6: Julian (Bearings Café)

Julian and the outline for this story were developed in collaboration with a member who prefers to remain anonymous. The story itself was then written by me. This installment is a testament to the vibrant, hot creativity of Louche Lothario readers. I invite you to celebrate this art by diving into the narrative. If you’re interested in collaborating on your own story, please fill out this form with all your depraved details. Your ideas could inspire Leo’s next steamy adventure.

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Mornings in the city aren’t for the faint of heart.

If you work from home, maybe you miss the hustle. But when you commute to a Midtown office from your apartment in the East Village, it can be… a lot. My favorite coffeehouse is at Union Square — no one wants to be there at rush hour. But masochist that I am, I take the L from my apartment by Tompkins Square Park, get off at Union Square, and brave the Square for a good coffee before heading uptown now and then.

Not as bad as Times Square, I admit.

In any case, I woke up in a cloud this morning and all I could think about was acquiring the perfect cup of coffee. The elusive, perfectly balanced brew. Black. Never cream or sugar. My usual coffeehouse just wasn’t hittin’ like it used to.

So motivated was I to find the perfect cup, that despite my cloudy head I managed to leave my apartment early to try a new coffeehouse that just opened on Fourth Ave right near Union Square — a direct competitor to my old fave.

I donned my usual work attire — straight-leg slacks and a muscle-hugging black sweater — and headed out into New York’s world-famous hustle with the slight frangrance of a masculine pine cologne.

I exited my train at Union Square and after barely a block’s detour down Fourth Ave, I found Bearings Café.

The vibes are good. It’s cute. Smells great. Nice, robust coffee menu. I was checking out the display of “protein power balls” in the pastry case when I heard a familiar voice.

“Leo, that you?”

Standing before me was Julian, recognizable clear as day, despite the years that have passed since we last saw each other. He was one of several employees behind the counter. He slung a tea towel over his shoulder.

“Julian! Hey!” I didn’t know what to say, but I was thrilled nonetheless. He was just as handsome as I remembered, too. He possessed a beautifully structured face. Today, his glorious mane of hair that I secretly loved so much back in the day was pulled back in a small ponytail, and he had a great chest and powerful arms, too. Though I’m sure he’s packed on some muscle since we were classmates in college. He wore a tee that hung loose over his belly, but gripped his chest and arms like a well-tailored garment should. I felt powerless for a moment as I took in the view.

“You have a sec to catch up?” he asked. “I don’t want to make you late for work, but I’d love to see how you’ve been.”

I suddenly didn’t care about being late for work. My accounts are up to date… I thought, maybe I text my boss and tell him an emergency’s come up?

(I did.)

(Boss bought it — told me to take the day.)

“Yeah, I’ve got time,” I said. “I can wait over here—” I gestured to a nearby table, but Julian came around the counter and joined me.

“I’m not working working. I own the place. I can take a minute to chat.”

Oh, shit. Good for him!

I clocked him checking out my biceps as I maneuvered my arm to remove and set down my heavy backpack full of work junk.

He took a moment, like he was recalibrating after watching my arm work. “You, uh, you’re in great shape. Always have been,” he chuckled nervously as he spoke. “Hope that’s not weirdly forward, it’s just, like, noticeable.”

Flattered, I smiled and thanked him. In return, I commented on his own arms, and that chest, too. I didn’t call out his muscles out of pure reciprocity, either — my sentiment was genuine. I think he understood.

“You’ve always been in good shape though,” he said. “Back in uni, I used to hit the intramural fields every game you played. I was shy, but I was down bad.”

He laughed; perhaps a nervous tic, or maybe something else.

“You were this hot, sporty, but also bookish and nerdy upperclassman — it was a hot combo.”

“I didn’t realize I was an upperclassman to you,” I said. “Thought we were the same class?”

“Yeah, I was a freshman when we took that philosophy course. I think you were two years ahead.”

He was really paying attention back then. Woof.

But was this gonna turn into a date?

I relaxed into my seat as we continued to chat. As we spoke and gesticulated, I know he must have seen my attention divert — again and again — to his muscular arms in that tee. And don’t think I didn’t notice him fumble a sentence when I flexed my bicep to scratch a nonexistent itch on the back of my neck while he was talking.

“Leo, I do, unfortunately, have to get back behind the counter,” he said as a queue began to form at the counter. “We close shop at 9PM. You down to come back at, say, 9:30? If you’re free tonight. No presh.”

