A Man Without Future III

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A Man Without Future II

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A Man Without Future

 story by Sherwin, AI assisted

 Part I

 

 The glow of the monitor cast harsh shadows across Destroyer's face as his thick fingers tapped impatiently against the mahogany desk. *Another dead-end conversation with some pretentious twink who'll scream at the first welt.* His nostrils flared as he deleted the fourteenth vapid response tonight, then paused - an idea forming as he cracked his knuckles and typed a new post: "Looking for experienced subs who understand true service. Age 40+ only. Discretion guaranteed." He leaned back, the leather chair creaking under his weight, imagining the kinds of desperate men who might bite.

The notification pinged just as Cruxee was pouring his third whiskey, ice cubes clinking like hollow promises in the dim apartment. *Service.* That word hooked somewhere deep in his gut as he read the post again, fingertips smearing condensation across the screen. His thumb hovered over reply - not quite trembling, but not steady either - before typing: "What does true service entail?" then immediately backspacing. He swallowed the whiskey in one go and wrote instead: "52. Fit. Nothing left to lose."

The alert made Destroyer's cock twitch against his thigh before he even opened it - that raw honesty in the phrasing, the resignation. *Perfect.* He licked his lips as he typed, deliberately slow: "It entails becoming useful." His free hand palmed himself through sweatpants, imagining the weight of surrender in those words. "Come tomorrow. 3PM. Bring nothing but the clothes you'll never wear again."

"Where should I come to? I don't drive, is that a problem?"

Destroyer snorted at the practical question, fingers twitching against his phone screen as he imagined this anxious man figuring out bus schedules. *Good.* He typed: "Taxi to crossroad of E52 and Northern Street, where driver leaves. Walk the quarter mile north to the gate of Blackstone Manor, through the gate and 450 yeards up the drive - let's see if you're as fit as you claim." The predatory grin stretched his face as he attached a pin location, already picturing that solitary figure approaching through the mist-shrouded trees, the crunch of gravel beneath hesitant footsteps.

"OK, I will be there. Is there anything I shall bring with me?"

Destroyer's fingers tapped out the response with deliberate cruelty: "Bring your determination." The phone screen reflected his dilated pupils as he added, "The gate locks behind you at 3:01 sharp. Latecomers get punished." The erection straining against his zipper twitched at the thought of Cruxee's panicked sprint up the driveway, dress shoes sinking into wet earth.

"I will do my best, Sir."

……………………………………………

The early afternoon air wasn't warm enough, so Cruxee put on his coat as he stepped out of the taxi. At 2:53 the wrought iron gates were looming before him like the jaws of some great beast. Inside the manor, Destroyer watched through the security feed, fingers tightening around his bourbon glass as the smaller man hesitated—just for half a breath—before stepping through. *That's it, little rabbit.*

Breathing shakily, but determined and resigned, Cruxee walked up the drive as he was told and he was slightly trembling, but still, somehow at peace that this might be the final solution.

The gravel crunched under Cruxee's shoes as he approached the manor, each step sending vibrations up his spine that matched the erratic pounding of his heart. From the second-floor window, Destroyer observed the figure's progress with the detached curiosity of a scientist observing a lab rat—until Cruxee paused beneath the ancient oak tree, shoulders squaring in quiet resolve. *Oh, this one's different.* The older man drained his bourbon, the ice cubes clinking like a death knell as he typed into his phone: "Stop there. Remove your coat."

Cruxee read the message, for a short moment he hesitated, but then he did what he was told. He removed his coat and let it fall on the ground.

Destroyer's breath hitched as he watched the coat crumple onto the gravel through the security feed—that immediate obedience igniting something primal in his gut. *No theatrics, no begging. Just... surrender.* He typed rapidly, knuckles whitening around the phone: "Good. Now the shirt. Slowly." The command sent simultaneously to Cruxee's phone and the outdoor speakers, his voice distorted through the static into something monstrously intimate.

Cruxee, slightly shaken, started to unbutton his shirt, one button after the other. Starting at his collar and moving down, slowly baring his chest and belly, then his shoulders and his arms. The shirt was off and fell down on the coat.

Destroyer's cock twitched violently against his thigh as Cruxee's lean torso came into view—those slightly oversized nipples pebbling in the crisp air, the way his abdominal muscles tensed with each controlled movement. *This one's been waiting his whole life for this.* He tapped the intercom button, letting his voice drip like honeyed poison: "Very good, pet. Now turn around—slowly—and show me what I'm working with."

