The neon glow of the bar spilled onto the cobblestone street in East London, a pulsing heartbeat of light and sound that drew a diverse crowd to The Rusty Anchor. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of craft beer, cedarwood, and the faint musk of bodies pressed close in the Friday night throng. Oliver Hammond, a 34-year-old graphic designer with a penchant for cozy pubs and cozy men, leaned against the bar, his pint of stout sweating in his hand. At 5’10” with a broad, bearish frame, Oliver carried a cuddly belly that strained the buttons of his white cotton shirt. His chest, dusted with dark hair, bore two oversized nipples—prominent, pink, and perpetually hard, a feature he’d long since embraced as his most sensitive asset. His neatly trimmed beard framed a warm smile, and his hazel eyes scanned the crowd with a mix of curiosity and hunger.
Across the room, Kenji Tanaka, a 35-year-old photographer visiting from Tokyo, sipped his sake, his dark eyes catching the light like polished obsidian. Kenji matched Oliver’s build—stocky, soft around the middle, with a bearish charm that turned heads. His tight black t-shirt clung to his torso, outlining a pair of nipples so large and pronounced they seemed to defy the fabric. At 5’9”, Kenji moved with a quiet confidence, his short black hair slightly tousled, his lips curling into a sly grin as he noticed Oliver staring. Their eyes locked, a silent spark igniting across the crowded bar. Kenji raised his glass in a subtle toast, and Oliver felt a heat bloom in his chest, his nipples tightening under his shirt.
Oliver adjusted his stance, his jeans suddenly feeling a bit too snug. He wasn’t one for bold moves, but something about Kenji’s gaze—direct, teasing, knowing—pulled him like a magnet. He set his pint down and wove through the crowd, his heart thudding with anticipation. Kenji watched him approach, his grin widening, revealing a hint of dimples that made Oliver’s knees weak.
“Mind if I join you?” Kenji’s voice was smooth, his Japanese accent softening the edges of his English, giving it a melodic lilt that sent a shiver down Oliver’s spine.
“Not at all,” Oliver replied, his British drawl warm and inviting. He slid onto the stool beside Kenji, their knees brushing under the bar. “I’m Oliver.”
“Kenji.” They shook hands, Kenji’s grip firm, his thumb lingering just a moment too long. The contact sent a jolt through Oliver, his nipples hardening further, visible even through his shirt. Kenji’s eyes flicked down, noticing, and his grin turned wicked.
“Nice shirt,” Kenji said, his tone playful. “Fits you… well.”
Oliver chuckled, catching the subtext. “Yours too. Looks like it’s working hard to keep up.”
They laughed, the ice broken, and ordered another round—another pint for Oliver, another sake for Kenji. The conversation flowed effortlessly, from their jobs (graphic design for Oliver, travel photography for Kenji) to their favorite London haunts. But the undercurrent of attraction was undeniable, their eyes lingering on each other’s chests, the outlines of their nipples a silent conversation. Oliver shifted, his shirt rubbing against his sensitive nubs, and he caught Kenji watching, his own nipples visibly hard under his tee.
“So,” Kenji said, leaning closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “I couldn’t help but notice… you seem like a man who appreciates… certain things.”
Oliver’s pulse quickened. “Oh? Like what?”
Kenji’s eyes flicked to Oliver’s chest, then back to his face. “Let’s just say I have a thing for… sensitivity. The kind that makes you squirm.”
Oliver swallowed, his cock twitching in his jeans. “Funny you mention that. I’ve got a similar… interest. Especially when it comes to, say, a certain part of the chest.”
Kenji’s laugh was low, almost a growl. “Oh, we’re going to get along just fine.”
They leaned closer, their knees pressing together now, the bar’s noise fading into a distant hum. Kenji admitted he’d always been obsessed with nipple play, the way a skilled touch—or bite—could send him spiraling. Oliver confessed the same, his voice husky as he described how his oversized nipples were wired directly to his cock, a single tweak enough to make him hard. The air between them crackled, their shared kink a bridge that made the crowded bar feel like their own private world.
“Want to get out of here?” Oliver asked, his voice thick with desire.
Kenji’s eyes darkened. “Thought you’d never ask.”
The rest you can read here
Dave’s stories xxx | Patreon
Across the room, Kenji Tanaka, a 35-year-old photographer visiting from Tokyo, sipped his sake, his dark eyes catching the light like polished obsidian. Kenji matched Oliver’s build—stocky, soft around the middle, with a bearish charm that turned heads. His tight black t-shirt clung to his torso, outlining a pair of nipples so large and pronounced they seemed to defy the fabric. At 5’9”, Kenji moved with a quiet confidence, his short black hair slightly tousled, his lips curling into a sly grin as he noticed Oliver staring. Their eyes locked, a silent spark igniting across the crowded bar. Kenji raised his glass in a subtle toast, and Oliver felt a heat bloom in his chest, his nipples tightening under his shirt.
Oliver adjusted his stance, his jeans suddenly feeling a bit too snug. He wasn’t one for bold moves, but something about Kenji’s gaze—direct, teasing, knowing—pulled him like a magnet. He set his pint down and wove through the crowd, his heart thudding with anticipation. Kenji watched him approach, his grin widening, revealing a hint of dimples that made Oliver’s knees weak.
“Mind if I join you?” Kenji’s voice was smooth, his Japanese accent softening the edges of his English, giving it a melodic lilt that sent a shiver down Oliver’s spine.
“Not at all,” Oliver replied, his British drawl warm and inviting. He slid onto the stool beside Kenji, their knees brushing under the bar. “I’m Oliver.”
“Kenji.” They shook hands, Kenji’s grip firm, his thumb lingering just a moment too long. The contact sent a jolt through Oliver, his nipples hardening further, visible even through his shirt. Kenji’s eyes flicked down, noticing, and his grin turned wicked.
“Nice shirt,” Kenji said, his tone playful. “Fits you… well.”
Oliver chuckled, catching the subtext. “Yours too. Looks like it’s working hard to keep up.”
They laughed, the ice broken, and ordered another round—another pint for Oliver, another sake for Kenji. The conversation flowed effortlessly, from their jobs (graphic design for Oliver, travel photography for Kenji) to their favorite London haunts. But the undercurrent of attraction was undeniable, their eyes lingering on each other’s chests, the outlines of their nipples a silent conversation. Oliver shifted, his shirt rubbing against his sensitive nubs, and he caught Kenji watching, his own nipples visibly hard under his tee.
“So,” Kenji said, leaning closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “I couldn’t help but notice… you seem like a man who appreciates… certain things.”
Oliver’s pulse quickened. “Oh? Like what?”
Kenji’s eyes flicked to Oliver’s chest, then back to his face. “Let’s just say I have a thing for… sensitivity. The kind that makes you squirm.”
Oliver swallowed, his cock twitching in his jeans. “Funny you mention that. I’ve got a similar… interest. Especially when it comes to, say, a certain part of the chest.”
Kenji’s laugh was low, almost a growl. “Oh, we’re going to get along just fine.”
They leaned closer, their knees pressing together now, the bar’s noise fading into a distant hum. Kenji admitted he’d always been obsessed with nipple play, the way a skilled touch—or bite—could send him spiraling. Oliver confessed the same, his voice husky as he described how his oversized nipples were wired directly to his cock, a single tweak enough to make him hard. The air between them crackled, their shared kink a bridge that made the crowded bar feel like their own private world.
“Want to get out of here?” Oliver asked, his voice thick with desire.
Kenji’s eyes darkened. “Thought you’d never ask.”
The rest you can read here
Dave’s stories xxx | Patreon