“I’ll be here.”

I’d already taken the whole day off and didn’t see the point in missing out on a free day. I took all my work junk back home with me and went back to bed for a couple hours. When I woke up at 11, I had a proper meal at home alone. I even had time to squeeze in a documentary before slipping out to the gym at 4:00. Today was a full-body day with a solid hour of Olympic weightlifting, followed by a half-hour jog around the East Village.

I was schlepping up the stairs to my apartment when 6:00PM passed me by.

I took a long, warm shower while I wondered what it would be like back at the café with Julian; what he had in mind, what he wanted to discuss, etc. My waterfall showerhead spilled forth over me, over each hill and ridge of my musculature, streams running through my abs and deltas breaking free over my shoulders and biceps.

Keeping it casual, I threw on an oversized tee shirt, a big black crew neck sweater, and… gray sweatpants. No boxers.

I know I’m being a ho, but Julian looked great this morning. Who knows what’s to come, but how better to give him a hint than this? I might as well be tapping my foot under his stall, with my cock pendulating in these pants.

When 9:30 rolled around, I was walking up to Bearings down Fourth Ave again. From the other direction came Julian.

“You look surprised to see me out here,” he said.

“I don’t know, I guess I expected to see you closing up shop.”

“No, silly,” he came in for a hug and greeted me with a kiss on the cheek. And within the embrace, an errant hand grazed my cock. Bingo. “I worked the morning shift. Left at 2:00. Asked you to come back at 9:30 because my employees would be gone and we could have it to ourselves.”

He walked backward to the door, staring at me as if he’d just successfully performed the week’s hottest mic drop.

“Among all your other qualities, you’re a shower-not-a-grower, too, I see.” He winked at me.

Can’t deny it, I felt my face flush. But he had noticed exactly what I wanted him to, all seven-and-a-half soft inches. Mission accomplished.

We stepped inside. The shades were all drawn, so no passersby could peek in. The sticky syrups had long since been wiped away from the countertops. Lights were off. All shelves were free of pastry crumbs and coffee grounds. It was eerie, if not almost romantic.

He pulled bottled waters from the fridge and sat with me at a table near the manager’s (his) office. For the beginning of our catch-up, things were remarkably sweet. He finished his degree the spring after me — one year early. His degree was in hospitality, naturally. He worked at a coffeehouse for a while to support his mom, who’d fallen into poor health, while he looked for work. He still lives with her, caring for her between shifts. This hustle to provide is what spurred him to begin planning out his own coffeehouse, Bearings Café, named for strength: to bear weight, to bear pain, or even to take control when you “find your bearings.”

And he smiled a lot.

Though he seemed interested when I filled him in on my goings-on since university, I can’t imagine he was. The real excitement in my life is the seedy underground world of gutpunching. But I didn’t tell him about that. Instead, I told him about my career in consulting.

Riveting, I’m sure. But finally, he must have grown tired of pleasantries. There’s a reason he invited me to a place we’d have privacy, I was sure of it. And here it was:

“No ring though, I see,” his face betrayed a coyness.

“Ah, no. I’m better off on my own. I can be a lot to handle.”

“Yeah, I’m sure of that. To handle a man like you would take two hands, I guess.”

My face flushed again. He was on a roll tonight.

He reached across the table, where I was propping my arms up on my elbows. He caressed my bicep over the sleeve of my sweater.

“So strong,” he said quietly.

“Yeah?”

“I feel so silly saying this now,” he said, “but back when I’d watch your intramural games, I was really, truly there for the end when all you guys would all whip your shirts off if you won.”

He laughed. “That was the reason I went to the games; that was the reason I cheered you on to win.”

“And we won a lot of games,” I joked.

“And you always had the best abs of the lot.”

Oops, my cock was listening.

“Yeah, I take as good of care of my core as I can. Not for nothing, it’s an erogenous area for me,” I said, letting it spill from me. A shot in the dark here.

“It is? Me too, actually,” he said. He leaned back in his chair and rubbed his husky belly. “Come to the office with me?”

Oh, fuck yeah.

He closed the door behind us. The office was fairly large for a New York City cafe. The couch in the corner was a futon.

“I sleep here sometimes if I need to get out of the apartment,” he said. “But that also means I didn’t put a camera in here. Only one I’ve got faces the register and front door.”

