Just a Friendly Drink

"Millie's Vast Expanse"

© Copyright 2016/2021 by Millie Dynamite

NOTE: This work contains material not suitable for anyone under eighteen (18) or those of a delicate nature. This is a story and contains descriptive scenes of a graphic sexual nature. This tale is a work of pure fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously—any resemblance to actual persons, whether living, deceased, real events, or locales are entirely coincidental. This story does not condone random or unprotected sex.

You've crossed over into Millie's Vast Expanse -- a land of seductions filled with tender, loving ecstasy or affairs entered into with reluctance and fear. An affair, begun in a white, hot, desperate flash from shrouded yearnings. 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 doesn't realize are hiding inside him -- not yet, anyway.

And what about his entombed desires -- he doesn't understand those matters either, or does he? And more to the point, why won't he own up to them? He turned off from Normal Boulevard onto a winding avenue in the middle of the Expanse named Fate. Being lonely and thirsty, he spied a bar and thought he would have a few beers and relax.

Whether his footsteps have carried him to an unfortunate or fortunate place remains to be discovered, for he has wandered into Millie's Vast Expanse. Brad's world is about to expand from the finite to the infinite. Beware -- sharks, sometimes, swim near the shore.

Just a Friendly Drink

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)

(note: the 'he' and the 'she' in the quote is the same person.)

* * * * *

My name is Brad. I'm not a lady's man, anything but, to be honest. I 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 cute face, so many girls tell me, and some guys say so. This is a nasty insult; while the statement is true, they point out a painful reality. You cannot imagine how disheartening I find talking to a woman and her rebuff you with, "Damn, boy, you lovely as a girl." I only had one lover in my life. She broke off our relationship, and I should've been thankful, for she enjoyed devastating me with insults about the size of my penis.

"Your dicks like a ten-year-old boy's prick on a grown man," she laughed as she added, "Well, almost a grown man," she said, mocking at me.

I couldn't handle her constant insults. I will never make love to a woman again, I told myself. I will content myself with jerking off while looking at dirty pictures or videos.

For me, the most satisfying manner of masturbation is jerking off to videos of fully clothed, sweet, looking women walking around or talking aimlessly on cams. You understand 'YouTube' stuff about today's outfit. Or the trusty photographs from my high school yearbooks. The pictures of the girls I longed to be with, way back when. Now, I enjoy talking to women until they turn mean or they start talking about my appearance.

In so many ways, I'm more comfortable talking to women than most men. Men, tall men, larger, well-built men, frighten me. The underlying aggression and anger in the way these men speak to me horrifies me. Often, they act mad at me, and I don't comprehend why.

One woman told me those men are mean to me because their manhood is threatened. They are attracted to me, and this worries them. I always thought this was so much bull-- they aren't attracted to me. They can't be attracted to me. I'm a man. Not a gay man. Only an average, smaller, sized man.

One day several months ago, I couldn't leave work fast enough. My boss, an angry, abusive man whose division slipped to the lowest rated company, blamed everyone but himself for our dismal performance. Taking a sweet relish, he raked me over the coals. His tirade descended into insulting name-calling as he shouted me down in front of a gathering of the entire staff.

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

I don't remember how long I drove around, but as the sun dipped near the horizon, I spotted this bar, one I never spotted until that night. To tell the truth, I wasn't sure where I was. The parking lot was half full or half empty, depending on your personal preference. Parking, making my way inside, I sat at the bar and thought about what I should order. I decided I should drink beer. After all, beer is a man's drink, and dozens of women were in the bar. One intended to appear manly in front of all those beauties.

This night I drank my beer sitting at the bar inspecting those wonderful women's fine bodies. I tried to talk to them, but as usual, I struck out with any woman I approached, every single one. To be honest, I wanted to talk to them, be around them, nothing more. Well, I intended to stoke up my fuel for my jerk session later in the night.

I wasn't alone. I spoke to a man at the bar having the same luck or indeed lack thereof, like me. We sat together at the bar, bitching about the women and their stuck-up attitude. All night the both of us tried and failed to dance with a beautiful girl. A few let us buy them drinks but flitted off as soon as their prize was in hand. I think we both thought we'd become the ultimate losers.

This stranger made me comfortable with him right off the bat. He had a calm way about him, a deep voice resonating with authority and confidence. I found the thought unbelievable we had the same outcome from our efforts.

A tall, handsome gentleman with an indescribable mystery about him, and these prima donnas laughed him off, same as me. He purchased a round and another. I tried to buy drinks several times, but he waved me off, telling me to save my money. I'm not sure how many drinks I consumed. I wasn't drunk. I can hold my booze, but still, I'd drank a lot of beer.

Let's put our cards on the table here. I'm a small, geeky guy, experienced in rejection from 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 on.

