Chapter 3

The week had been a blur of restless nights and distracted days, Jake’s mind tethered to the flickering fluorescents of Ridges Hardware Store. It was Saturday, and the clock on his dashboard read 4:17 PM as he pulled into the parking lot, his Honda Civic rattling over a pothole. His jeans—those same faded, low-riding ones—clung to his hips, no underwear, just like last time. His cock twitched at the memory of Aisle 12, the restroom, Tyler’s apartment—the hands, the cocks, the ropes, the piercing that had wrecked him in ways he couldn’t unfeel. Tyler’s parting words, Next Saturday, bring those jeans, had haunted him, a promise and a dare he couldn’t ignore.

Jake’s life outside Ridges felt like a ghost now. His graphic design gigs, his gym routine, his arguments with Muffin over couch space—they were a flimsy mask over the hunger that had taken root. He’d spent the week replaying every moment, his cock hardening at the thought of Cole’s growl, Tyler’s piercing, the crowd’s gazes. He’d even jerked off to it, twice, in the shower, his moans echoing off the tiles as he imagined the store’s sawdust smell and rusted shelves. But doubt gnawed at him too—was he really this guy? The slut who’d let strangers fuck him publicly in a hardware store? The question lingered, but his body had already decided, pulling him back to Ridges like a magnet.

The store loomed, its faded sign—”Ridges Hardware”—barely visible in the late afternoon sun. The parking lot was packed, pickups and SUVs jammed together, a chaotic prelude to the madness inside. Jake grabbed a cart, the wheels squeaking, and pushed through the glass doors. The air hit him—cool, tinged with sawdust and metal, the fluorescents buzzing like a warning. His bombarded senses causing his cock to bone inside his jeans. The aisles stretched endlessly, rusted shelves groaning under stacks of lumber and tools, the store a gritty labyrinth that felt alive, complicit in his rebellion.

Jake’s plan was vague—find Tyler, see what “more toys” meant, survive the heat pooling in his core. He wore a fitted tee that was cut to barely reach the top of his jeans riding low, the waistband slipping as he leaned over the cart in Aisle 7, pretending to inspect a drill bit set. The cool air kissed his lower back, and he grinned, the familiar rush of adrenaline making his cock stir. Shoppers bustled past—contractors, parents, retirees—oblivious to the secret he carried, the cum-stained memories of last Saturday.

He didn’t have to wait long. A hand grazed his hip, bold and familiar, sending a jolt through him. Jake froze, his grip tightening on the cart, expecting Tyler’s skater-dude drawl. Instead, a deeper voice rumbled, “Back for more, huh?” Jake turned to find Cole, his broad shoulders filling the aisle, his tool belt slung low, his scruffy beard framing a grin that was equal parts friendly and predatory. His flannel was rolled up, forearms flexing, and Jake’s cock hardened, the memory of Cole’s thick cock flooding back.

“Couldn’t stay away,” Jake said, his voice cracking, trying to play it cool. His jeans slipped lower, exposing the curve of his ass, and Cole’s eyes darkened, his hand lingering on Jake’s hip.

“Good,” Cole said, stepping closer, his breath warm against Jake’s ear. “Tyler’s waiting. Got something special planned.” He squeezed Jake’s ass, a possessive gesture that made Jake’s hole clench, his cock leaking a wet spot into his jeans. Cole gestured toward the back of the store, where the restrooms hid, but his grin suggested more than a repeat of last week.

Jake followed, his cart abandoned, the store’s chaos fading as they weaved through aisles. The fluorescents flickered, casting shadows that danced across rusted shelves, and Jake’s pulse raced, his body already anticipating the stretch, the heat. Cole led him past the restrooms to a nondescript door marked “Employees Only,” its paint chipped, a faint hum of machinery behind it. Cole pushed it open, revealing a dimly lit storage room—crates of nails, stacks of plywood, the air thick with dust and oil. Tyler was there, leaning against a crate, his Black Flag tee tight, his jeans low, the bulge of his thick, pierced cock visible. Beside him stood a new face—a rugged man, late 30s, with cropped black hair, a stubbled jaw, and a leather apron over a gray tank. His name tag read Vince, and his eyes, sharp and assessing, locked onto Jake like he was sizing up a project.

“Jake, meet Vince,” Tyler said, his smirk wicked, his lip piercing glinting. “He runs the workshop out back. Likes to play as hard as he works.”

Vince stepped forward, his presence commanding, his hands calloused from tools. “Heard you’re the new favorite,” he said, his voice low, a hint of amusement. “Let’s see if you live up to the hype.” His hand brushed Jake’s chest, tweaking a nipple through his tee, and Jake gasped, his cock throbbing, his jeans slipping lower as Vince tugged at the waistband.

The storage room felt like a crucible, the four of them—Jake, Cole, Tyler, Vince—circled in a space that reeked of industrial grit. Tyler locked the door, the click echoing, and Jake’s breath hitched, his hole twitching with need. Cole’s hands were on him first, pulling his jeans down, exposing his ass to the cool air. Tyler stepped closer, his thick, pierced cock already out, the silver ring glinting as he stroked himself. Vince watched, his grin sharp, his hands untying his apron, revealing a bulge that promised intensity.

“Gonna make you beg today,” Tyler said, his voice rough, his piercing catching the dim light. He pushed Jake against a crate, the wood rough against his palms, and Cole’s hands spread his cheeks, fingers teasing his hole, still slick from last week’s memory. Vince grabbed a coil of rope from a shelf—actual hardware store rope, coarse and real—and looped it around Jake’s wrists, tying them to a metal hook overhead, leaving him stretched, vulnerable, his jeans around his thighs.

Tyler’s cock pressed against Jake’s hole, the piercing cold and hard, and he pushed in, fast and rough, the stretch intense, the piercing grazing that spot with every thrust. Jake moaned, loud and raw, his body trembling, his cock erupting to cover the crate in front of him. But he didn’t go soft, his cock only grew harder. Cole’s hands roamed his chest, tweaking his nipples, while Vince watched, stroking himself, his cock thick and unyielding. The storage room was a fever dream, the smell of oil and dust mixing with their musk, the fluorescents buzzing overhead.

Tyler fucked him hard, his piercing hitting that spot until Jake came again, his release splattering the crate with a larger load then the first, his hole clenching around Tyler’s cock. Tyler pulled out, panting, but Cole took his place, his thick cock filling Jake, his thrusts slower, deeper, drawing out every sensation. Jake’s moans echoed, his body a live wire, and Vince stepped closer, his hand grazing Jake’s cock, teasing without letting him come again, an edge of control that made Jake whimper.

The group dynamic was electric, each man taking a turn—Tyler’s piercing, Cole’s depth, Vince’s teasing restraint. Jake came twice more, his body shaking, his jeans soaked, the rope biting into his wrists. The storage room was their stage, Ridges a portal to this wild, surreal world, and Jake was its star.

The storage room frenzy slowed, the men panting, Jake’s body dripping with cum and sweat, his wrists red from the rope. Vince untied him, his touch firm but careful, and Jake slumped against the crate, his jeans a mess, his cock still twitching. Tyler’s smirk was back, his piercing glinting as he zipped up. “Not bad, cumdump,” he said, his voice teasing. “But the real fun’s at Vince’s place.”