BondiRaw

Last night was a fucking mess, and I’m still feeling it. I’ve got this side gig cleaning the gym after hours. Was mopping the locker room floor when this guy strolled in, ripped forearms and a towel barely clinging to his hips. He’d been lifting, sweat still rolling down his chest, and he caught me staring. Didn’t say shit, just smirked and jerked his head toward the showers like it was a dare. I dropped the mop, followed him in. The steam hit me first, thick and hot, curling around us as he kicked the door shut. He didn’t waste time—shoved me chest-first against the slick tiles, my palms slapping the wall to brace myself. Water sprayed down, soaking my shirt, plastering it to my skin as he yanked my jeans down past my thighs. His hands were rough, calloused, digging into my hips hard enough to bruise, and I could feel his dick pressing against me, thick and heavy, already slick with pre-cum. He growled something I couldn’t catch over the hiss of the shower, then spat into his hand, working it over himself before lining up. No warmup, no bullshit—he pushed in fast, stretching me open with a burn that made my knees buckle. I bit my lip hard enough to taste blood, groaning as he bottomed out, his balls slapping against me. The pace was brutal, each thrust slamming me into the wall, tiles cold against my cheek while the hot water scalded my back. His grip tightened, one hand sliding up to fist my hair, yanking my head back so he could bite at my neck—fucking animal. I pushed back into him, meeting every snap of his hips, the wet slap of skin on skin filling the room. My dick was throbbing, leaking onto the floor, and he reached around, jerking me off with a rough, uneven rhythm that had me seeing stars. He was grunting like a beast, breath hot and ragged against my ear, and I could feel him swelling inside me, getting close. “Take it,” he snarled, and then he slammed in deep, unloading with a shudder—hot, thick spurts painting my insides as he kept pumping, milking every drop. My own release hit like a freight train, spilling over his fist and down my legs, mixing with the water swirling around the drain. He didn’t pull out right away, just stayed there, panting, his weight pinning me until he finally stepped back. I turned around, legs shaky, and saw him grin—teeth white against the red mark he’d left on my throat. He rinsed off, tossed the towel over his shoulder, and walked out without a word. Drove home with the windows down, cum still dripping down my thigh, the ache settling in deep. Neck’s bruised to hell today, and I can’t stop replaying it.

Part 2: Taken Andre could still feel him. The heat of Tevita’s body lingered, sweat cooling on his skin, muscles aching from the relentless pace of their last encounter. His hole throbbed—raw, stretched, used—a constant reminder of the way Tevita had taken him, claimed him, filled him. He leaned against the balcony railing, fingers trembling as he brought a cigarette to his lips, inhaling deeply, trying to steady himself. But there was no escaping it. The scent of sex and sweat still clung to his sheets. His lips were swollen from Tevita’s bruising kisses. His thighs were marked, fingers having dug deep enough to leave prints, proof of how desperately Tevita had held him down, fucked him open, bred him without restraint. And still, it wasn’t enough. A low vibration buzzed from his phone. His breath caught. Tevita. “Open the door.” Andre exhaled sharply, flicking the cigarette into the night. He didn’t need to ask why. The knock came just as he reached the door. He hesitated for only a second before unlocking it, stepping back as Tevita pushed inside. No words. No greeting. Just heat, tension, raw hunger. The door had barely shut before Tevita grabbed him, his massive hands gripping Andre’s jaw, tilting his head back, lips crashing down hard, rough, a kiss that was more like a claim. His tongue forced its way in, tasting of beer and sweat and something darker—something possessive. Andre melted. He always did. Tevita’s hands were already pulling at his clothes, fingers yanking his shirt over his head, his belt unbuckled with a single sharp pull. Andre barely had time to gasp before he was spun around, shoved against the wall. Tevita’s breath was hot against his ear. “Missed this hole.” Andre’s knees almost buckled. A low, dark chuckle vibrated against his back as Tevita shoved his jeans down, exposing him, making him vulnerable. One hand gripped his hip, fingers digging deep, while the other spread him open, teasing, testing, rubbing the mess Tevita had left inside him earlier. “Still dripping,” Tevita murmured, his tone thick with satisfaction. Andre whimpered. Tevita didn’t waste time. His thick cock—hot, heavy, still damp from the last round—pressed against Andre’s entrance, teasing, stretching. “No prep?” Andre gasped, barely able to catch his breath. Tevita growled. “Didn’t need it last time.” Then he pushed in. Bare. Deep. Unstoppable. Andre cried out, fingers scrambling against the wall for purchase as Tevita filled him again, stretching him wide, burying himself to the hilt in one brutal thrust. His breath hitched, his body adjusting to the impossible thickness, the familiar burn. Tevita stilled for only a second, gripping Andre’s throat, holding him in place, before pulling back and slamming in again, harder, deeper, faster. Andre couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe—only feel. The room was filled with the slap of skin, the rough grunts of a man who didn’t know how to hold back, the wet, obscene sounds of being taken, owned. And Andre loved it. Craved it. Needed it. Tevita’s fingers dug into his hips, nails scratching, marking, claiming. His pace was relentless, each thrust pushing Andre higher, drowning him in blinding pleasure and overwhelming submission. Then Tevita grabbed his hair, pulling his head back, lips at his ear. “You’re mine,” he growled, his voice low, dangerous, raw. Andre shuddered, clenching around him, shaking. Tevita’s thrusts turned brutal, desperate, his cock swelling, his body tensing. Andre knew what was coming, could feel the telltale tightening of the muscles, the sharp intake of breath. Then—heat. Tevita slammed in one last time, burying himself deep, thick ropes of cum flooding Andre’s insides, coating him, marking him. Andre moaned, his own orgasm ripping through him, untouched, his cum splattering against the wall as his body convulsed, locked in pleasure, lost in Tevita’s grip. For a long moment, neither of them moved. Then, without a word, Tevita pulled out, his cum dripping from Andre’s wrecked hole, sliding down his thighs. Andre barely had the strength to stand. But he already knew. This wasn’t over. Tevita wasn’t done. And neither was he.