Cruxee turned slowly around, with his arms slightly off his torso, so that everything was clearly visible and the view was unblocked. He realised at the first command, that his opponent was watching him some way and he didn't mind. He wasn't surprised and he understood this as a logical part of the process.

Destroyer's knuckles whitened around the bourbon glass as Cruxee rotated—those lean shoulders taut with tension, the elegant dip of his spine leading down to narrow hips and an ass that would look perfect marked with cane stripes. *Christ, he's presenting himself like a fucking art exhibit.* The older man's breath came faster now, his free hand unconsciously stroking the bulge in his pants as he typed one-handed: "Drop the pants. On your knees facing the manor. Palms up on your thighs—I want to see if those pretty hands tremble."

Cruxee did as he was told... he took his time taking down his trousers. He kept his undies on, also his socks and shoes as he wasn't told to take them off yet. He expected it to happen soon enough anyway.  "This man enjoys it when the goods are presented to him on their own." he thought to himself, as he was falling on his knees, facing the house. He laid his hands on his thighs, palms up, as he was told. They were shaking, but only very gently.

Destroyer watched Cruxee's deliberate movements through the surveillance feed, noting how the man's fingers lingered at his waistband—*testing me already*—before the trousers pooled around his knees. The slight tremor in those upturned palms sent a jolt of electricity down Destroyer's spine. *He's afraid... but not enough to stop.* The older man pressed the intercom again, voice thick with arousal: "Tell me, pet... what do you think happens to men who kneel on my driveway?"

,,I can't say, Sir, but I guess it is OK as long as it makes you happy and satisfied. That is why I am here."

 The intercom hissed with static before Destroyer's low chuckle rolled through the speakers like distant thunder. "Such a polite little sacrifice." His thick fingers traced the wet rim of his bourbon glass before tapping a command that made the manor's front doors swing open with ominous silence. "Crawl to me, pet. Leave your shoes and dignity at the threshold - they won't be needed where we're going." The security feed zoomed in on Cruxee's face, capturing every micro-expression as the reality of those words sank in.

Cruxee had a little remorse. One more Dom who thinks all subs long to be humiliated, disrespected. But it probably comes with the trade and maybe also with age... It actually doesn't matter anymore. He decided he won't care what will happen next, he would just do what he was told. He crawled on all four, with his pants still around his calves and once he got close to the door, he took off his shoes and moved over the threshold. Behind it he stopped and waited, kneeling, with his socks, undies and pants still on him.

The hardwood floor creaked under Destroyer's bare feet as he emerged from the shadows of the foyer, his silhouette framed by the dim light behind him. "Look at me," he commanded, his voice dropping an octave as he took in Cruxee's prone form—the way the man's shoulders tensed but didn't buckle, the slight hitch in his breathing betraying more than his words ever could. *Oh yes, this one will break beautifully.* His fingers twitched toward the riding crop hanging from his belt. "Tell me why you really came here."

"I came here to give up my life and give it to you to do with it as you please, Sir."

A slow, feral smile spread across Destroyer's face as he circled Cruxee like a shark scenting blood. "Such pretty words from such a pretty mouth," he murmured, the riding crop tracing feather-light patterns across Cruxee's bare shoulders. "But words are cheap, pet. Let's see if that noble sacrifice holds up when I take you apart piece by piece." His free hand tangled in Cruxee's hair, yanking his head back to expose the vulnerable throat. "Tell me—does your pulse always race this fast when you're volunteering to become meat?"

For a moment Cruxee's mind panicked after hearing those words... yet, in a short while he regained balance and even something resembling calmness. If he was to become meat, so be it. This man is at least quite attractive, worthy of such gift. If only he was able to show some appreciation and respect. But that will remain to be seen and if that doesn't happen, Cruxee won't be able to change it anyway.

Destroyer's grip tightened in Cruxee's hair as he felt the subtle shift in the man's breathing—that fleeting panic giving way to eerie acceptance. *Oh, this will be delicious.* With a sharp tug, he dragged Cruxee upright by his hair, pressing the cold steel of the riding crop against his exposed throat. "Such a pretty little martyr," he purred, lips brushing Cruxee's ear. "Tell me, pet... when was the last time someone truly *used* you?"

