NOTE: This work contains material not suitable for anyone under eighteen. This is a story and contains descriptive scenes of a graphic sexual nature. This book is pure fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously—any resemblance to actual persons, whether living, deceased, real events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

You just crossed over into Millie’s Vast Expanse. A land of seductions filled with tender, loving ecstasy or affairs entered with reluctance and fear. An affair, begun in a hot, desperate flash from veiled cravings. Where a man discovered he wasn’t the person, he thought he was. Urges buried inside, denied, hidden from the world and himself.

Meet Brad, a twenty-ish college graduate working in the advertising field. He is a small man with small hands, tiny feet, short stature, and a timid soul. Blessed or cursed with a soft, elegant face more suited to a woman than a man. He has deep-seated fears; some he is aware of, while others he does not even know exist—not yet, that is.

Then there are the desires—he doesn’t know about those either or perhaps, more to the point, won’t own up to them.

He turned off from Ordinary Boulevard onto a winding avenue in the middle of the Expanse named Fate. Being lonely and thirsty, he spotted a bar and thought he’d have a few beers and relax. Unfortunately (or is it fortunately?), he wandered into Millie’s Vast Expanse, and his world is about to expand from the finite to the infinite. Beware—sharks, sometimes, swim near the shore.

Mark: ... and then there was the time he walked up to this group of tourists and they were petrified because, A—they were obviously lost, and B—had probably never spoken to a drag queen before in their lives ... and he ... she just offered to escort them out of Alphabet City ... and then she let them take a picture with her and then she said she’d help ‘em find the Circle Line...

Rent (2005) (special note: the ‘he’ and the ‘she’ in the quote is the same person.)

Just a Friendly Drink

My name is Brad, and I’m not a lady’s man, anything but, to be honest. I have dedicated my life to celibacy. Not by my choice, you understand. I guess I need to explain myself.

I’m short. Five feet four inches tall. I’m thin. I weigh less than 110 pounds. I’m cursed with a pretty face. So many girls tell me, and even some guys say so. Despite being true, I take it as an insult because it is painful.

To be honest, you cannot imagine how disheartening it is to talk to a woman and have her rebuff you. You’re not that kind of man, are you? Nor can you understand when they say certain things.

Things like, “Damn, boy, you look like a girl.”

I have only had one lover in my life. Eventually, she broke off our relationship. Worst of all, she enjoyed devastating me with insults about the size of my penis.

“It’s like a ten-year-old boy’s prick on a grown man.” She laughed and added, “Well, almost a grown man.”

Straight from my heart, I couldn’t handle the insult. ‘I will never make love to a woman again,’ I told myself. ‘I’ll content myself with jerking off while looking at dirty pictures or videos.’

For me, during those days, the most satisfying manner of sex is me jerking off. I watched videos of fully clothed, sweet-looking women walking around or talking aimlessly on cams. You know ‘YouTube’ stuff about today’s outfit.

Or the trusty photographs from my high school yearbooks. The pictures of the girls I had longed to be with, way back then. Even so, I enjoy talking to women until they get mean or they talk about my lovely face or girlish figure.

Fuck those bitches. They want to hurt me. I won’t let them.

In so many ways, I’m more comfortable talking to women than men. Men, big men, gigantic men, frighten me. I sense their underlying aggression and anger in how they speak to me. Often, they just act mad at me, and I don’t have any comprehension of why.

One woman told me that men are mean to me because they feel I threaten their manhood. I’m attractive to them, and those feelings scare them. I have always thought that was just bullshit. Because they aren’t attracted to me. They can’t be attracted to me. I’m a man, not a gay man, only an ordinary man.

That day several months ago, I couldn’t get away from work fast enough. My boss, an angry man whose division recently slipped to the lowest rated in the company. The spoilsport blamed everyone but himself for our dismal performance. Taking great relish, he raked me over the coals. His tirade descended into insulting name-calling as he shouted me down in front of the entire staff.

Driving away from work, I did so as fast as possible, and I drove around the city with no goal or destination in mind. I needed to calm down before I went home. I wanted to relax and contemplate my future in advertising. Perhaps this wasn’t for me.

I don’t know how long I drove around. Eventually, as the sun dipped near the horizon, I saw this bar, which I had never noticed. Honest Injun, I wasn’t even sure where I was. The parking lot was half full or half empty, depending on your personal preference.

