Claimed At Closing Time

Title: Claimed at Closing Time

Setting: Small rural bar on a slow Thursday night.

Part 1 -- Jessy (First-Person)

I ain't the type to go lookin' for anything outside

my marriage.

Not usually.

But sometimes, somethin' finds me.

I'd just come off the ranch, boots dusty, jeans worn in the right places, hands still smellin' like saddle oil and sweat. I took my usual spot at the far end of the bar, outta habit more than anything.

Then the bartender walked over.

Young. Tattooed. Quiet type.

"Whiskey's on the house tonight," he said, setting it down like it was a damn offering.

I looked him over. Didn't say a word at first.

He didn't meet my eye.

That was the tell.

"You always give drinks away to married men wearin' rings?"

He looked up fast. Flushed. Tried to cover.

Didn't work.

"Just bein' friendly, Sir."

Sir.

Yeah. I knew it then.

"You always this friendly with strangers?"

I watched him shift--nervous, twitchy, tryin' not to squirm.

This boy was built to be broken.

And I had a feelin' he'd thank me for it.

Part 2 -- Derek (Third-Person)

Derek saw him walk in and felt his stomach tighten.

That kind of man didn't come in often. Tall. Broad. Thick across the chest and thighs. Worn leather. No smile.

Married, too -- gold ring catching the light every time he lifted the glass.

Derek didn't care. Not about rings.

He'd seen a lot behind this bar. But something about this one...

It made him twitch.

So he poured the whiskey. Said it was on the house. Called him Sir.

The man didn't thank him.

He just stared like he already owned him.

Derek dropped his eyes.

He couldn't help it.

He wanted to kneel.

Right there behind the bar.

Part 3 -- Jessy (First-Person)

He kept sneaking glances after that.

Wipin' down clean glasses that were already clean.

Pretendin' to be busy -- but he was waitin' on somethin'.

On me.

Every time he called me Sir, his voice dipped just enough.

He thought he was bein' subtle.

He wasn't.

I let him stew. Sipped slow. Let the silence press in.

The regulars cleared out around midnight, the place quiet but for some blues hummin' from the jukebox.

When he walked around to flip the stools up onto tables, I spoke.

"You that eager to serve, or just want somethin' under my boot?"

He froze halfway to the next stool.

Didn't turn around.

"I... I'm just closin', Sir."

"You don't lie worth a damn."

I stood up, slow and heavy. Let my boots echo across the floor.

He turned to face me -- cheeks flushed, mouth open like he forgot how to speak.

"Bar's empty," I said, takin' a step closer.

"And you ain't foolin' anybody. You offered that whiskey hopin' I'd take more than the glass."

He didn't deny it.

Didn't move.

I grinned.

"I know what you are."

Part 4 -- Derek (Third-Person)

Derek felt like he was burning.

He thought he could handle it. Thought he could hide the tremble in his hands, the flush in his chest.

But the way Jessy looked at him -- like a wolf that already had blood in its teeth -- made everything inside him give.

He hadn't even been touched yet.

And still, he ached.

When Jessy stepped close, Derek's knees almost gave out.

The man smelled like sun-dried sweat and saddle leather, with that slow, dangerous drawl that made everything sound like an order.

"I know what you are."

It wasn't a question.

And Derek wanted to drop to his knees right there -- no words, no dignity, just obedience.

But Jessy didn't touch him.

Just looked at him with that calm, dominant smirk and said:

"Lock up. Meet me in the bathroom. Two minutes."

Then he walked away.

Like he knew Derek would obey.

Like he owned him already.

And Derek knew -- deep down, in that filth-hungry part of himself -- that he did.

Part 5 -- Jessy (First-Person)

I stood at the urinal, unzippered, cock already heavy with what I planned to do.

Didn't even look when the door creaked open behind me.

But I felt him enter.

He moved soft, like he didn't want his boots to echo. Like he knew he shouldn't be there.

Good. He shouldn't.

"Lock the door," I said.

He did. Fumbling the bolt like his hands didn't work.

I kept pissing.

Long, steady stream hittin' the porcelain.

Then turned, still hangin' out, piss still dripping.

His eyes dropped fast.

"Get on your knees."

He sank. Fast. Like his body was waitin' on that command all night.

Didn't even hesitate when I stepped forward and let the last of my stream fall--warm, dirty--across his face.

He opened for it.

Didn't flinch.

Didn't speak.

Just offered.

When I was done, I gripped his chin, lifted his face.

"You're filth," I said flat.

"And I don't share what's mine."

He whimpered.

"Yours, Sir..."