Scrum in the Dark Sione stepped into 357x Sauna Sydney, his massive frame barely needing to push through the crowd. The heat, the musk, the heavy bass vibrating through his chest—everything about this place set his blood on fire. He had spent the day on the rugby field, his thick thighs and broad chest still slick with sweat, and now, he was looking for something rough. Something raw. He didn’t bother with a towel. He wanted to be seen. The dim glow of the corridors barely lit the shadows where bodies pressed together, hands groping, lips swallowing moans. A man brushed against him—a lean, dark-skinned stud who reached for his pouch, fingers teasing the outline of his cock. “Damn,” the man muttered. “You’re built like a fucking tank.” Sione smirked. “And I’m not even warmed up yet.” He grabbed the man by the jaw, slid his tongue deep into his mouth, and let their sweat mix as hands roamed, gripping muscles, testing strength. But before he could take it further, another set of hands slid around his waist, a muscular Latino with a wicked grin, pressing his hard cock against the curve of Sione’s ass. “You’re coming with us,” the Latino whispered, his breath hot against Sione’s ear. They led him to the dark room where a sling hung in the center, a man already strapped in, legs spread wide, hole slick and open, panting for more. “Breed me,” the man begged. Sione licked his lips, pressing the head of his cock against the stretched hole. He pushed in, slow at first, until he was fully buried. The man moaned, gripping the chains of the sling. Sione set a brutal pace, his thick thighs flexing with every thrust. Tongues traced the sweat dripping down his back, someone licked at his ass while another sucked his balls, the wet warmth sending shocks through his spine. More bodies gathered. Hands explored his muscles. A second man pressed against him, fingers teasing his entrance. Sione didn’t resist. He wanted to be taken just as much as he wanted to take. The Latino knelt, lubing his cock before pressing it between Sione’s thick cheeks. The stretch was deep, hot, overwhelming. Sione grunted, still pounding into the man in the sling, his own hole clenching around the cock filling him. The room was a blur of moans, sweat, and skin. The man in the sling trembled, begging for Sione’s load. With a deep growl, Sione slammed in one last time, filling him up, the warmth of his cum mixing with the heat of the room. But he wasn’t done. The Latino pulled him into a sloppy, cum-soaked kiss, then turned around, presenting his thick ass. “Your turn.” Sione smirked. “Round two.”

The air in Queenstown smelled of pine and snowmelt, crisp and biting as it slid through the narrow streets. From the balcony of his small apartment, Andre watched the last sliver of sunset bleed into the Remarkables. The mountains stood tall and indifferent, much like the man who had just left his bed. Tevita. A force of nature. Broad shoulders, thick arms, deep brown skin slick with sweat from training. When he arrived at Andre’s place, he never spoke much. Just a look, a nod, and then his hands would be on Andre—lifting, gripping, pulling. He wasn’t the type to ask permission. He simply took, bareback, deep, leaving his mark inside. Andre never protested. How could he? There was something addictive about Tevita’s roughness, the way his body crashed into Andre’s like a storm. The way he kissed—possessive, teeth scraping against lips, his tongue forcing its way in, tasting like beer and adrenaline. They never went on dates. Their meetings always started with Tevita pushing Andre against the wall, stripping him down, bending him over whatever surface was closest. Andre loved every second of it. But Tevita wasn’t his. Not really. (to be continued)