Parking and making my way inside, I sat at the bar and thought about what I should order. I decided I should just drink beer. After all, it was a man’s drink, and dozens of women were in the bar. One wanted to look manly in front of all those beauties.

That night I drank my beer sitting at the bar watching those remarkable women. I tried to talk to them, but as usual, I struck out with each woman I approached, every single one. Honestly, I just wanted to talk to them, be around them and get fuel for jerking off later that night. I wasn’t alone.

When I spoke to a man at the bar having the same luck, or indeed lack thereof, like me, my night took a turn. We sat together at the bar, bitching about the women and their stuck-up attitude. All night, both of us tried and failed to dance with a beautiful girl. A few of them let us buy drinks for them, but flitted off as soon as they had their prize. I think we both felt like the ultimate losers at that point.

I felt comfortable with him right off the bat. He had a calm way about him, a deep voice that resonated with authority and confidence. I couldn’t believe we had the same outcome from our efforts. A large handsome man, and these prima donnas laughed him off, same as they dismissed me.

We seemed to bond, and he purchased a round, then another. I tried to buy one here or there, but he would wave it off, telling me to save my money. I don’t know how many drinks I had. I wasn’t drunk. I can hold my booze, nevertheless, I’d had a lot of beer.

Let’s put our cards on the table here. I’m a small, geeky guy, quite experienced in rejection by good-looking women since well before I was a man or they were women. The girls made fun of me, beat me up, and humiliated me from first grade. Now I’m twenty-seven, and good-looking women, more often than not, seem offended by my existence.

Several women told me if I am honest and admit I’m gay, they can be my friend. But they want nothing to do with me if I’m hiding in the closet. Their presumptuous, condescending attitude stings.

The man I drank with seemed to be my exact opposite, at least, one would assume. He was handsome, tall, and well-built. This fellow was my polar opposite, muscled like a running back or quarterback. Why he struck out, I hadn’t a clue.

At first, I found comfort in his failed attempts. You get it, the fallen hero syndrome. But also, I felt as sorry for him as I did myself. A kind of bond formed between us. We commiserated together over several more beers.

“Hey, why don’t we cut out and go to my place?” he asked me.

Being truthful, I felt somewhat uneasy about doing so. And honestly, I wasn’t even sure why. So, I turned him down, saying I had to get up early. It was a bald-faced lie, and I wasn’t sure why I said it since the next day was Saturday. He put his bear paw hand on my shoulder and squeezed it, a light, friendly squeeze.

“Only one, then. Come on, man, no way we will get lucky tonight with these stuck-up,” he paused momentarily, “men haters. Look, Brad, it will be... just a friendly drink.”

Eventually, with some reluctance, I gave in to his wishes. At this point, he thumped me on the back in a lively, friendly manner.

“You won’t be sorry, brother,” he told me. Then added, “You can leave your car here. I live right across the street.” When we walked out, I looked at the building and realized what building it was—the Anderson Arms Apartments.

“Holy shit,” I thought to myself, “Robert’s a rich bastard.” The big, high-rise apartment building was the most exclusive one in the city. Knowing the market for this kind of apartment, I figured his digs had to cost over a thousand dollars a month. As we approached the entry, a doorman yanked the door open.

“Good evening, Mr. Anderson,” he said as we entered the doorway. He nodded to the man, and we moved past him into the lobby. The room testified to how rich those that lived here were. Crystal chandeliers lit the room, expensive paintings adorned the walls, and the furniture was all antique.

Money seemed to drip from the walls. A few people in the lobby rushed up and spoke to Mr. Anderson, slapped him on the back, or asked him how things were going. He talked to them with dispassionate responses and seemed to have less interest in them than the folks had in him.

A woman stood behind a counter where rows of surveillance monitors lined the back wall, showing twenty-four hallways of twenty-five floors. The only floor not covered by cameras was the top floor—the penthouse. She wore a tight blue police-style uniform—SECURITY—emblazoned on her badge and patches. Her well-rounded hip sported a gun in a holster.

“How about that game the other night, Mr. Anderson?” Her soft, melodic voice sounded sexy as she spoke with a slow southern drawl. Her curvaceous body filled the uniform with an appealing beauty of form. And my mind ran wild with a vivid curiosity about how her desirable body might function.