I'm twenty-seven and fine-looking women, more often than not, appear offended by my existence. Several told me if I am honest, admit I'm gay. Hell, they'll be my best friend if I say I'm gay. But they want nothing to do with me if I'm hiding in the closet, and this stings, I'm not gay. The man I drank with appeared to be my exact opposite, at least, one would assume. He was handsome, tall, well built; I mean muscled up like a running back or quarterback. Why he struck out, I hadn't a clue.

At first, I found comfort in his failed attempts, the fallen hero syndrome. I felt as sorry for him as I did myself. This helped a kind of bond to form between us. We commiserated together over several more beers.

"Hey, why don't we cut out and go to my place?" he asked me.

I was somewhat uneasy about the man's invitation; I wasn't sure why. I turned him down, saying I had to rise early. This was a lie, and I wasn't positive why I fibbed since the next day was Saturday. He put his hand on my shoulder and squeezed, a light, welcoming squeeze.

"Okay, let's say one, come on, man, no way we will get lucky tonight with these stuck up," he paused a moment, "men haters. Brad, buddy, it'll be... just a friendly drink."

After more bargaining, with some reluctance, I gave in to his wishes. He thumped me on the back in a lively, friendly manner.

"You won't be sorry, brother," he told me, adding, "you can leave your car here. I live right across the street." When we walked out, I glanced at the building and realized which building we were headed for — the Anderson Arms Apartments.

"Holy shit," I thought to myself, "he is a rich bastard." The 24 story high-rise apartment building was the most exclusive one in the city; his digs cost over two thousand dollars a month. As we approached the entry, a doorman yanked the door open.

"Good evening, Mr. Anderson," the doorman said as we walked through the doorway. Admitting the truth, my mind was dulled from the beer, or my mind isn't as sharp as imagined. I didn't put Mr. Anderson and Anderson Arms together.

My companion nodded to the man, and we moved past him into the lobby. The room testified to how rich those who lived here were. Crystal chandeliers lit the room, expensive paintings adorned the walls, and the furniture was all antique. Money dripped 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, having less interest in them than in him.

A woman stood behind a counter where rows of surveillance monitors lined the back wall showing the hallways of twenty-four of twenty-five floors. The only floor not covered with the cameras was the penthouse's, the owner's home. The woman 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 the game the other night, Mr. Anderson?" the woman said, her soft melodic voice oozed sex in 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 hot body might function.

"I lost a shit load on the game," he said, tossing her a small wad of bills.

Snatching the bills out of the air, the woman bobbed her head, shoved the money into her uniform top, pushing the wad of cash into her bra. She returned to her station, paying no more attention to me. I did catch her gazing at Mr. Anderson, an appearance adoration on her face.

For a brief moment, the well-formed vixen shot me a sideways glance, and this odd smirk passed over her face and vanished as fast as it had formed. Turning her head to me, one eyebrow arched as she gazed at me, an indescribable expression passed over her face. The uniform gave her a militant appearance, and I believed 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, a nightstick in one of her hands while the other was balled into a fist ready to beat him silly flashed through my brain.

The lady reminded me of the muscle, bound blonde in the Police Academy movies. "Damn, bitch can dominate me anytime," I thought to myself. I sickened for a moment, realizing she'd control me physically. No, this woman was far too much woman for a man like me.

We continued to the elevators. My friend pushed a button at the central elevator, and the doors slid open. When we entered, he pulled out a card and shoved the card 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 him.

"Or something, no, actually, Yeah, I stinking rich. Oh, Brad, my first name is Maximus, but you can call me Max," he shot me a soft smile as the elevator jarred us. The rapid rise made my stomach lurch, and I reached out to the wall to steady myself. My new friend's mighty hand touched my shoulder and steady me. The odd thing to me, his hand touching me, didn't strike fear but reassured me. Stranger due to his size, I should be terrified of him.

"Guess I had more than I thought," I answered. I was queasy, my stomach jumping inside me as my head spun. The ride lasted 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, was astonishing.

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. The massive head of moose hung on one wall, a wolf's head and deer antlers on another, and a jumping mountain lion, who appeared to leap from the fire.

A heady scent of orange filled my nostrils as I moved into the room on somewhat shaky legs. As I stepped in an awkward lurch toward the fireplace, the elevator doors clank shut. Shaking off my uneasiness, I took a few awkward steps, stumbled on something on the floor, and his hands grabbed my arms, steadying me as his mighty hands covered my biceps.

Holding me still, I supposed to give a minute to gain my senses. My host said something so hushed I missed the words.

"What?"

"Relax, let me support you, sweetie."

I must have miss understood the last word. His hand clutched me, the strong fingers digging into my biceps, pressing deep into the soft flesh of my arms. Closing my eyes, I willed my stomach to calm, my head to stop spinning. With a slight tug, Max pulled me back into him. This was when I realized how much bigger than me, he was.

I found this odd and didn't understand why his action of pulling back into him was strange, uncomfortable, and yet, secure. His massive body covered mine as Maxclutched me to him. Heat radiated from his hard body, the taut and rippled muscles pressed into my body. The warmth of him warmed me in this bizarre manner.