1 Sydney, 2006. Spring lingered in the air, cool but charged with the pulse of the city. In Darlinghurst, neon lights flickered against the darkened sky, and on Oxford Street, bars overflowed with bodies in search of something—desire, companionship, or just a fleeting sense of connection before sunrise. Wang Zhe stood at Taylor Square, a whiskey sour in hand, the streetlights casting sharp angles on his features. He had been in Australia for four years, finishing his Master’s in Architecture at UNSW, working an internship, living a life that was stable yet lacking something he couldn’t quite name. His phone buzzed. Matt (412m): “Alone tonight?” Wang Zhe took a slow sip, letting the alcohol burn slightly down his throat before responding. He and Matt had been living together for three years now. Not entirely open, but not strictly monogamous either. There were unspoken rules, blurred boundaries, moments when Matt would “disappear” for a night and return the next morning with the scent of someone else lingering on his skin. He ignored the message and instead opened another chat. A new match. A stranger—white, ruggedly built, with piercing eyes and an aura of danger. His bio was simple: “No games. Just raw.” Wang Zhe hesitated for only a moment before typing back: “Where are you?” A location dropped into his chat: a short walk away, in Surry Hills. 2 He went. Ryan was even more intense in person—taller, broader, his presence filling the dimly lit apartment. The air was thick with smoke and sweat, sheets tangled from previous encounters. Wang Zhe stood at the door, heart pounding. He wasn’t sure why he was here. To get back at Matt? To break free from his own restraint? Ryan studied him for a long moment before smirking. “You’re hesitating.” Wang Zhe didn’t answer. Ryan stepped closer, tracing his fingers along Wang Zhe’s jaw. His voice was a low, rough whisper. “You want something different, don’t you?” Wang Zhe exhaled, slow, shaky. Then he closed his eyes and let it happen. That night, lust overtook logic. 3 Morning came, sunlight streaming through the half-open blinds. Wang Zhe sat on the edge of the bed, lighting a cigarette, watching as Ryan moved through the kitchen, shirtless, brewing coffee like it was just another day. His phone buzzed. Matt: “Where were you last night?” Wang Zhe stared at the message, his grip tightening around the phone. He could lie. Say he crashed at a friend’s place. But… Ryan leaned over, glancing at the screen. A knowing smirk played on his lips. “Your boyfriend?” Wang Zhe turned to look at him. There was a challenge in Ryan’s gaze, an invitation to keep playing this game. Instead of replying, Wang Zhe stood, dressed, and walked out the door. 4 He thought it would be a one-time thing. It wasn’t. Ryan became a pattern. No promises, no explanations. Just late nights, alcohol, and the kind of craving that made Wang Zhe forget everything else. Unlike Matt, Ryan didn’t ask questions. He took what he wanted, and Wang Zhe let him. But Matt was no fool. One evening, Matt sat on the couch, eyes sharp as he studied Wang Zhe. “You’ve been different lately.” Wang Zhe took a slow sip of his beer. “How so?” Matt let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. “You fucked someone else.” A pause. Wang Zhe didn’t deny it. Matt leaned back, watching him, something dark flickering in his gaze. “Was it just revenge, or… do you actually like him?” Wang Zhe remained silent. Because he didn’t know the answer himself. Matt moved closer, lowering his voice. “You like how dominant he is, don’t you?” A shiver ran down Wang Zhe’s spine. Matt smirked, fingers grazing the back of his neck. “You forget—I can be like that too.” Before Wang Zhe could react, Matt kissed him. Harder, rougher than usual. Like he was staking a claim. Pinned against the couch, Wang Zhe gasped for breath. His mind told him to resist. His body didn’t. 5 Ryan didn’t back down. Neither did Matt. Instead of a choice, it became a collision. A push and pull that neither of them wanted to break. One night, Matt sat beside Wang Zhe, fingers tracing lazy circles on his wrist. “Have you thought about it?” “Thought about what?” Matt smirked. “Us. Him. Together.” Wang Zhe’s stomach twisted. “You’re insane.” Matt shrugged. “Am I? Or am I just saying what you’ve already been thinking?” He didn’t answer. Because maybe, just maybe, Matt was right. 6 Sydney nights stretched long, tangled in sheets, sweat, and whispered challenges. On Oxford Street. In a Surry Hills apartment. Back at their home in Glebe. Three men, caught in a game of control, pleasure, and something deeper—something neither of them could quite define. Some nights, Wang Zhe would stand at the window, watching the city lights flicker below, remembering the boy who had arrived from Beijing four years ago, never imagining he’d end up here. But he wasn’t that boy anymore. And he didn’t regret it. Because for the first time, he wasn’t just waiting for life to happen. He had stepped into the fire himself. And he wasn’t afraid to burn. (To be continued…?)