Pounding Desire: Ravaged

I've known I was bi for as long as I can remember, but always too scared to take the leap. Afraid of what people would think, afraid of meeting someone who'd make me step out of the closet, force me to choose.

I've always felt a little off--different. Not like the polished, chiseled types everyone seems to adore. Not the ones everyone stares after. But someone a little overlooked, someone longing for something more--maybe love, maybe something close enough. And so I've found myself drawn to those like myself, not picture perfect.

And on top of that, there's this other craving, one I keep buried.

I've always been drawn to older, chubbier men. Bears. Daddies. Big, bearded, thick-bodied men with heavy hands and warm bellies. It's a craving I've kept locked away, something I let myself fantasize about but never dared to act on. Being bi? Fine. But if anyone found out I was into this? Ha. No way.

Maybe it's because I know what it's like to be looked past. To want to be wanted, to crave it so deeply that it aches. And when I flirt with them--when I let my fingers linger on a text or send a teasing message late at night--I see it. The flicker of hunger in their eyes, the way they light up. It makes me feel seen too. Like I matter for once.

But God, I find them so fucking sexy. Their bellies puffing out against their shirts, broad shoulders, rough beards that scream masculinity. Faces lined and creased, heavy eyes, musk and body heat. It's a fantasy I can't help but hold on to, even though I know it'd shatter if I ever tried to make it real.

Still, I picture it as I jerk off. Stroking to fantasies of being tossed around, groped, spread wide, fucked deep. Of someone who won't let me back out, who'll pull me in and pin me down and fuck me until I see stars.

So at night, I fire up Grindr. Snap a few pics of myself splayed out on the bed, ass perched just right, cock hard, ready for someone to take a bite. Like a little kid waiting for his daddy to come and take him home.

And it works. Floods of messages. Late-night conversations. Sometimes straight into the morning. They tell me what they'll do to me, I tell them what I want them to do. It's fucking filthy.

I love it.

I love their cocks--short and thick, or long and heavy, buried in coarse unruly hair. The way their balls hang low, the forest of pubes they fall out of. I send my nudes, waiting, hungry for theirs in return. The anticipation? That's half the thrill.

The men on Grindr, though, they see me. Or at least, they see the version of me I want them to see. The desperate, horny kid who just wants someone to take control. I know I'm just a picture to them, and when I'm not in their heads, I'm nothing. But for those few minutes, they see me. They want me.

And God, I want to be wanted.

After the usual scroll through Grindr, I start searching for something else, just out of curiosity. A gay sauna. I don't know why it's on my mind, actually - I do, but I type the words into my browser anyway. I've never been to one, but I wanted to let curiosity get the best of me, in more ways than one.

I scroll through and find one downtown, nice and far from anywhere near my neighborhood, away from daily life. I've never thought about going to one before, but now that I see it, I feel the decision being made. Something new, something

real

, not just the screen, not just a profile pic or conversation that leads to nothing. A place where men, older men, might look at me, touch me, want me.

My heart starts pounding, my hand instinctively reaching down to squeeze my cock. I'm hard already, just thinking about it.

I scroll through the sauna's website, looking at the pictures, reading the reviews. Dark rooms, steam, lockers, showers. It's all so...

dirty

. So

real

. And the idea of being surrounded by men, anonymous, a retreat from real life, a chance to explore. Then something catches my eye--an event listing.

"Bear Night: For Bears and Their Admirers"

Fuck.

The description is straightforward. A night dedicated to big, bearded men and the guys who worship them. A chance to be surrounded by everything I've fantasized about, to feel them against me, their rough hands, their heavy bodies. No hiding, no pretending.

I picture it--stepping inside, stripped bare, surrounded by men thick with muscle and fat, their sweat-slicked skin, their bellies brushing up against me. The heat of them, their scent, the way they'd pull me close, their hands greedy, their bodies hungry.

My fingers twitch, hovering over the "Book Room Now" button, and for a moment, I hesitate. The reality of it is starting to sink in. The fear creeps in--the fear of crossing the line, but so does the loneliness- the ache of being wanted by someone, anyone.

I can feel my breath coming faster, and I'm harder now, just thinking about it. The idea of walking into that sauna, of stripping down bare, open and ready. To be nothing but a body in a room full of men who want me.