Part 6 -- Derek (Third-Person)

The bathroom stank of bleach and beer, but Derek only smelled him.

Jessy.

Tall, broad, towering over him, cock out, still warm from the stream Derek had taken on his face.

He didn't wipe it off. Didn't dare.

The heat of it felt like permission.

He knelt there, hands behind his back, heart pounding hard enough to shake his ribs.

Jessy's fingers under his chin were rough, strong. Like he could snap his jaw if he wanted.

"Say it again," Jessy growled.

"Yours, Sir."

Jessy's thumb ran across Derek's bottom lip.

Then shoved in, slow. Dirty. Possessive.

Derek sucked, hungry.

He didn't care who he was.

Didn't care that Jessy was married.

Didn't care about anything except being used.

And Jessy? He looked like a man who knew exactly how to ruin someone.

And make them thank him for it.

Part 7 -- Jessy (First-Person)

I let go of his chin, took a step back, and watched that filthy look settle in his eyes.

"C'mere."

He crawled forward on his hands and knees, knees scraping the cold tile.

Boots first. I made him crawl to them.

"Lick."

He didn't hesitate.

I kept my gaze locked on his face as he worshipped my boots like he was born to it -- tongue sliding over leather, dirt, sweat.

I wanted him all in.

"Get on your back."

He flipped without a word.

I dropped the heavy belt I'd been wearing to the floor. The buckle gleamed -- rodeo style -- sharp and proud.

"Worship this."

His fingers trembled as he traced the metal. Then his tongue was on it, slow and reverent.

The smell of leather, sweat, and dirt filled the cramped bathroom.

Good fag.

Part 8 -- Derek (Third-Person)

Derek's breath hitched when Jessy tossed down the belt with the big, shiny buckle.

He felt so small here -- stripped, crawling, desperate.

He kissed the buckle again and again, worshipping every inch.

He'd never been owned like this before. Not like this.

Every command was a promise. Every touch a brand.

Jessy's rough hands pulled him up, but didn't let go.

The cock pressed against his thigh was hard and unyielding.

They moved out of the bathroom, silent except for the soft scrape of boots on concrete.

Derek's heart hammered -- this was only the start.

Part 9 -- Jessy (First-Person)

Back at his place, I made sure the door was locked tight.

No distractions.

No witnesses.

He was mine -- right here in his own damn space.

Collar first.

"This stays on. You're mine, Derek. All day, every day."

I snapped it closed. The metal bite was sharp and cold.

Next came the cage.

Heavy, locking tight.

I hung the piss bucket off the side -- a reminder he was my property.

He looked up at me, eyes glossy.

"You work, you obey, and you pay your tribute."

His voice was barely a whisper.

"Yes, Master."

Good boy.

Part 10 -- Jessy (First-Person)

Once the cage was locked and that piss bucket hung heavy at his side, I watched him squirm under the weight of it all.

No softness here. No mercy.

"You'll wear this all the time.

Your release comes on my terms.

And you'll earn every drop."

His eyes flickered to the dildo sitting on the counter -- a tool I'd bring out when he needed reminding of his place.

"Tonight, you'll show me just how hard you can worship."

He swallowed hard but didn't speak.

Good.

I didn't want talk -- I wanted obedience.

Part 11 -- Derek (Third-Person)

Derek felt every ounce of his submission like a brand burning deep.

The cold metal cage locked tight around him was a constant reminder: he was owned.

The piss bucket swinging low, a symbol of humiliation, made his steps careful and deliberate.

When Jessy brought out the dildo, Derek's breath hitched.

He knew what was expected -- worship.

Boots, belt buckle, even the dildo.

Every command was a test of his devotion.

He knelt, hands bound only by his own will, and plunged his tongue over the boots Jessy wore.

Spit, sweat, and dirt mixed in the taste -- and Derek lapped it up.

This was degradation. This was worship.

And he'd never felt so alive.

Part 13 -- Jessy (First-Person)

He thinks I'm done when the cage goes on. When the piss bucket swings between his thighs like some filthy ornament.

But I'm just getting started.

"Strip the rest. Slowly."

He does, peeling off his clothes like they don't belong to him anymore. Because they don't.

Every stitch he takes off makes him less of a man, more of my property.

"On all fours. Face the corner."

I don't ask twice.

He crawls like he's trained for it, ass exposed, piss bucket swaying. The cage clinks with every movement.

I leave him there for fifteen minutes.

No words. No sound but the clock and his breathing.

He twitches. He shifts. He waits.

And that's what I want -- him broken down to the waiting.

Part 14 -- Derek (Third-Person)

Derek knelt in the corner, naked but for the metal collar and locked cage that owned his flesh.