What’s he saying? Woof. I didn’t even respond, I just removed my sweater.

“Look at this oversized tee,” he said. “Nice pump cover.”

“Pump cover?”

He laughed, “You’re in the gym and haven’t heard of a pump cover? It’s when your shirt’s so big it hides your pumped-up muscles. Makes people not realize how fit you are.”

We were literally circling each other now. And he was right: my body was enjoying a beefed-up pump right now, following my weightlifting routine that afternoon.

What the hell — I stripped the shirt off.

“Oh, fuck…” he said, reaching toward my abs. I flexed them to accentuate the six pack, solidifying it below my large, rounded pecs. “Like you’re carved out of marble.”

He rubbed his palm on my muscle.

“And these meaty pecs,” he continued. “These biceps…”

He stopped to remove his own shirt.

Wow, what a body. His pecs and arms were just as magnificent as they’d looked in that tailored tee this morning. But his gut is what drew my focus — so perfectly rounded, looked soft (but maybe it wasn’t), with such beautiful cum gutters. Fuck.

“What, uh, are you into?” I asked.

He approached me and reached out to bring me in, to hold me. “What do you mean?”

“What do you… like?” I pulled his chin up and made eye contact. “Tell me what you like. Let’s do that.”

He stepped back. His confidence faded and he became almost apologetic. “We don’t have to do this because I fully understand it’s too much for most guys, but I’m really into — like, if you’re into it, I’m into—”

I grabbed his hand. “What is it? You won’t shock me.”

“I… have always wanted to test your abs. To string you up and lay into you like a boxer.”

I was wrong. He could shock me.

“But not, like, to hurt you,” he continued “I don’t hate you or anything; it’s the opposite. I… don’t know. It’s hot. It’s masculine. It’s power exchange. I’m sorry, that’s—”

“Hot.”

“What? Hot?”

Still holding his hand, I brought it back and placed his palm on my hard abs.

“Okay, but not just to oblige me,” he said. “I can’t enjoy it if you’re obliging me; I’d hurt you. I have to know you’re into it.”

I shushed him. His gaze met mine. “Stop talking and punch my abs.”

His face lit up, and he told me to wait for a moment. From a toolbox under the desk came a survival kit, and from that an unopened bag of rope. He turned to me. “When I said ‘string you up,’ were you serious that it’s okay?”

In a single motion, I dropped my sweatpants, stepped out of them, stood back up, and presented my wrists to Julian.

“I am… so attracted to you,” he said, taking my wrists and tying them.

Once tied tightly, he lifted my arms overhead and strung the rope over the exposed iron beam in the ceiling. He secured the end of the rope, tying it to the radiator. I wasn’t goin’ anywhere.

He returned to me, facing me.

“These pits?” he said, running his fingertips down my forearms, biceps, and hairy pits, “They’re mine.”

His fingertips continued down, outlining the crest of my pecs, “These pecs are mine.”

Further, still, his fingertips ran downward, tapping against the ridges of my tight six pack as they fell. “These abs? Oh, they’re mine.”

His voice grew sinister; his eyes never broke contact with mine.

His fingertips reached my lower belly, and finally, my cock — already rubbery.

In a quick, violent motion, he wrapped one arm around me and grabbed my cock and balls with the other hand, sending a bolt of pain through my lower gut as he squeezed. I grunted loud — almost a scream — at the unexpected ball torture. “This body,” he growled, “is mine, Leo.”

Whatever confidence he’d lost minutes earlier was back tenfold. His brow had settled and his face had gone stone cold. He released my balls and rubbed his hand over my abs.

“Yeah, Leo. Show me how hard these abs are. How hard you work on them.”

He took the arm out from behind me and came up in front of me, in a boxer's stance. He began with a right hook to my navel.

SMACK.

The punch landed like a stone on pavement. He dealt another. And another. A left hook, then. Another right. Navel shot after navel shot. An uppercut. Every jab answered with the smack of skin-on-skin or the thud of solid muscle struck at just the right angle.

I was focusing on breathing through it. My cock had grown to a full salute as my hard stomach was beaten. I wasn’t used to taking punches with my abs tight, but he was punching so fucking hard that the pressure of the impacts on my solid muscle was still enough to keep my dick bricked.

It was becoming work to keep my abs hard, these punches were so strong. As the impacts progressed — and he certainly wasn’t getting tired — I found my voice slipping out a baritone grunt upon impact of each punch.