Fuck, I want this.

I click it.

I book the appointment.

My cock twitches in my pants at the confirmation on the screen. My heart's pounding, head spinning.

It's set now. Tomorrow. I'll go.

**

Tomorrow comes, its 9PM and the night is cold. I find myself outside a simple wooden door, the word

Excess

written on a small plaque that sits in the middle.

I step inside.

The reception area is small but sleek, dimly lit with soft yellow lighting that bathes everything in a haze. But tonight, there's a charge to the air, an almost tangible weight to the heat pressing in. The low murmur of voices, laughter, the clinking of glasses--it all blends into something intoxicating.

Behind the counter, the receptionist barely glances up at first. He's an older guy, maybe in his fifties, with thick arms and a belly that strains against his tight black shirt. His face is weathered but friendly in that disarming way, the kind of guy who doesn't need to say much; his presence says everything.

His eyes scan me quickly.

Assessing.

"Checking in?" His voice is deep, rough.

I nod and pull out my phone, unlocking it with shaky fingers, showing him the confirmation for my booking. His gaze flicks to the screen and back to me, then down to the neon wristbands on the desk--red, green, yellow. Without asking, he picks up a green one and slides it across to me.

"Room 305," he says, handing me the key along with the band.

Green.

Willing.

I stare at it.

For a moment, I consider objecting, my lips parting as if I'm about to say something. A flicker of resistance, of hesitation--of pretending I should have a say in this.

But I don't.

And he knows it.

His eyes hold mine, steady, knowing. He's seen this before. I swallow hard, my pulse loud in my ears as I take it. "Thanks."

I turn to leave--but then I see them.

It's not a traditional bar. The counter is low, dark wood with a few half-empty glasses and bottles strewn across it. But it's the men sitting around it that catch my attention.

The men are thick, bearded, some shirtless, some wearing only towels wrapped low around their wide waists. A few don't bother at all, their heavy bodies on full display, sprawling across leather seats like they own the place.

They talk in low rumbles, their voices almost indistinguishable from one another, but their eyes?

Their eyes are all on me.

They're watching, sizing me up, appraising me like I'm a piece of meat, and the thought stirs something deep in my gut. My chest tightens, my pulse quickening and cock hardening at the curiosity in their gazes. Hungry.

Their eyes follow me, tracking my every movement as I stand there in the reception area, the key cool in my sweaty hand. A rush of heat floods my body, but I try to remain calm, keeping my gaze steady. I turn away, heading down the narrow hallway, but not before catching one last glimpse of the men at the bar.

One of them, older than the rest, with a thick gray beard and hands that look like they could break me in half, nods slightly, like he's giving me permission to keep walking, or maybe daring me to stop. His eyes flick down, just briefly, just enough to let me know he's noticed.

It's not just the way they look at me--it's the certainty in their eyes.

Like they know.

I feel my cock twitch beneath my boxers, the pull of their attention almost overwhelming. There's a part of me that wants to go over, to sit with them, but I can't. Not yet. Not until I've stepped into the room, hidden away from their prying eyes, where it's just me and whatever happens next.

Room 305.

I stand in front of the door, fingers tight around the key. My heart's still hammering and I hear the moans of the men nearby behind closed doors. I insert it and twist, a soft click, and the door opens.

The room is small, barely more than a thin bed and a locker. The walls are dark, the lighting dim and moody, casting long shadows that make everything feel unreal. It smells faintly of sweat and something else--something musky, something

male.

I step inside, shutting the door behind me. A deep breath, then another. My skin is still buzzing, my fingers move to my hoodie, peeling it off in one slow motion. It falls to the floor.

I catch my reflection in the full-length mirror beside the door. My chest is rising and falling too fast. My lips are parted. My eyes--wide, a little glassy. My skin soft and glowing from the new lotion I had tried, and hair falling neatly around my face from the haircut I had gotten for this.

I look

cute.

I look

nervous.

I look ready to be

fucked

.

I reach for my jeans next, unbuttoning them, shoving them down. My cock is already stirring, pressing against the fabric of my briefs, aching, eager. I strip down completely, kicking my clothes into a messy pile before stepping over to the locker and stuffing them inside.

Naked now.

The air is cool against my skin, making my nipples stiffen, making every inch of me hyper-aware. This is it. No turning back.