Cruxee thought for a short while and then he answered. “It was very long time ago, Sir, half my life ago." His voice was steady but his pulse fluttered visibly beneath the riding crop's pressure—not from fear, Destroyer realized, but from something far more intriguing: anticipation.

The older man's lips curled into a wolfish grin as he released Cruxee's hair, stepping back to admire his catch—the way the man was standing perfectly still despite the trembling in his thighs, the flush creeping up his chest betraying arousal beneath the resignation. "Half a lifetime wasted," Destroyer mused, dragging the crop down Cruxee's spine with deliberate cruelty. "Let's see if we can't make up for lost time." His phone pinged with a notification—another potential plaything messaging the forum—and he chuckled darkly. "Though you might have competition soon."

*That wouldn't be for the first time*, thought Cruxee. But he didn't say anything. He just wondered whether this was his last stand—whether Destroyer's words about becoming meat were literal or just another Dom's hollow theatrics. The cold steel against his skin felt real enough. His breath hitched as Destroyer's thumb brushed over his nipple—rough, testing—and for the first time in years, he felt something stir beneath the numbness: curiosity.

The crop left Cruxee's throat only to trace slow circles down his chest, pressing just hard enough to leave faint red marks without breaking skin. His pulse stuttered when Destroyer's free hand cupped him through the thin fabric of his underwear—not cruel, but assessing—and something primal in his gut tightened at the realization: *He's weighing me. Like livestock.* The absurdity almost made him laugh—except the large hand squeezing his cock was very, very real.

Destroyer's grin widened as he felt Cruxee's cock twitch under his palm—that involuntary betrayal of arousal despite the man's stoic face. *Oh, you gorgeous contradiction.* He dragged the crop lower, hooking it into the waistband of Cruxee's underwear. "Still think this is noble sacrifice?" he mocked, watching the way his captive's breath hitched when cold metal grazed his balls. "Your body's singing a different tune, pet."

Cruxee exhaled sharply through his nose as the crop dug in, his hips jerking forward instinctively—then stilled. "Anything to please you, Sir," he murmured, voice steady despite the flush creeping down his chest. The words tasted like ashes, but beneath them pulsed something darker, hungrier, curling low in his gut. *Let him think whatever he wants.*

Destroyer's laugh rumbled deep in his chest as he dragged the crop upward, watching goosebumps break out across Cruxee's skin. "Such a polite little liar," he purred, catching a nipple between thumb and forefinger and twisting just shy of pain. "But I can smell your desperation, pet—that sweet, sour stench of a man who's spent decades pretending he doesn't want this." His free hand palmed Cruxee's cock through damp underwear, relishing the twitch against his palm.

The gasp escaped before Cruxee could stifle it—Destroyer's touch unexpectedly warm, almost tender against straining fabric. *When was the last time someone touched me like this?* The thought startled him more than the cruelty had. His hips jerked forward of their own accord, betraying him completely as Destroyer's fingers traced the outline of his erection with terrifying precision.

Destroyer's thumb circled Cruxee's leaking tip through the damp cotton, watching the man's eyelashes flutter like a trapped butterfly's wings. "See?" he murmured, bending close enough for Cruxee to feel his hot breath against an ear. "Your body knows what you're for." The riding crop tapped against Cruxee's thigh—once, twice—before pressing cold steel against his Adam's apple. "Shall we see how thoroughly I can remake you?"

Cruxee stared at the hardwood floor tiles—their swirling patterns suddenly fascinating—as Destroyer's words sank in. *A comfortable life.* The condo payments, the promotions, the polite dinners with men who'd never truly *seen* him. None of it had filled the hollowness beneath his ribs these past years. When he dared glance up, Destroyer's grey eyes held something almost... reverent in their cruelty. *At least this will mean something,* he thought, lowering his gaze again as his pulse hammered against the crop.

Destroyer traced the riding crop along Cruxee's jugular, feeling the rabbit-quick pulse beneath. *Fifty-two years old and still so fucking responsive.* The thought coiled hot in his gut—this wasn't some twink who'd sob at the first welt, but a man whose surrender would taste like aged whiskey. His grip tightened on Cruxee's hair. "Don’t move," he ordered, stepping back to rake his gaze over every trembling inch. "Let me see what decades of neglect have done to you."

