Carls Ride Home

A reader suggested a follow-up to "Carl's Gifts" and this is the result. It's probably not what was expected. Reading that story first should help, but is not necessary. This story begins immediately at the conclusion of "Carl's Gifts."

* * *

Carl needed that beer. Bad. His brain was twisted up like a pretzel, and no amount of deep breathing was going to untangle it. So, when he spotted a bar on a corner with a neon sign promising "Cold Beer & Good Times," he didn't hesitate.

When he exited his truck he saw a sign with an arrow pointing to the rear of the building and directing, "ENTER BACK DOOR." He walked around the building where he saw a lighted door labeled simply, "THE BACK DOOR." He pushed open the heavy door, stepping into the dimly lit space, still lost in thought. The night had left him with too many questions-- questions he didn't want to ask, let alone answer. What the hell had just happened? And why, for the briefest second, had he... No. Nope. Not going there. Just need a beer. A nice, strong, manly beer.

As he settled onto a barstool and ordered a beer, Carl finally took a look around. The place was packed, lively, and-- oddly-- everyone seemed friendlier than usual. Not in the "let's have a beer and talk sports" way, but in the "hey, handsome" way.

A bartender in a tight black T-shirt and a dazzling smile slid over his beer. "You're new around here, big guy."

Carl cleared his throat, suddenly aware that the music playing was way too disco for the usual dive bar. His eyes flicked to the walls-- rainbow flags, drag show posters, a drink special called "Bottoms Up," and a sign advertising, "We Put The Cock In Your Cocktail!".

Oh.

Oh no.

He felt a hand clap his shoulder, and a deep voice rumbled beside him. "First time at The Back Door?"

Carl nearly choked on air. His mind raced. He could stand up and leave, sure. But that might look weird-- like he was uncomfortable. Which he wasn't. Obviously. Just a guy, in a bar, drinking a beer. No big deal.

He turned to the man next to him-- a burly guy with a salt-and-pepper beard and a tank top that read "Daddy Issues" in script letters.

Carl gulped.

"Uh. Yeah. First time," he admitted.

The man grinned. "Well, welcome, sweetheart. Drinks are strong, company's friendly, and if you stay long enough, you might just learn something about yourself."

Carl let out a nervous chuckle and took a long sip of his beer. He wasn't staying that long. Carl focused on his beer like it held the answers to life's biggest questions. Maybe it did. Because if he stared at the bubbles long enough, he wouldn't have to acknowledge that the guy next to him-- Daddy Issues-- was still smiling at him like he was fresh meat at a barbecue.

"Relax, big guy," the man chuckled, swirling his cocktail-- something suspiciously pink. "We don't bite. Well, unless you ask nicely."

Carl coughed into his beer. "Just... uh, just having a drink."

Daddy Issues nodded, amused. "That's what they all say at first."

Carl grunted and turned his attention back to the bar, hoping to fade into the background. Unfortunately, the universe wasn't done messing with him yet.

A tall, impeccably groomed man in a shimmering shirt slid onto the stool beside him, giving Carl a slow once-over. "Well, hello, stranger," he purred.

Carl tensed. "Uh. Hey."

The man leaned in, his cologne a mix of citrus and something Carl couldn't quite place but felt dangerously inviting. "New face around here. Let me guess... trying to figure something out?"

Carl's grip on his beer tightened. "Nope. Just drinking."

The man smirked. "Mmmhmm. And I suppose you just accidentally walked into this bar?" He twirled showing the pinks and purples highlighting the decor.

Carl winced. Okay, yeah, maybe he really had been too deep in thought.

The bartender returned, wiping down the counter. "Another round?"

Carl was about to decline when Daddy Issues raised a hand. "Get my friend here a 'Questioning Quencher.'"

Carl narrowed his eyes. "A what?"

The bartender winked. "Trust me, it'll help."

Carl exhaled. He could just drink the damn thing, finish his beer, and walk out of here. No harm done. Just another weird night he'd never mention again.

Then again...

The drink arrived-- bright blue, garnished with a tiny rainbow flag. Carl stared at it.