The cold floor pressed into his knees, but he didn't move. Couldn't.

Jessy hadn't told him to.

His ears burned with shame. His body itched for direction.

But he stayed.

Because Jessy was watching.

Time lost meaning. The silence became heavier than chains.

When Jessy finally stepped behind him, boots loud on the floor, Derek's whole body tensed.

"You didn't ask to move," Jessy said flatly.

Derek's voice shook.

"Didn't want to disobey, Sir."

"Damn right you didn't."

Part 15 -- Jessy (First-Person)

I looped the chain leash through the ring on his collar, pulled it tight until his head was tilted back just enough to hurt.

"You're not a man in here. You're mine. You're less. And you'll act like it."

I dropped a dry dog bowl in front of him.

"You get water when I say."

He nodded, shame all over his face, but no resistance.

That's the part I liked best -- how fast he gave up pride for position.

No sex needed. Just discipline.

Just my boot on the back of his neck and the world reminded what order looks like.

Part 16 -- Jessy (First-Person)

I don't want a man.

I don't want a boyfriend.

I want a thing.

A creature that knows its place. That crawls to my boots when I enter. That worships because it's all it's good for.

Derek's close.

But not there yet.

So I build a routine.

He wakes before sunrise. Shaves everything.

He kneels by the door, naked and caged, head bowed, piss bucket cleaned, fresh water in the bowl.

If it's not spotless? He spends the day in the corner, no orders, no purpose, just waiting.

He lives for command.

I give him just enough to keep him desperate.

"What are you?"

"Your creature, Sir."

"What's your job?"

"To worship and obey, Sir."

Good.

Part 17 -- Derek (Third-Person)

He stopped using his own name in his head.

Names were for people.

He was a function now -- a servant, a tool, a worship thing.

Every task Jessy assigned was sacred. Polishing boots with his tongue. Holding the dildo in his mouth until permission was given. Waiting kneeling in the dark, caged and plugged, until the key clicked.

It was holy.

When Jessy entered, the creature's breath caught in its throat.

Every inch of its body ached to be acknowledged.

"Crawl."

And it did.

Across the floor.

Face down.

Grateful.

Part 18 -- Jessy (First-Person)

I built him a pen in the basement. Nothing fancy.

Concrete floor. Hose access. Chain ring bolted into the wall.

Just enough light to see the boots when I came down.

He'd already start licking before I said a word.

Sometimes I pissed on him before I even unbuckled.

Because he needed it. Because it settled him.

Because every time he got a taste, he begged harder.

"You want purpose?"

"Yes, Master."

"Then earn it."

I dropped the pump on the ground and watched him worship that too.

Part 19 -- Jessy (First-Person)

It builds up for weeks.

My wife doesn't get it. Doesn't want it. Doesn't need what I do.

So I go silent. I get cold. I pace.

And when the calendar flips to that one weekend--

I drive out to him. Don't speak during the ride. Don't smile.

When he opens that door and drops to all fours without a word, it's the only damn thing that keeps me from snapping.

"Don't speak. Don't look at me."

I leash him. I strip him. I cage him tighter than before.

He whimpers.

I spit.

"You exist for this. For me. My fists. My cock. My filth."

I grind my boot onto the cage until he cries out.

I don't stop.

I need this.

Part 20 -- Derek (Third-Person)

It knew the rhythm now.

The silence on arrival. The leash. The stripping.

Then came the storm.

Master's fury was different every time -- quiet, cold, or loud and vicious.

This time it was both.

Boots slammed into ribs. Spit hit its face. Piss soaked its chest.

The creature took it all, shivering with purpose.

It had been waiting for this all month -- locked, plugged, trained.

Master was a furnace. Rage and need fused into stamina that never let up.

He'd make it clean the dildo, the piss bucket, the floor -- all with its tongue.

And then call it filth for doing it so well.

"What kind of creature begs for this?"

"Your worthless property, Sir."

It lived for that voice.

Part 21 -- Jessy (First-Person)

They wanted me.

Every man in that steam room would've dropped to his knees if I so much as looked at them. But I wasn't there for them.

I brought what none of them could ever touch: my creature.

Derek crawled in behind me, naked except for the collar and the piss bucket hanging from the chastity cage. The scent of the place -- sweat, heat, chlorine, lust -- hit him like a drug.

"You want to see what control looks like?" I said loud enough for every man in the room to hear.

"Watch this."

I snapped my fingers.

He dropped instantly, face to the tile, crawling to my boots. I didn't even look down. I let the others watch first.

Then I unleashed it.