With a turn of her eyes, she gave me a sideways glance, and an odd smirk passed over her face and vanished. Turning her head to me, one eyebrow arched as she gazed at me. An indescribable look passed over her face. The uniform gave her a militant look, and I felt she disapproved of me.

Blonde hair pulled into a tight bun added to her authoritarian appearance. A vision of her straddling some hapless intruder, him sprawled out on the floor, her standing over him, a nightstick in one of her hands, while the other balled into a fist ready to beat him silly flashed through my brain.

She reminded me of the big blonde in the Police Academy movies.

“Damn, that bitch could dominate me anytime,” I thought. My stomach knotted and sickened briefly, realizing she could control me physically.

“I lost a shit load on it,” he said, tossing her a small wad of bills. Snatching the bills out of the air, the woman bobbed her head and shoved the money into her uniform top, pushing it into her bra. She returned to her station, paying no more attention to me. I noticed she gazed at Mr. Anderson, a look of adoration on her face.

He pushed a button at the center elevator, and the doors slid open. When we entered, he pulled out a card and shoved it into a reader. The word PENTHOUSE lit up on the console as the doors banged as they shut.

“What ... you rich or something?” I asked Robert.

“Yeah, I am.” He smiled softly as the elevator jarred us as we moved.

The rapid rise made my stomach lurch, and I reached out to the wall to steady myself. I felt Anderson’s big mighty hand on my shoulder steady me. Oddly, his hand felt good touching me, but it reassured me.

“Guess I had more than I thought,” I answered, feeling queasy, my stomach jumping inside me as my head spun.

Our ride seemed to last only a few seconds before the doors slid open. The view of the vast, opulent room, complete with a fireplace in the center of the expansive chamber, astonished me. Flames leaped from the logs in the round fireplace, providing the only light in the room.

Statues stood around the room, paintings hung on the walls, an antique Victrola here, the massive head of moose hung on one wall, a wolf’s head and deer antlers on another wall, and a jumping mountain lion who seemed to leap from the fire.

A heady scent of orange filled my nostrils as I moved into the room on somewhat shaky feet. The elevator doors clank shut as I stepped forward in an awkward lurch toward the fireplace. Shaking off the uneasy feeling, I took a few clumsy steps and stumbled over something on the floor. His hands grab onto my arms, steadying me as his mighty hands covered my biceps.

Holding me there, I supposed to give a minute to gain my senses. His hand clutched me, the big powerful fingers digging into my biceps, pressing deep into the soft flesh of my arms. Closing my eyes, I willed my stomach to calm and my head to stop spinning. He pulled me back into him.

At that moment, I realized how much larger than I was. I felt odd and didn’t know why then his action of pulling back to him felt strange, uncomfortable, and yet secure. His massive body covered mine as he clutched me to him. I could feel his hard body, the taut and rippled muscles pressed into my body. The warmth of him warmed my back.

“Take a second, Brad,” he said. His deep voice assured me everything was fine. I realized he was twice my size. “You seem a little weak or something right now. Are you getting ill?”

His hand rubbed my arms. With a light but firm touch, he massaged my biceps. His powerful fingers dug into my small muscles, then moved to my neck. And yet it felt ... incredible. I wanted to be angry and offended, but I couldn’t muster any rage.

“Yeah, Brad, you’re drunk. Eight beers will do that to you,” he said. “You know you’re actually quite attractive.” One of his hands moved to my face as he stroked my cheek. His callused hand touched my face, so tender and soft. “You know it too, don’t you? Such a lovely face.”

Oh shit, this can’t be happening—why did guys or girls always bring up my face? This strange flash of heat moved over my cheeks where he touched me. I found it odd that bumps formed on my face. My cock throbbed as it grew hard. Shit, what is with that? My tiny pecker rode up on the zipper of my pants, the brass scratching the tender flesh. I knew I had to put up resistance.

“Look, man, I’m not gay, bi, or any of that shit,” I said as this thing moved beyond my ability to understand. It happened so fast my mind couldn’t keep up with events. His hands squeezed even harder, and a slight pain shot through my shoulder. Oh God, my heart wouldn’t stop pounding as a tear ran from my eye. This couldn’t be happening. Why did he touch me ... like this? I felt weak in my knees, and while my stomach no longer felt upset, my head spun.