This was the moment. He could get up, leave, forget all of this. Or...

He could take a sip.

It seemed like the whole bar watched him expectantly.

Carl exhaled, picked up the glass, and-- after the briefest hesitation-- brought it to his lips.

It was surprisingly good.

Daddy Issues clapped him on the back. "Welcome to the club, sweetheart."

Carl swallowed hard. Not just the drink, but everything it meant.

And for the first time that night, he wasn't sure if he was going anywhere at all.

Carl swirled the blue drink in his hand, staring at the tiny rainbow flag like it held the answers to life's greatest mysteries. Maybe it did. Maybe it was a tiny, fabric-covered Oracle of Delphi, whispering things he wasn't ready to hear.

But he'd taken the first sip.

And now?

Now, he was having a second.

It was dangerously good-- tropical, smooth, sneaky. Kind of like this entire situation.

"That's it, big guy," Daddy Issues said, grinning. "You just let it happen."

Carl rolled his eyes. "It's just a drink."

The man to his right-- the one in the shimmering shirt-- chuckled. "That's what they all say. Then next thing you know, you're picking out throw pillows and debating whether 'Call Me by Your Name' is groundbreaking cinema or just a really long commercial for peaches."

Carl snorted into his drink. "Yeah, well, I don't think that's gonna be me."

Shimmer Shirt leaned in, lips curving into a knowing smile. "That's cute. You think you're in control."

Carl opened his mouth to argue-- because dammit, he was in control-- when he felt a hand on his knee. His very solid, very male knee.

He froze.

There were a lot of ways to handle this moment. He could jerk away, laugh it off, throw back the rest of his drink and walk out, pretending that nothing happened. But instead, his body betrayed him-- his breath caught in his throat, his skin prickled, and suddenly, his thoughts weren't thoughts at all.

They were feelings.

Oh.

Oh no.

Oh hell, no!

Shimmer Shirt-- whose name, Carl had finally learned, was Ethan-- must've sensed something, because he leaned in closer, voice low and amused. "Still just a drink?"

Carl swallowed. His mouth was dry. His palms were sweating. His everything was malfunctioning.

He was a big, tough, red-blooded man, dammit. He fixed cars. He grilled steaks. He definitely did not--

The hand slid higher.

Carl inhaled sharply.

He was either having a full-blown crisis or the most interesting Saturday night of his life.

Daddy Issues chuckled and clapped him on the back. "Relax, man. It's not like anyone's asking you to propose. Just... enjoy yourself."

* * *

Carl wasn't exactly sure how he ended up in the dimly lit back lounge of the bar, but there he was--sitting on a well-worn leather barstool, nursing what was either his fourth or fifth Questioning Quencher. At this point, the drink should've come with a legally binding contract.

Ethan was confident, comfortable, completely at ease. Meanwhile, Carl felt like a malfunctioning appliance.

"So," Ethan drawled, his fingers lazily tracing the rim of his glass, "you look like a man who just had a very big thought."

Carl exhaled. "Yeah."

Ethan smirked. "Did it hurt?"

Carl chuckled despite himself. "A little."

Ethan tilted his head. "And what was this earth-shattering revelation?"

Carl hesitated. He could lie. He could brush it off, make some joke about the drinks being too strong or the bar being too well-lit.

But the words tumbled out before he could stop them.

"... I think I'm less straight than I thought I was."

Ethan's smirk widened. "Honey, that ship sailed the second you walked into this place and didn't immediately turn around."

Carl groaned, rubbing his face. "Christ."

Ethan laughed. "Relax. There's no quiz at the end of the night. No one's making you declare a major."

Carl peeked at him through his fingers. "So, what is the protocol here? Do I get, like, a sticker? A pamphlet? A firm handshake?"

Ethan bit his lip, amused. "Well, some guys like to ease into things. Take their time. Reflect." He leaned in, lowering his voice. "Others prefer... a more hands-on approach."

Carl's stomach flipped.

He could leave. He could get up, toss some cash on the bar, and walk back into the night, letting all of this be some weird, drunken footnote in his life.

