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72: Fake Profile
publish date:
2026-05-05 12:46:22
Latest chapter
The Manhood Diaries 72: Fake Profile
Adam let out a slow breath as he reached the end of the Louie confession. Firstly, the supply closet. So this is where it starts. The first taste. Louie’s trying to make it sound like an accident, like he was swept up. Bullshit. A man knows. You feel that pull, that dark curiosity, when a guy like Finn looks at you. It’s not about being gay or straight. It’s about power. Louie felt it. He went to that closet because he wanted to know what it felt like to be under someone like that. To be used. I get that. The thrill of the forbidden. The shame is part of the high. But he’s lying to himself already. Calling it “confusion.” It wasn’t confusion. It was hunger. Then the Tender Night Fuck. This one… this one gets me. The way he describes Finn’s hands is gentle. The kissing. The “baby.” Louie lets himself believe it. He lets himself think the beast has a heart. This is where a man’s weakness shows. We want to believe the predator can love us. That our submission can be rewarded with t
The Manhood Diaries 71: Closet Love (7)
The silence that followed was total. It wasn't the anxious, waiting silence of before. This was the silence of the aftermath. Of a city after a bomb has fallen. Louie moved through his life like a ghost haunting its own corpse. He went to work, performed his tasks with robotic efficiency, ate meals he didn’t taste, and slept a black, dreamless sleep that felt more like a temporary death. Finn existed in the same building, a phantom at the periphery of his vision a closed office door, a voice in a meeting, a figure stepping into an elevator just as the doors closed. They never spoke. They never made eye contact. The connection, whatever foul and electric thing it had been, was severed. For two weeks, Louie floated in this numb purgatory. The craving was still there, a dull, persistent ache in his bones, but it was buried under layers of cold ash. He told himself it was over. He told himself he was free. He almost believed it. Then, on a rainy Thursday evening, his phone buzzed on
The Manhood Diaries 70: Closet Love (6)
The texts stopped. For three days, there was nothing. No summons, no commands, not even a cold, transactional message. The silence was a new kind of torture, more agonizing than any physical violation. Louie’s body, so thoroughly trained to respond to Finn’s whims, felt like a live wire with no current. He was jumpy, distracted at work, his eyes constantly darting to Finn’s closed office door. He saw him once in the hallway, Finn gave him a curt, professional nod, the kind you’d give any junior colleague, and walked on without breaking stride. The indifference was absolute. It was the final, most complete form of dominance: to be used until you were nothing, and then to be discarded as nothing. Louie couldn’t eat. He couldn’t sleep. The memory of the brutal “correction” after their dinner warred with the ghost of the tender night that preceded it. Which was the real Finn? The answer, he realized with a sickening lurch, was both. The tenderness was a tool, a way to deepen the woun
The Manhood Diaries 69: Closet Love (5)
The tenderness didn't last. It couldn't. It was a crack in the dam, a single night of whispered words and gentle hands that made the return to reality all the more brutal. Louie woke in Finn's bed, the sheets impossibly soft, the man himself a warm, solid weight beside him. For a few disoriented moments, it felt like something real. Then Finn stirred, his blue eyes opening, and the shutters came down. The warmth vanished, replaced by a cool, distant appraisal. He didn't kiss Louie good morning. He simply got out of bed, his naked body a masterpiece of indifference. "There are fresh towels in the en suite," he said, his voice flat. "I have an early meeting." Just like that, the man who had called him 'baby' and held him through the night was gone. The whiplash left Louie gasping, curled in the sheets that still smelled of sex and Finn's cologne. He dressed in silence and left before Finn finished his shower. The texts resumed that afternoon, but they were different. Penthouse. 8
The Manhood Diaries 68: Closet Love (4)
Louie arrived, naked under his coat as instructed, his body already humming with a sick anticipation. He let himself in with the keycard Finn had slid across the desk to him that afternoon, a new level of possession. The penthouse was dark, lit only by the flickering blue light of the television. Finn was on the sofa, not standing imperiously by the window. A half-empty glass of whiskey sat on the table. “Come here,” Finn said, his voice lacking its usual razor-sharp command. It was softer, almost weary. Louie approached, shedding his coat, letting it pool on the floor. He stood before the sofa, waiting for the order to kneel, to strip, to present himself. Finn looked up at him. In the dim light, his sharp features seemed less severe. The predatory glint in his blue eyes was muted. He reached out, not to grab or push, but to gently take Louie’s hand. The touch was so unexpected, so devoid of violence, that Louie flinched. “Sit,” Finn said, tugging him down onto the plush leather
The Manhood Diaries 67: Closet Love (3)
The soreness became a constant companion, a physical anchor to the madness that was consuming him. Louie walked differently, sat carefully at his desk, a hidden reminder of Finn’s possession. The shame was a living thing, coiled in his gut, but it was now inextricably tangled with a deep, gnawing hunger. Finn didn’t speak to him at work. Not directly. The commands now came via text, late at night, from a blocked number. Tonight. My place. 10 PM. Address below. Come dressed in what you wore to the office. Nothing else. The address was for a sleek, modern high-rise in a part of town Louie couldn’t afford. He stood outside the building at five minutes to ten, shivering in the evening chill. He’d obeyed, wearing only his work slacks, button-down shirt, and shoes: no coat, no undershirt, no underwear. The wool of his pants scraped directly against his sensitive dick, a constant, low-grade torment. He was buzzed in without a word. The elevator ride to the penthouse was silent and swi
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