He stopped his barrage for a moment, appearing to pause to wipe his brow. I needed to wipe mine, too — sweat was pooled deep in my navel, drips of it ran down the crevices of my six pack, my arms strung up above my head supplied a fresh trickle of sweat down to my pits, and the modest fur on my pecs was laid down flat against my soaked chest.

But no, as I stopped to ponder how sweaty I was while assuming he was doing the same, he sank the day’s first sucker punch as deep as a furious right hook could possibly go into my navel. The grunt-shout punched from my gut echoed in the room so loudly, I heard it as if it had come from another man. I clenched my abs again, closing up the titanium wall.

But, fuck, did Julian enjoy that sucker punch. He laughed tauntingly. “Oh I got you?” he said. “I broke past your impenetrable abs and punched you in the pride? The soft, soft, submissive pride?”

He continued to smirk as he backed away from me and dropped his own pants and briefs. His huge nine-incher was impressive. He was only semi-hard, but I had a feeling that was going to change now that it was free of its confining underwear.

He gave a few stroking tugs to his own cock as he realigned with me in his boxer’s stance. He got back to his vicious hooks and uppercuts, pounding grunt after grunt out of my solid, beefed up body. Every one of my muscles was flexed. Every one of them was worked by this workover to my gut. Every one of them was pumped up and activated.

“Yeah, big boy,” he said, repeatedly slamming his diamond-tough fist into my concrete abs, “grunt for me. Grunt for me! Yeah, it’s startin’ to hurt, huh, big boy?”

Each new strike to my six pack was beginning to sink in. Involuntarily, a grunt got pounded out of me from a solid punch to the pit of my gut, but it sounded more like a yelp. I felt like I was keeping the muscle hard, but like a brick wall, it felt as though he was punching the bricks apart, giving his powerful fists access to the goods behind the wall — my guts.

He knew it, too. He kept making eye contact and smirking. He’d growl out a, “Yeah, these abs softening up? Huh?”

“These abs breaking?” he said.

“Your gut gettin’ soft?” he said.

“Think you can keep takin’ this?” he said.

He’d gotten into a rhythm on these punches, but then he took a beat, then delivered a brutal hook straight into my navel.

That was it. That was the one.

My abs were toast. The power of that punch blew through my beaten abs and straight into my guts. My soft innards blew out into my lower belly and obliques as my breath was forced out. A hard, pained moan was punched out of me.

“Oh, fuck. Fuuuuck, fuck…” I couldn’t say much more.

His fist was still in my belly. He pumped his fist into my intestines a few times. “We’re not done here,” he said.

Another punch devastated my soft navel. And one more, this one harder than the last two. The moans being punched out of my stomach almost sounded more like brief shouts instead.

My legs, growing weak from the abuse to my core, began to sag. Held up by the wrists, this meant my back arched a little and my gut began to hang freely as I slouched.

Julian took notice.

With sweat blurring my sight and my mind preoccupied with the pain in my gut, he issued a true sucker punch combo: taking advantage of the slight arch in my back, Julian shot an uppercut right into my lower gut, immediately followed by a hook to the navel.

I never saw it coming.

His fist must have bunched up my lower intestines against my diaphragm, or at least that’s what it felt like, right as the hook plowed through my navel, flattening my guts against the muscles of my back.

My legs really wanted to give in now.

He wrapped his left arm around me, seeing me struggle. For just a moment, I believed he was going to help steady me. Instead, with his left arm wrapped around me, he took his right fist and rocked my guts with a stream of brutally hard, painfully calculated, and violently deep punches — slam in deep, press and grind, pull back for the next. Again, and again. Mostly to my navel, but a hearty handful hit closer to my bladder, and fewer still tore into the pit of my belly instead.

“You haven’t said to stop,” he said, a cocky inflection present.

“I don’t want you to,” I could only barely say, but just as cocky.

Julian appeared to lunge at me, and I didn’t realize until he hit me that he’d actually struck my lower gut with his knee. I’m pretty sure his knee ground my lower intestines against my spine, earning something between a grunt and a moan from me. He shot up another knee strike, this one steamrolling into my upper guts and hammering all the breath out of me.

He paused to trace my gut. My abs were no longer useful at all, but he traced the outer crevices between where my abs and obliques met, down my cum gutters, to my raging-hard cock.