Or.

He could stay.

He could stop thinking for once in his goddamn life.

Ethan raised a playful brow. "Well?"

Carl swallowed hard. Then, finally--finally--he let himself smirk.

"... I've always been more of a hands-on learner."

Ethan leaned in and began pulling the end of Carl's belt loose, using the end of it to lead Carl to a small office with a desk, a chair and a couch.

Ethan's grin was slow and wicked. "Oh, sweetheart. You're gonna do just fine. Enjoy yourself!"

* Carl *

Enjoy myself.

That was a novel concept. I'd spent so long defining myself by what I wasn't, by what I didn't do, that I hadn't ever really stopped to think about what I was and what I wanted.

But now?

Now, someone else was deciding for me.

And the wildest part?

I didn't hate it.

Not one bit.

I've had a lot of firsts in my life. My first car. My first job. The first time I had a steak so good it made me emotional.

But this?

This was a first in a category I didn't even know existed.

One minute, I was sitting on a barstool nursing my drink and my rapidly crumbling sense of self. The next, I had two thick greasy fingers up my ass and I was gripping the back of a couch like it was the only thing keeping me anchored to reality.

And, uh.

Reality was slipping away fast.

At first, I was holding on-- barely. White-knuckled. Fully tense as Ethan's condom wrapped man-meat eased its way into my well-lubricated rectum. My brain was still technically operational, though currently stuck in an emergency evacuation drill.

But then...

Then my body betrayed me.

At first, it was just a flicker-- like a rogue spark in a faulty wire. A twinge of something I absolutely should not be feeling.

Then came the second flicker.

Then the third.

And that's when I knew.

I was in trouble.

Big trouble.

I clenched my jaw, trying to mentally override whatever the hell was happening. I thought of cars. Power tools. The 2012 Super Bowl.

Didn't help.

My body was already steering itself toward the edge of a cliff, and my brain was locked in the trunk, screaming.

Ethan chuckled behind me, his voice far too pleased with itself. "Relax, sweetheart. You're acting like you've never done this before."

I made a noise that wasn't human.

"That's because I haven't, asshole!" I rasped, my voice cracking like a teenager at a talent show.

Ethan smirked. "Mmm. Yeah, I figured that out pretty quickly."

I wanted to fight back, throw out some tough-guy remark, pretend I had any control left.

But then-- oh, no.

Oh, hell no.

I felt it-- the fast approaching point of no return.

That sharp, traitorous tingle at the base of my spine.

That deep, uncontrollable tightening.

That split-second realization that I had officially lost control of the situation.

Oh, shit.

It was happening.

I squeezed my eyes shut, my last coherent thought being something along the lines of:

Dear God, if you let me die right now, I won't even be mad.

And then.

It.

Happened.

I felt Ethan's cock spasming, spewing its wads of cum into the condom deep in my gut. I completely lost it and began shooting ropes of pearlescent semen onto the couch cushions below.

Every muscle in my body went haywire. My grip on the couch went limp. My lungs collapsed in on themselves. My entire sense of self short-circuited.

And worst of all?

It was undeniably, inescapably, world-endingly good.

For what felt like an eternity but was probably five extremely humbling seconds, I hung there in the wreckage, my body spent, my brain fried, my untouched cock dripping the last vestiges of my masculinity, my soul needing a formal reset.

My knees wobbled.

My legs weren't working.

I barely caught myself before I collapsed on the couch entirely.

My forehead pressing against the cool leather, I let out an exhale of defeat.

I had to laugh. Had to. Otherwise, I might start screaming

Behind me, fully composed and smug as hell, Ethan zipped up his pants and took a leisurely sip of his drink.

Then, in the smuggest voice known to mankind, he asked,

"So... you figure out why they call it The Back Door yet?"

I let out a wheezy, ruined laugh.

"...Yeah," I croaked. "Yeah, I got the full tour. Hell, I think I got the VIP package."

Ethan patted my back, grinning. "Told you you'd enjoy it."

I groaned. My entire worldview had collapsed, my body had fully submitted, and I was going to be reliving this moment for the rest of my goddamn life.