Slaps. Spit. Rage. I dumped everything into him -- a full month of frustration, of silence at home, of not being touched, of not being seen.

Here, I was a god. And this thing on the floor? Proof of my power.

They didn't cheer at first. They watched. Stunned. Hard. Silenced by how deep it went.

When I pissed on him in front of them -- straight onto his back, then his neck, then made him open his mouth for the last of it -- then they erupted.

Cheers. Whistles. Groans.

I didn't even flinch.

I just turned to the men and said:

"Every one of you's wanted me. But this? This thing earns me."

Part 22 -- Derek (Third-Person)

The tile burned his knees. The collar choked his throat. The cage crushed his cock. And he never felt more needed.

He was nothing -- just a flesh tool brought to worship. And that was holy.

He heard the men. Their gasps. Their stares. The sound of shifting towels, low curses, unspoken envy.

But he didn't dare look up.

Jessy moved like wrath, like heat. Every slap left welts of meaning. Every insult carved deeper into what the creature believed itself to be.

When the piss hit his back, it trembled.

When it hit his mouth, it opened wide.

He was the drain.

He was the bucket.

He was Jessy's proof.

The men surrounded him after. Jessy pointed once:

"Finish it."

And they did.

One by one, the married, closeted, hungry men pissed on him. Shoulders, neck, face, tongue -- every drop was a crown.

The last one spat and called him a faggot.

Jessy didn't correct him.

He just smiled and lit a cigarette.

Part 23 -- Jessy (First-Person)

I didn't say a word. Just grabbed the leash and dragged it across the tile, leaving a trail of sweat and piss behind.

One of the men reached out toward it.

"Don't even think about it," I growled. "Look all you want. You don't touch what's mine."

The private room was small -- hot, tiled, one bench. I left the door wide open. I wanted them to hear.

I sat.

Spread my legs.

The faggot knelt between them without a word.

"You know what to do."

And it did.

It didn't need instructions anymore. Not after the months I'd spent carving obedience into its body. It kissed the insides of my thighs, slow, reverent. It nuzzled the bulge of my jeans like prayer.

I made it open the pump case. Hold it up like it was sacred. Kiss it. Lick it.

"This is your god, isn't it?"

"Yes, Master."

"Say it louder."

"This is my god. I serve your cock. I worship your power. I exist to fuel your rage."

I looked to the door. A dozen silhouettes stood frozen outside, the heat fogging up the glass.

Jealous. Silent. Hard.

Good.

Part 24 -- Derek (Third-Person)

It trembled.

But not from fear -- from purpose.

The leash wrapped around its neck. The pump buzzed beside its ear. The scent of sweat and leather filled its lungs.

Master's legs were spread, boots flat, crotch pressed forward in silent command.

It kissed the buckle first -- heavy, scratched from work, soaked with power.

Then the boots.

Then the pump.

Then the cock it all led to.

"You are my altar," it whispered, forehead against his thigh. "Use me. Break me. Remind me what I am."

Master growled.

"Then shut up and serve."

Part 25 -- Jessy (First-Person)

It's not enough to own a creature.

You gotta train it.

Break the reflex. Flatten the fear. Make its body a shrine to your will.

I watched it gag on the dildo I pressed deeper down its throat. Not fast. Not rough. Just steady.

"You'll take it," I said, palm flat on its forehead. "Not because you want to. Because I told you to."

It gagged again. I didn't let up. My boot pinned its knee. I leaned in until I could feel its spit dripping onto my belt.

"And starting this month," I added, "you pay tribute."

It froze.

"5% of whatever pathetic little paycheck you bring in. Direct. Monthly. Cash or wire, I don't care."

"Yes, Master..."

"And a gift. One I don't ask for. Something you pick. Show me you think about me."

It nodded while still choking.

I didn't smile. I didn't praise it.

Just pushed the dildo half an inch deeper.

"Now thank me with your throat."

⸻

Part 26 -- Derek (Third-Person)

Its eyes watered. Its throat burned.

But nothing compared to the fire in its chest when Master made demands like that -- real ones.

Money. Tribute. Gifts.

He wasn't just using it anymore. He was claiming its life.

It made the work week feel different -- like everything it earned wasn't for rent or food, but for him.

The dildo pushed deep again. It coughed. Gagged. Drooled.

But never pulled away.

It could still hear the men outside the steam room from the last session -- how they'd moaned, whispered, watched.

None of them had this.

None of them got to give 5% of their life just to be used by a man like Jessy.

The dildo came out. Spit strung from its lips to the tip.

"Now clean it like you're proud to be mine," Jessy growled.