Summer, 1997. Somewhere in the Nordic countryside.

Not Even Close

Dag’s breath hitched as he stared up at the ceiling, heart hammering like a drum in his chest. His head rested in Liv’s lap—her thighs soft, warm, and steady beneath him. She was naked, her skin tanned and smooth, her full breasts brushing his temple every time she leaned over to kiss his forehead.

His legs were in the air, ankles held wide in Liv’s firm hands. His body glistened with sweat and lube. His hole, slick and twitching, had already been worked with fingers. Nils had spent long minutes prepping him in silence—watchful, focused.

But now the real test had finally come.

Nils stood at the foot of the bed, thick fingers wrapped loosely around the base of his cock. It was glistening with lube, heavy, veined, massive. The kind of cock you’d see in a filthy back-page, or on a pornstar. But it was real. It was hard. And it was aimed at Dag’s ass.

“Relax,” Nils said, voice low and steady. “You’re lubed. I’m lubed. You said you were ready.”

Dag nodded. “I—I am.”

Nils didn’t respond. He just pressed forward.

The fat head met resistance instantly. Dag’s breath left his lungs in a shaky gasp. He tried to push out, just like he’d read in the guides. Tried to breathe, to open, to let the stretch happen.

But his body panicked. The thick cock slid in just an inch. Maybe two. And then—stopped.

Nils held there for a moment. Breathing through his nose. Staring down at Dag’s trembling thighs. Liv let out a soft moan as she watched the stretch.

Dag whimpered, “Please—keep going—”

But Nils just pulled back slowly, letting the head slide out with a wet pop. He looked down at Dag, then gave the underside of his cock a long stroke, lube shining between his fingers.

“You’re not even close to ready,” he said calmly.

Dag blinked, shame crawling up his neck.

“I thought you could handle my cock,” Nils continued, cocking an eyebrow. “Didn’t you say you’d been training with plugs?”

“I—I have—”

“Were they mini-sized?”

Liv chuckled under her breath and kissed the top of Dag’s head. “You poor thing,” she whispered, stroking his calves. “It’s a lot. He’s always a lot the first time.”

Dag closed his eyes, chest rising and falling too fast. His hole still ached from the failed stretch, but his cock was rock hard, leaking onto his stomach.

How did I end up like this? he thought.

The Ad

Three weeks earlier

The room smelled like sweat and hot paper.

Dag lay on his stomach, naked, a pillow bunched under his hips. The adult hookup magazine crackled in his hands—thick pages, grainy ink, the kind of glossy sleaze you had to buy in person, in cash, with no questions asked. It was dog-eared, worn, and absolutely alive with filth.

He was flipping absently, already leaking, when he turned the page—and froze.

There it was.

Half-page. Black and white. No color. No gimmicks. Just pure, devastating truth.

A man and a woman, naked, lying on a rumpled bed. Their faces blurred. But the rest? Unfiltered.

The woman had curves that filled the frame. Her legs were open, feet still in a pair of black silk stockings. The right one was torn from thigh to ankle. Between her legs: a thick, untrimmed bush, glossy and matted with cum—gobs of it, soaking into her. It looked fresh. Like they’d taken the photo five seconds after he finished.

And the man ... his cock rested heavy on his thigh. Big. Thick. Veined. Still dripping from the tip.

Dag’s hand trembled as he stared.

Below the photo, simple typewritten words:

Dominant bisexual couple.

M:56 F:54.

Seeking long-term houseboy.

Obedience expected.

Discipline delivered.

Service rewarded.

You will be trained.

You will be used.

You will be shared.

No tourists. No flakes. Rural. Real. Letter only.

A full picture of you with face is a must (not nude).

Phone number must be included.

Dag’s heart pounded. His mouth was dry. His cock pulsed against the sheets.

He stared at the photo for a full minute, unmoving.

Then he came. Hard. Fast. Messy.

When he caught his breath, the decision was already made.

That night, he wrote the letter.

It wasn’t long—just enough to say he was serious. That he wanted to serve. That he was ready to be trained. That he’d obey. He attached a photo, scrawled his number beneath his name, and sealed the envelope with fingers still shaking.

And three weeks later—

The Station

The platform was empty. It smelled like pine and old rails.

Dag clutched his backpack, still wearing his nicest jeans and a white shirt he thought looked clean. His hands wouldn’t stop sweating.

The train pulled away. Silence followed.

A black Volvo rolled up and parked.

The man who stepped out was tall. Wide. Built like a fucking mountain. He didn’t say anything. Just looked Dag up and down, then jerked his head toward the passenger seat.

Dag got in.

He didn’t ask questions.

For the first few minutes, the drive was silent—forest on either side, road winding beneath them.

Then Nils reached over and placed his hand on Dag’s thigh.