"Take a second, Brad," Mr. Andersen said. His deep voice assured me everything was fine. The realization dawned on me, Maximus Andersen was twice my size. "You seem a little weak or something. Are you getting ill?" His hand rubbed my arms. With a light yet, firm touch, Max massaged my biceps. Sturdy fingers dug into my small muscles, moved to my neck, and the sensation was incredible. I wanted to be angry and offended, but I couldn't will myself into any rage.

"Yeah, Brad, you're drunk. Eight beers will have an effect on you," Max said. "You must understand you're, actually, quite attractive." One of his hands moved to my face as Mr. Andersen stroked my cheek. His calloused hand touched my face, oh, so, tender and soft. "You understand 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? Where Max touched me, a strange flash of electrical fire rushed over my flesh. I found my reaction odd as goosebumps formed on my face. My cock throbbed, stiffed, and hardened. Shit, what is with me? This strange, uncomfortable response to his touch, my tiny pecker rode up on the zipper of my pants, the brass scratching the tender flesh. I had to put up resistance.

"Look, man, I'm not gay, bi, or any of the gender shit," I said.

This thing moved beyond my ability to comprehend. The emotions and events happened so fast my mind had trouble keep up with happenings. I tried to move away when his hand clenched my arm. A calloused, rough hand squeezed tight, and 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 Max touch me...this way? Oh, Lord, I went weak in my knees, and while my stomach no longer upset, my head still spun in a topsy turvy fashion. I struggled to catch my breath.

"Me either," Max said. "I don't define things in such a simplistic fashion. gay or straight, they're labels and don't convey what's real."

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. Warm breath tickled my ear; lips touched me, Maximus kissed the lobe. A moment later, his tongue darted, tasting the crevices as Mr. Andersen whispered. Wet lips touched hot on my ear. The experience frightened me, excited me, and gave me the most bizarre, conflicting sensations simultaneously.

"I like you, Brad, for I find you attractive, so soft, small, and feminine. Your face is so beautiful -- those bitches were jealous of you. This is why women treat you so bad -- they are envious of your beauty," Max said, his words spoken directly into my ear. The hot breath moved over my ear, sending chills down my spine. I assumed 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 accepted my attractiveness as a virtue.

"For the great ones, eat up the little ones," Max said, clutching me hard for a moment, "I got you drunk enough to make my meal easier to catch," he said, adding more. "You will experience each delicious moment. You realize you want this more than me. You understand I'm not a fag either, I like fucking cute things, and while you're a man believing himself a loser geek boy, I realize you're a beautiful creature, beyond male or female. But if you must be one or the other, with me, you're going realize you're a lovely woman."

His hands wandered my body, and as he kissed my neck, shivers moved through me. A curious sensation, being flushed and chilled at the same time. I tried to struggle, and I wanted him to stop him. At least, I told myself I wanted to stop him, but with no effort, Max controlled me.

"I'm going to call you Brandy from now on," Mr. Andersen said.

Pushing me toward a sizeable sofa. As we walked, the hand on my chest tore at my shirt, the buttons fell, tinkling as they landed on the floor. I don't know when Max let loose of my neck, but his hand tore the shirt from my body as his other hand, the one at my chest, pinched my nipples and squeezed my pecs.

Gooseflesh rose from his touch, his rough, dominating style. I didn't understand the fire body or all those tiny bumps covering my flesh. The blood rushed through my veins, my heart hammered in my chest, ears, my temples pounded as the blood rushed to my head.

Taking my long, shaggy hair in his hand, Max pulled my face toward him. Thin lips met my fuller, firm ones, and we kissed. Trying to pull away, twisting, turning, he held my hair tight. A long tongue darted from his mouth, parting my lips, tasting the inside of my mouth. Our tongues intertwined, and my body went limp. I sagged a little, but Max held me to him. When we broke our kiss, I tried to protest.

"I ... this is ..." words wouldn't form. The speech refused to produce, which explained what I wanted. Deep yearnings flooded me, gazing at the floor, shifting my weight from one foot to the other, I bit my lower lip, and my cheeks blistered in a fire of shame.

"You want to leave?" Maximus Andersen asked. I nodded, and he let me go, stepping away. "Leave," he pointed at the elevator. I took a step, hesitated, turned back to him.

Grabbing my arm, yanked me back to Max, pulling me tight to his body. He held me, engulfed his arms around clutching me like possession.

"You don't want to leave. You want to play hard to get," Max said, taking my face in his hand. Max lowered his face to me, our lips locked together. His hands roamed over my body, and I responded to his sensual touch.

"Such a lovely little chest, like a tomboy I used to ass fuck so she can play like my boyfriend." Max treated my body like a woman's body. Squeezing my chest, my butt, and rubbing my neck. My rock-hard cock stood straight out when his hand moved over my crotch. Stiffing more, tenting up in my jeans, and he smiled at me.