And yet...

Despite everything-- the panic, the existential crisis, the fact that my soul had briefly left my body-- one undeniable, terrifying truth settled into my chest.

I'd loved it.

And I'd be coming back.

* Ethan *

I could always spot them.

The straight ones.

Or at least, the ones who thought they were straight.

They walked in the same way-- stiff shoulders, eyes darting around like they were afraid to look too interested in anything. Always trying to play it cool, pretending they were just here by accident.

But the thing about straight guys?

They never left the same way they came in.

Carl would be no different.

I watched him from the moment he sat down-- big, broad-shouldered, that rough, masculine energy that made guys like him think they were untouchable. He was exactly the type I liked. Not just because he was attractive-- though, damn, he was-- but because I could see it. That little crack in his confidence. That tiny, flickering doubt he probably hadn't even admitted to himself yet.

And I was going to open it wide.

He wasn't easy, though. He had fought it. Hard. But the combination of the Questioning Quenchers and my constant teasing did the trick. He was ready.

When the moment came, I watched him gripping the back of the couch like it was a goddamn lifeline as I jammed a big wad of Vaseline up his ass with a couple of fingers, his muscles locked up, his breath came out in uneven, ragged little gulps.

After I had him greased up, I placed the tip of my cock at his pucker and started leaning into him. All at once, the taut muscle gave away with a pop and about three inches of my cock sunk into his tight anus, causing him to squeal in shock and pain.

"Wait, wait, wait," he whimpered.

Ignoring his pleas, I slowly began sawing in and out going deeper with each thrust until I was fucking his ass balls-deep on each inward trip.

Oh, sweetheart.

He was losing it.

The best part? He knew it.

And the moment he realized he wasn't in control anymore? That was the moment I lived for.

I pounded his virgin ass for several minutes, deeper and harder with each entry.

"Breathe, sweetheart," I murmured, my voice smooth and slow. Teasing. Like I wasn't watching his entire worldview collapse in real time.

"You're acting like you've never done this before."

Carl made a pathetic little noise-- somewhere between a laugh and a whimper. His knuckles were still white on the couch, his body locked so tight I thought he might break.

"That's because I haven't, asshole," he rasped, voice cracking like a windshield under pressure.

I grinned.

"Mmm. Yeah, I figured that out pretty quickly."

His whole body shuddered. Perfect.

He was fighting it. Fighting it so hard.

But I knew how this ended.

He could clench his jaw, dig his fingers into the leather, squeeze his eyes shut and pretend it wasn't happening-- but his body?

His body was already mine.

I saw the exact moment he realized it.

That one sharp, panicked inhale, that split-second twitch in his fingers when his body finally gave in.

Sensing my triumph, I felt my orgasm build and soon I began pumping my thick load into the rubber rammed up his tight shit chute.

Oh.

Ohhh, there it was.

Carl had officially left the building.

His breath hitched-- his legs buckled-- his entire body tensed in one last, desperate attempt to fight the inevitable.

And then, just like that-- he broke.

Completely.

Utterly.

Beautifully.

He squealed again, spraying his cum all over the back of the couch and the cushion. Then, for a long moment, he didn't move.

Didn't speak.

He just hung there, his body limp, chest rising and falling in ragged, uneven gasps.

I waited.

Waited for the moment his brain caught up with what had just happened to him.

And then, just to twist the knife, I leaned back, sipped my drink, and said, "So... you figure out why they call it The Back Door yet?"

His laugh was wrecked.

"...Yeah," he choked out. "Yeah, I got the full tour. Hell, I think I got the VIP package."

I smirked.

I patted him on the back, slow and deliberate, like I was so damn proud of him.

"Told you you'd be a natural."

Carl groaned, slumping forward, rubbing a hand down his face like he wanted to erase the last ten minutes of his life.

But he couldn't.

He was never going to forget this.

I could see the war happening inside his head. The part of him that was still screaming no, no, no, this isn't me, versus the part of him that had just proven otherwise.

He wasn't ready to say it yet.

But I knew.

And the best part?

So did he.