, taking one of those might just kill you.

Campion pumped his dick and spurted, and again he tried to get as much jizz on Red as he could. Again, not his face (though that would be hot), but his chest, his stomach. Some of it dripped down around his cock.

“Yeah,” Campion said, shoving himself back in his pants and zipping up. He leaned down to rub his come around, using a thumb to fuck Red’s nipples, smearing it in his pits again, jacking Red’s leaking cock with his own come. “Oh fuck, kid.” He scooped up a glob and reached between Red’s legs, kneading it into his ball sac before coming up for more. “You like this, boy? You like being covered in man?”

“Yes, sir,” Red whispered, voice more hoarse than it had any right to be. He closed his eyes as Campion’s come-covered hand reached between his legs. One thick finger probed his ass, zeroed in on his hole, pushed inside.

“You like it, Red?”

“Yeah. Yeah, please.”

The finger, too dry, pushed in more, but it wasn’t enough.

“That’s all you get,” Campion said, and wiped his hands on Red’s straining thighs. “Go out there and keep dancing. I’ll be watching. Then I want you to bring some boy back here to blow you.” Campion hooked his neck and pulled him up until they were eye-to-eye, Red’s cock pressed into his fucking leg. “I want him to go down on you and taste me. Do you understand?”

“I understand.”

“I’ll be watching.”

Red nodded and staggered back when Campion released him.

He did as ordered, found a sophomore from World Religions who’d just recently come out, held his hand as he pulled him back into the bathroom. The kid wasn’t great at giving head, but he definitely got an A for effort, and Red was too busy imagining Campion’s finger in his ass to really be disappointed.

When he returned to the bar, he hoped to find the man himself, to report that he’d done his task. But Campion was fucking gone.

[olympus_box color=”green” float=”center” text_align=”left” width=””] Stay tuned for next week! Jump to Room 111 for the discussion![/olympus_box]