Soft voices and moans echo from the hallway outside. "

Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me!"

A door clicking shut. Footsteps. A giggle and sigh.

I swallow. My cock twitches.

I glance down at my wrist, at the strip of neon green wrapped around it. The receptionist had barely hesitated before handing it to me.

Green. Willing.

The towel sits folded neatly on the bed. I should put it on. take another deep breath, grabbing the towel and wrapping it around my waist. My hands are shaking a little as I knot it loosely at my hip.

The towel barely fits around my waist. It's thin, flimsy, barely covering anything. The knot I tie feels weak, --one wrong move and I know it'll slip, leaving me completely bare.

Maybe that's the point.

I grip the door handle and step out. The hallway is dimly lit, the air thick with the scent of sweat, musk, and the occasional wet slap of flesh against flesh.

A man passes by me, older, stocky, wrapped in a towel like mine but even looser. His chest is dusted with hair, his gut protruding slightly, heavy and solid. He gives me a glance, his eyes dragging over my body, lingering on the way my towel barely covers me.

As I step past the man in the hallway, I feel it--his hand, rough and warm, sliding over my ass, fingers pressing just enough to make me feel it through the thin fabric of my towel. It's not subtle. It's deliberate. A slow, firm rub, his palm lingering for just a second longer than necessary before he pulls away like nothing happened.

A shiver runs through me.

Heat pulses low in my stomach, my cock twitching against the flimsy towel. I smile shyly, looking down as I keep walking, but my breath is shorter now. I move deeper into the hallways, my breath uneven, the thin towel clinging to my hips but barely doing its job.

Men pass by me, some wrapped in towels like mine, others bare, cocks swinging, unashamed. Their eyes flick over me as they walk, some lingering longer, some filled with hunger. I don't meet their gazes for long, but I feel them watching.

Doors are open. Wide, inviting. Inside, men lay sprawled on small, dimly lit beds, some on their backs, legs spread in open invitation. Others sit on the edges, eyes locking onto me as I pass, waiting for a sign, for permission, for me to step inside.

I don't stop.

I keep moving, feeling the heat of their bodies as I pass. Some reach out--just a graze of fingers against my arm, my side, testing, seeing if I'll react. I welcome it, embrace it, but continue on, still fighting with how far I'd let myself go today.

I move further down the dimly lit hallway, the low hum of voices and shifting bodies fading behind me. The air starts to change--warmer, wetter, laced with the unmistakable tang of chlorine.

A set of stairs leads down, the light softer here, golden and flickering. Steam curls through the space, rolling along the floor, seeping from the open doorway ahead. The sound of water trickling, feet slapping against tile, quiet laughter.

I step inside.

The heat wraps around me instantly, thick and heavy, pressing into my skin. The air is humid, the scent of sweat and chlorine mixing with the sharp tang of soap. A hot tub bubbles in the center of the room, the water dark and rippling as men lounge along the edges or wade lazily, their bodies half-submerged.

To my left, the sauna--wooden, fogged with steam, shadows of figures moving inside. But in front of it, a shower area.

Rows of open stalls, water pouring down, bodies glistening. Some men stand under the spray, soaping themselves down, muscles flexing under the warm cascade. Others linger along the walls, watching.

I stop near the entrance, my towel still wrapped loosely around my waist. My pulse quickens as I take in the scene. The way they move, slow and deliberate, hands running over their chests, their cocks, the lather of soap slipping down thick thighs. The men sitting nearby aren't hiding their interest. They're watching, waiting, taking in every detail.

And now they see me.

A few heads turn, eyes dragging over my body, sizing me up. One man in particular--broad, hairy, his chest dusted with silver--leans forward from a nearby bench, his thick thighs spreading as he fixes his gaze on me. His lips part slightly, like he might say something, but he doesn't. He only watches.

I swallow, feeling a flicker of something--nervousness or maybe excitement--unfold in my stomach. His gaze feels almost suffocating, and yet, something inside me stirs. My fingers slip to the edge of my towel, hesitating.

The last flicker of restraint slips away, and I pull the thin fabric from my body, draping it carelessly over a nearby hook.