“You like getting your guts beat, huh?” he said.

“Fuck yeah, I do,” I said.

“Mmm,” he moaned. “I can’t fucking believe we went all this time under each others noses.”

He kneeled in front of me and took my dick in his mouth, tenderly wrapping it with his soft lips and warm tongue. He moaned as he sucked, gripped my muscular glutes with his left hand, and repeatedly drove his right fist into my liquid-soft, useless, brutalized navel and lower belly.

I couldn’t even moan at this point; he punched a deeply pained “UHH!” out of my gut with every impact.

I was right on the verge of cumming in his beautiful mouth when he stopped, causing me to gasp and tremble for a moment before yelping, like I was pleading without saying anything. I couldn’t even help it; the entire reaction was involuntary.

He let out a gentle — but maniacal — chuckle, staring at me.

“You want to cum, Leo?”

“I do, sir.”

“You gonna cum for me, boy?”

With his right hand, he began deeply squeezing, churning, and massaging my lax belly. His left hand stroked his own cock.

“Fuck — fuck, yes sir I want to cum for you,” I answered.

“Good boy.”

That right hand pulled back, balled into a fist and drove squarely into the center of my belly, above the navel. Another beaten, groveling, pained “UHH!” was punched out of me. He ground his fist in for a second.

Another one landed, this one practically obliterating my navel. The same helpless, agonizing, euphoric noise left my throat.

He adjusted his stance as he continued to stroke himself with his left hand. “Cum for me, Leo,” he said.

His right fist rammed an uppercut into the deepest part of my lower belly, crushing my prostate, bladder, and lower intestines together. The force against my (practically liquified) intestines from below made my upper belly bulge for just a moment upon impact. No noise escaped my mouth this time, just hard breath.

“I said, cum for me, Leo,” he said, ramming an identical uppercut into my lower guts.

“Show me you can take it,” another equally violent uppercut to my lower belly. No noise. Just breath. My eyes were closed tightly, both in a grimace of pain and out of expectant euphoria I could feel building in my body.

“Show me you’ve always wanted Julian—” and another violent uppercut, “—to meet you after the game—” another brutal uppercut, right into my lower belly like the ones before it, “—and pound out your belly in the locker room.”

A final merciless uppercut tore through my lower intestines, my bladder, my prostate — the impact brutishly sloshed my, as previously described, liquified intestines, from the lower to upper reaches of my abdomen — just like the uppercuts in succession before it. But with this one, a colossal burst of cum gushed from my hard cock.

Julian’s uppercut was still firmly pressed deep into my lower belly as several further jets of cum erupted from my dick.

“Fuuuuck, oh fuck, oh fuck,” were the only words I said.

I tried to catch my breath, loose gut heaving under my muscular pecs. Brawny arms hanging from the rope still tying them overhead. I let my legs go soft and I hanged limp for a moment, both resting my legs and stretching my aching gut.

As though on cue, Julian recited his own chorus of “Oh fuck, oh fuck—” as hot belts of cum shot from his masculine cock, mixing on the tile floor with my load that came before it.

Julian took a breath and turned to me. I was still free-hanging by my wrists, resting my legs and stretching my abs. After cumming, I’d watched him hit his climax and grinned a seedy, lustful grin for him, knowing full well that the insanely hot, intensely painful intestinal abuse I’d gladly taken made this happen.

“That is, beyond a shadow of a doubt, the hottest thing I have ever experienced,” he said. He stared at me hanging there. I watched his eyes look from my eyes to my pecs, my red and purple belly, and now-softening cock. “Fuck.”

He untied me, forcing me to use my legs again. I stood as he finished untying and storing the rope.

“Come here,” he said, leading me to the couch in the corner. He unfurled the futon, which had a set of sheets inside. He used them to make the bed quickly. “Lay down.”

“I’m so sweaty,” I said. “I’m dripping wet.”

“I can wash the sheets. Lay down with me.”

I did, side by side, my hands behind my head. Julian rolled over to face me, feeling and exploring my bicep before moving to my belly. There, he gently massaged. With his fingertips, he traced and kneaded each of my six visible abdominal muscles, and used his knuckles to massage my guts beneath the soft muscle.

“I’m opening the café myself in the morning. No one else is scheduled ‘til 10. Stay the night?” He asked, quietly.

No work tomorrow — it’ll be Saturday.

“Yeah,” I said. “That sounds nice.”