“Me either,” he said, clenching one hand down hard where my neck met my shoulder, holding me in place, while the other hand moved, descending from my face to my chest. His lips were next to my ear, kissing it, his tongue darting out, tasting the crevices as he whispered, his wet lips touching hot on my ear. The experience frightened, excited me, and simultaneously gave me the most bizarre, conflicting sensations.

“I really like you, Brad. You’re so soft, small, and feminine. Your face is so beautiful—those bitches were jealous of you. That’s why women treat you so bad—they are envious of your beauty,” he said, speaking directly into my ear. The hot breath moved over my ear, sending chills down my spine. I felt I should repel his advance, break away, and run away from him. But I didn’t, as this odd pride welled in me. I believed him—for the first time in my life, I felt the way I was attractive was a good thing.

“For the great ones, eat up the little ones,” he said, clutching me hard for a moment. “I got you drunk, just enough, to make my meal easier to catch,” he said, then added more. “You will feel every delicious moment. You know, you want this more than me. And so, you know, I’m not a fag either. I really love fucking cute, feminine creatures. You’re a beautiful, feminine twink for a man who sees himself as a loser geek boy.”

His hands roamed my body, and shivers moved through me as he kissed my neck. I tried to struggle, and I wanted him to stop. At least, I told myself I wanted to stop him, but with no effort, he controlled me.

“I’m going to call you Brandy from now on.”

Robert Anderson pushed me to my right toward an enormous sofa or something like a sofa. As we walked, the hand on my chest tore at my shirt. The buttons fell off, tinkling as they hit the floor.

Actually, I don’t know when he let loose my neck, but that hand tore the shirt from my body. While his other hand, the one on my chest, pinched my nipples and squeezed my pecs. The gooseflesh rose on my chest from his touch, his rough, dominating touch.

In all candor, I couldn’t understand how my body was on fire, yet all those tiny bumps covered my skin. I felt my heart beating in my neck, ears, and even my temples pounded as the blood gushed through my veins.

I also couldn’t understand why his touch sent a sensual thrill through my body.

Taking my long, shaggy hair in his hand, he pulled my face toward him. His thin lips met my fuller, firm ones, and we kissed. I tried to pull away, but he held my hair tight. His tongue darted out, parting my lips and investigating my mouth. Our tongues intertwined, and my body went limp. All the fight in me dissolved, and I sagged a little, but he held me to him. When we broke our kiss, I tried to protest.

“I ... this is...” words wouldn’t form. I couldn’t say what I wanted to say.

“You want to leave?” he asked.

I nodded, and he let me go, stepping away.

“Leave,” he said, pointing at the elevator.

I took a step and hesitated, turned back to look at him, and he grabbed my arm, yanking me back to him.

“You don’t want to leave. You want to play hard to get,” he said, pulling me to him again as our lips locked together. His hands roved my body, and I responded to his powerful touch.

With his tongue, he fucked my mouth, and my tongue fucked him back.

“Such a lovely little chest, like a tomboy I used to ass fuck so she could play like my boyfriend.” He treated my body like a woman’s body. Squeezing my chest, butt, and rubbing my neck sensuously.

My rock-hard pricklett stood straight out when his hand moved over it. It tented up in my jeans, and he smiled at me. I felt so ashamed of how small it was. He touched there, and he knew.

“Tiny, baby prick, like some girl’s fucking clit,” he told me, demeaning me.

I felt disgraced, ashamed of the size of my cock, humiliated by his treating me like a girl, and totally devastated as my cock spit out thick streams of juice. It darkened my jeans, spreading out over them more with each surge of my balls.

I felt my pants fall to the floor. “Commando. I like that, Brandy,” he told me. I regretted not wearing underwear at that point. He rubbed his hand over prick and balls, getting the cum all gathered up, smothering it in his palm. He lifted his cum covered hand to my face.

“Clean it up, Brandy—you fucking, beautiful bitch,” his deep voice purred in my ear. His other hand left my chest, seized my hair, and twisted a handful. “Get that fucking tongue out and clean it up—bitch!” he cooed in my ear.

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