Big. Warm. Solid.

He left it there for just a few seconds. No squeeze. No words.

Dag’s heart was pounding so hard it almost hurt.

The House

The drive was quiet. Forest. Hills. A long gravel road.

And then—a house. Big, old, beautiful in the quiet way only country homes could be.

She was waiting on the porch. Bare legs. Silk robe. Hair up. No bra. No shoes.

She smiled like she already owned him.

“Welcome, sweetheart,” she said, descending the steps. “Come inside. Let’s get you ready for him.”

Dag sat on the edge of the kitchen chair, still in his travel clothes, fingers curled nervously around the bottle Liv had handed him. The glass was cold, beads of condensation rolling down his wrist. She’d asked if they wanted a beer. Nils hadn’t answered. Dag had nodded, a little too fast.

Liv smiled and handed one to each of them, her robe parting just enough to tease.

Dag raised the bottle halfway to his lips.

“Stop!”

Nils stepped in close.

“Open your mouth.”

Dag froze. Looked up.

Nils stared down at him. Calm. Patient.

Dag opened.

Nils leaned forward. A thick string of spit slid from his mouth into Dag’s—slow, wet, intentional.

“Swallow.”

Dag did.

Then, and only then, he took his first sip of beer.

It was ice cold and tasted like ownership.

Nils didn’t speak much.

After the beer, he just tilted his head toward the hallway. “Shower. Use the one upstairs. Don’t take too long.”

Dag obeyed.

The water was hot. Too hot. He scrubbed like he was trying to peel his skin off, heart hammering, brain spinning. He touched himself once—but stopped. He didn’t want to come. He didn’t even know if he was allowed to.

When he stepped out, steam curled around his ankles. He dried off fast, wrapped the towel around his waist, and padded barefoot down the hall.

The bedroom door was open.

And they were waiting.

The Bedroom

Liv lay stretched across the bed, nude and relaxed, one leg bent, the other extended lazily toward the edge. One hand rested on her stomach. The other trailed idly across the bedspread.

Her skin was golden and soft-looking, touched by sun and age in the most sensual way. Her waist curved naturally into her hips, her thighs plush and inviting. Her breasts were full and heavy, flawless in their imperfection—slightly soft from time, but high and proud. Her nipples were dusky, plump, visibly hardened. She was pure seduction, between her legs—trimmed neatly, soft curls catching the light. One hand rested on her stomach. The other trailed idly across the bedspread.

Her face was just as breathtaking—strong yet tender, framed by tousled, chestnut-brown hair swept up in a loose bun. Her cheekbones were defined, her lips full and calm with a knowing curve. Her eyes held a quiet fire, deep brown and expressive, lined faintly at the corners in a way that only deepened their allure. She looked at you like she already knew your secrets—and would love you anyway.

Nils stood beside her.

Naked. Unashamed. Powerful.

He wasn’t bodybuilder-cut—he didn’t need to be. His frame was massive, dense with real strength. His chest was thick with salt-and-pepper hair. His belly wasn’t flat, but solid—like something that could take a punch and not move. His thighs were wide. His arms looked like they could hold Dag down with no effort.

His face matched the rest of him: rugged, weathered, and unmistakably powerful. Salt-and-pepper hair, cut short, framed a strong brow and sharp jaw. His features were rough-hewn, like they’d been carved by something ancient and merciless. A perpetual stubble lined his jaw and upper lip, accentuating the firm set of his mouth. His lips were full, but rarely soft—usually held in a flat, unreadable line that flickered between disapproval and a cruel kind of amusement. His eyes were steel-gray, cool and controlled, with fine lines at the corners that deepened when he focused. That stare could pin a man in place. He didn’t need to raise his voice or lift a hand. One look was enough to say: you belong to me now.

And his cock—

Hard.

Thick.

Pointed down slightly from the weight of it.

Wrapped in a snug leather strap that looped around the base and under his heavy balls, pushing everything forward, harder, fuller. It looked deliberate. Like a warning.

Dag froze in the doorway, towel clutched like it might protect him.

Nils just stared at him. Calm. Still.

“Drop it.”

You’re Not Ready

Dag stood there, naked, heart pounding. The towel had just dropped.

Nils didn’t move for a moment. Just looked him over, cock already thick and hard, the base bound tight in a black leather strap that made everything stand out fuller, heavier. His voice was low and measured.

“Bend over the bed.”

Dag obeyed.

He placed his hands on the mattress, ass exposed, legs slightly parted.

“Liv. One finger.”

She stood up from the bed and moved behind Dag without a word. Breathless, he didn’t dare turn around. Slick lube coated her fingertips. She rubbed slow circles around his tight hole, then pressed in, letting the first finger slide deep. Dag gasped—his arms tensed. It was too much and not enough all at once.