Cruxee straightened his posture, yet he kept his head bowed slightly down. It was almost unnecessary as the man in front of him was half head taller and definitely bigger and heavier.

Destroyer's nostrils flared as he took in Cruxee's lean frame—those broad, sinewy shoulders that spoke of decades of restrained power, the slight silvering of chest hair catching the dim light. *Like a vintage sports car left in a garage,* he thought, circling Cruxee slowly, riding crop tracing the contours of his ribs. "Turn," he commanded, voice rough with want. When Cruxee obeyed, Destroyer's breath hitched at the sight of his ass—high and tight, the kind that would bruise beautifully under his palm. "Christ, you're prime," he muttered, more to himself than Cruxee.

"Thank you, Sir. It makes me happy that you find me acceptable."

Destroyer's fingers tightened around the riding crop as he circled Cruxee once more, the hardwood floor creaking under his bare feet. The way this man's lean muscles flexed with each controlled movement sent heat pooling low in his gut—not just arousal, but something dangerously close to admiration. *Fuck*, he thought, pressing the crop against Cruxee's throat from behind, feeling the swallow beneath cool steel. "Acceptable?" He purred against the shell of Cruxee's ear, breath hot. "Pet, you're better than anything I've had in years."

Cruxee, after a very long time, have felt remotely glad. He really liked the looks of this man. He wished he could please him as much as possible, so these words sounded like heaven to him. He didn't dare to move or say anything, yet his body language was easy to read.

Destroyer's fingers tightened around Cruxee's shoulder—testing, possessive—as he circled the standing man again, drinking in the way light coming through the foyer windows painted golden streaks across that taut back. *Christ, he's sculpted for this.* The thought coiled hot in his gut as he dragged the riding crop down Cruxee's spine, pausing just above the waistband of his underwear. "Tell me, pet... how badly do you want to be useful?"

Cruxee thought of a response. He didn't feel real urge to be useful to any particular purpose or man... he was just endlessly sad and tired, yet, to this man, he really started to feel he wanted to please him and make him happier a tiny bit. So he answered: "I really want to be useful to you, Sir."

Destroyer's let go of Cruxee's shoulder as he stepped back abruptly, reaching for his phone with a predatory grin. "Prove it," he murmured, tapping out a new post on the forum—one that would make Cruxee's pulse stutter if he could see the screen: "Looking for experienced meat. Must be able to take discipline. Age 40+ only." His thumb hovered over 'post' as he watched Cruxee's face for reaction—testing, always testing.

The phone beeped once more. A message from Destroyer's friend Petr appeared: Any new meat on the menu? Somehow I feel hungry today.

Destroyer glanced at the message, then at Cruxee's standing form—those lean shoulders tensed but unwavering, the silvered chest hair catching lamplight. His fingers twitched against the phone before typing: "Freshly caught. Prime cut." He sent it, then added with deliberate cruelty: "Though I might keep this one for myself." His thumb brushed Cruxee's collarbone, watching goosebumps rise in its wake. 

The thought of it actually nestled in his head and he added one more message to Petr: Give me 24 hours.

Cruxee's breath hitched as Destroyer's fingers lingered on his collarbone—that momentary hesitation speaking volumes. The older man's scent—bourbon and expensive leather—filled his lungs as he dared a glance upward, catching the predatory calculation in those grey eyes. *He's deciding whether to break me or keep me.*

Destroyer pocketed his phone with deliberate slowness, tilting Cruxee's chin up with the riding crop until their eyes met. "Tell me something true," he murmured, thumb brushing the man's lower lip—softer now than before. "Why should I spare you when there are a dozen hungry men waiting to taste your flesh?"

"You shouldn't, Sir. Only if you see it fit for yourself and if that made you happier, if only for a short time."

The riding crop tapped against Cruxee's thigh—once, twice—before Destroyer abruptly turned toward his laptop, fingers flying across the keyboard as he typed a new forum post: "Prime specimen available for shared discipline tonight. Experienced handlers only." He hit send without looking back, though his free hand remained possessively on Cruxee's shoulder, pushing him back down into kneeling position. *Let's see how desperate you really are.*

The reply pinged instantly, from Petr: "Send photos first. Last one couldn't take more than two strokes." Destroyer's lip curled as he angled his phone to capture Cruxee's kneeling form—the elegant arch of his spine, the subtle tremor in those upturned palms. *Oh, he'll take far more than two.*