The heat of the water meets my skin as I step under the shower, streams cascading down my chest, my stomach, between my legs. I shudder, tilting my head back, letting it soak me completely. My hands move slowly, dragging over my shoulders, my chest, tracing the outline of my ribs before sliding lower.

I don't rush, I want them to watch.

Soap slicks my palms as I rub it over my body, fingers grazing the lines of my hips, the curve of my ass, before wrapping around my cock. I stroke, slow and deliberate, my breath hitching as I squeeze the base. I let my head fall forward slightly, eyes half-lidded, pretending not to notice the men watching.

But I do notice.

The broad, hairy man from before hasn't moved. He's still seated, legs spread, his towel draped lazily over his lap. His gaze is fixed on me, darkened with hunger. His lips twitch into a slight smile, something possessive about the way he looks at me, as if I'm a prize he's already claimed.

I exhale slowly, my strokes quickening, my other hand trailing lower over my stomach. Water beads and drips from my fingertips, catching the dim light. I feel open, exposed--bared in a way that sends a sharp thrill down my spine.

As I finish rinsing, letting the last streaks of soap glide down my skin, I turn off the shower and shake the water from my hair. The air is thick with steam and the sharp tang of chlorine, but beneath it, I feel something else--a presence. A weight behind me.

I don't look right away. I already know. I can feel him.

The man from before. The one who watched, who never looked away as I put on my little show. I don't have to look to know he's still following. The steady sound of his footsteps on the wet tile stays just behind me, unhurried, deliberate.

I grab my towel, but I don't bother wrapping it back around me. Instead, I sling it over my shoulder, letting it fall loosely as I step away. I sway my hips as I walk, feeling his eyes trace my every movement, every inch of skin.

I make my way toward the hot tub. The air is thick with heat and chlorine, the gentle hum of bubbling water filling the space.

The hot tub is already occupied. Men lounge in the steaming water, some half-submerged, others resting their arms along the edges, bodies relaxed but eyes sharp. Their conversations slow as I approach, their gazes dragging over me--my bare, wet skin, the way the light glistens along my chest, the droplets still sliding down my stomach.

I step forward, letting them look.

The water is almost too hot as I lower myself in, heat licking up my thighs, curling around my waist as I settle in. The bubbles stir against my skin, but I can still feel the weight of their stares. Some watch openly, dark eyes flicking over my body, drinking me in. Others pretend not to look, but I see them shifting, stretching, subtly repositioning themselves.

And then, a new ripple disturbs the water.

The man who followed me finally steps in.

I finally let myself take him in.

The bubbling surface parts around his thick, heavy frame. He's broad-- his chest is dusted with dark, coarse hair, beads of water clinging to it, running down the curve of his gut. His arms are thick and meaty, shoulders like a bull's. He's tall, towering over me as he steps into the tub.

He moves slowly, deliberately, like he knows I'm watching. As I sink deeper into the heat of the water, I can feel the man's eyes on me, heavy and expectant, pulling at me, making my skin prickle in a way I can't quite ignore.

My eyes drift down his body, my tongue darting over my lips.

His cock hangs heavily between his legs, thick and weighted. The sight of it, full and laced with veins, makes the air feel thin, charged. A thick bush of pubes surrounds it, frames it, demands it to be noticed, impossible to look away from.

Heat stirs low in my stomach. My breath hitches. My cock twitches, hardening under the warmth of the water, the anticipation thickening, tightening. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, I raise my hand and push my damp hair from my face--casual, effortless, like I'm not thinking about it.

But I know what I'm showing him.

The green wristband.

Willing

.

His eyes flick down to it, darkening. Just for a second. I watch the realization settle in, the silent exchange passing between us. He knows. He understands. I lower my hand, letting it rest on the edge of the tub, my body loose, open.

The men around me don't seem to notice--or maybe they do. One hand slides along my thigh, a soft, hesitant caress, but I barely register it. I'm too busy watching him, he shifts again, making his way closer. Our eyes meet--his dark, intense gaze locked onto mine, searching, waiting.

The water shifts again as he lowers himself into the bench next to me, the ripples spreading out, surrounding us both. He settles in close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off his body, his hairy chest pressing against the water.

His leg brushes against mine as he moves, and I can feel the solid strength of his body against mine. I don't pull away, resting against it as an open invitation as my breaths come in short, measured bursts.