Chapter 1: Whispers of Want in the Dim Light

The doorbell chimed at exactly 8:00 PM, a sharp, insistent ring that sliced through the soft haze of jazz drifting from the living room speakers. Mark’s heart stuttered in his chest, his palms slick with nervous sweat as he smoothed down his cheap button-down shirt—wrinkled at the edges from too many failed pitches. He glanced at the clock on the wall, the second hand ticking like a countdown to his latest humiliation. This was it: his last shot at salvaging the app that had already tanked twice, a half-baked startup idea that promised to revolutionize something no one cared about. But tonight, with these investors, maybe—just maybe—he could turn it around.

He opened the door to three men who filled the frame like predators stepping into a den. First was Victor, his former boss—the silver-fox CEO who’d fired him five years ago with a smirk and a handshake, citing “lack of balls” in the exit interview. Victor was late forties now, tall and commanding, his salt-and-pepper hair perfectly styled, his tailored gray suit hugging a frame that spoke of gym sessions and power lunches. Under that suit, Mark knew from locker room rumors back in the day, lurked a thick eight-inch cock, the kind that commanded respect in boardrooms and bedrooms alike. Victor’s blue eyes locked on Mark’s with that same old amusement, a predator’s gleam. “Mark, old boy. Still chasing dreams, eh? Let’s see if you’ve grown any spine since I cut you loose.”

Behind him came Jax, the ripped ex-athlete in his early thirties, broad shoulders straining against a fitted black polo that clung to his veiny forearms and chiseled chest. Jax had the build of a man who’d traded football fields for venture capital, his dark hair cropped short, a jawline sharp enough to cut glass. Mark couldn’t help but notice the way Jax’s jeans bulged subtly at the crotch—a solid nine-inch monster that curved upward, or so the office whispers had gone when Jax consulted on a past project. He clapped Mark on the shoulder, hard enough to jolt him. “Heard about your little app. Sounds ambitious. Hope it’s got more bite than your last flop.”

Last was Kai, the tattooed tech-bro in his mid-twenties, lean muscle rippling under a slim-fit tee that showcased the ink snaking up his arms—dragons and circuits intertwining like forbidden code. Kai’s pierced tongue flicked against his lip ring as he grinned, sadistic and hungry, his skinny jeans doing little to hide the girth of his 7.5-inch cock, rumored to be adorned with a metal barbell that drove women wild. “Dude, this better be good. I skipped a rave for this.” His eyes scanned the house already, lingering on the open-plan living room beyond, the polished wooden floors gleaming under the low, amber lights.

Mark forced a smile, ushering them in. “Gentlemen, thanks for coming. Make yourselves comfortable.” The living room was his pride—a modest two-story home in the quiet suburbs, but the open space felt grand: cream leather L-shaped couch dominating the center, heavy oak coffee table scattered with whiskey glasses and his laptop, floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the ink-black backyard where stars prickled faintly. In the corner sat his sad little home-office desk, notes from the failed project fluttering like white flags of surrender. The air smelled of polished wood and the faint citrus of his expensive cologne, a desperate attempt to mask his anxiety.