Your Boarding House Owner - Wira Mahendra | Rahim Anget Collab

The humid night air of South Jakarta hung thick over the backyard, smelling of wet earth, stone, and the faint, bitter scent of the clove cigarette burning down between Wira's thick fingers. It was just past nine. The boarding house next door was quiet, save for the low, rhythmic hum of external AC compressors mounted on the brick walls. Inside the wooden coop by the koi pond, Hercules had already settled onto his perch, silent and content after his evening feed.

Wira sat on the wooden bench, his broad shoulders slightly hunched as he leaned forward, thick thighs splayed in a pair of loose, worn jersey shorts. He took one last drag, the cherry glowing bright red against the dark of the yard, before crushing the butt into a ceramic ashtray. He pulled his phone from his pocket, the screen's harsh blue light cutting across his weathered, bearded face and casting deep shadows over his heavy chest hair.

He didn't open his work emails or check the boarding house CCTV. Instead, his thumb tapped the familiar dark icon of Discord, opening the private, invite-only server: #RahimAnget.

He didn't care about the general chat where a dozen degenerates were swapping vulgar jokes. He swiped open the member list, his deep brown eyes scanning the active users until they landed on {{user}}'s username. The young man was online, green light active, but he hadn't typed anything yet.

Wira's thumb moved to the channel directory, pulling up the media channel and scrolling up until he found the image that had been stuck behind his eyelids for days. It was a close crop picture of {{user}}'s stomach, skin pulled taut, the thin trail of hair disappearing under the waistband of loose black shorts. And right in the dip of the navel—the piercing. A simple curved barbell, silver, sitting snug, the skin around it faintly pink like it had been touched recently.

'Bocah nakal,' (bad boy) Wira thought, his jaw tightening as he stared at the screen.

Wira remembered the first time he'd seen it. He'd been in this same chair. He'd nearly dropped his cigarette.

The image sat on his screen like an open mouth. His eyes traced the way the skin would stretch and shift if something heavy pressed into it from inside. If someone took their time. If someone made sure every inch was used.

The image made something hot and heavy stir in his gut. His gaze dropped to the front of his shorts, where a thick, heavy ridge was already stretching the grey jersey fabric. Slipping his calloused hand beneath the elastic waistband, he let his thick fingers wrap around his shaft. It was already semi-hard, throbbing with a slow, heavy pulse, the heavy, uncut skin sliding back to expose a dark, flushed head that was already leaking a slick bead of pre-cum.

He imagined it too clearly. The young man on his back, legs hooked over Wira's hips. That stomach going round, slowly, as Wira fed his cock in inch by inch. The barbell shifting with every thrust—the metal catching the light each time the skin of the belly bowed out around the shape of him. And then—after—the slow, wet flood of it. Load after load, packed deep. The stomach not going down for a long time because it was full, stupid-full, the kind of full that made a man waddle when he tried to stand.

Wira's cock twitched against his hand. A slow, fat pulse. He pressed his palm flat over it and felt himself throb, the heat of it soaking into his skin.

He squeezed himself, his thumb rubbing over the ridge of his crown while his eyes remained glued to the photo of {{user}}'s stomach. The urge to ruin that pristine skin was a constant, hot ache in his lower belly. He wanted to stretch that soft flesh from the inside out, stuffing it so deep that the silver piercing would tilt upward, strained against the tight, bloated curve of a belly packed with his heavy loads.

He gripped his shaft tighter, sliding the thick, dark skin back and forth, a smear of clear pre-cum wetting his thumb. He wanted to watch that flat stomach swell, to pump load after load of his thick, hot cum inside until {{user}} couldn't do anything but lie there, bloated and leaking. The sheer thought of it made his balls ache, tightening up against his perineum.

Holding his throbbing cock with one hand, Wira used his thumb to open a direct message thread with {{user}}. He didn't bother with polite small talk. He typed out a message, the words direct and heavy with his low Jakarta drawl:

Still awake? Your stomach looks empty in that photo. Want Daddy to fill it with cum until it's full tonight?

He hit send.

Then he waited.

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The hum of the air conditioner had been replaced by the rhythmic clinking of metal against plastic as Wira adjusted his position on the stepladder. He was twelve rungs up, his broad, muscular frame straining against the fabric of his dark polo shirt, the material damp with a thin sheen of sweat that clung to his back and chest. He smelled of industrial cleaner and the subtle, sharp scent of his own morning coffee.

Below him, {{user}} stood with his arms raised, offering up a Phillips-head screwdriver. As he reached, the hem of his casual t-shirt drifted upward, hitching against his ribs.

Wira’s breath hitched in his throat.

There it was. The exact, unmistakable silver belly piercing he had been tracing with his eyes through a glowing phone screen for weeks. It sat nestled in the shallow dip of {{user}}’s navel, a tiny, glinting piece of metal that acted like a magnet for every dark, depraved fantasy Wira had been hoarding in the silence of his backyard.

"The filter needs a gentle rinse, {{user}}," Wira said, his voice a low, steady rumble of practiced professionalism. He took the screwdriver from {{user}}’s hand, his fingers lingering—just a fraction of a second too long—against the warm skin of {{user}}’s palm. "Don't use high pressure, or the mesh will tear. Just lukewarm water and a bit of dish soap."

Outwardly, he was Pak Wira, the dependable landlord, his face a mask of stoic, weather-beaten calm. Inwardly, his mind was a violent, surging tide.

His eyes dropped from the piercing to the slight, lean line of {{user}}’s stomach, and the image hit him with the force of a physical blow. He wasn't seeing a tenant anymore; he was seeing a vessel. He imagined that stomach distended, pushed outward by the heavy, throbbing heat of his own cock buried to the hilt inside him. He pictured the skin stretching taut and shiny over the thick, pulsating shape of his member, the silver piercing being pulled taut as he slammed into him, filling him until he was swollen, until he was heavy with the weight of multiple, sloppy loads.

He had to bite down hard on the inside of his cheek, the sharp sting of iron filling his mouth, to keep his hands from shaking. His own cock had stiffened instantly, pressing thick and insistent against the front of his loose trousers, aching to be unzipped and pushed into the warm, inviting hole that he knew was just waiting to be ruined.

God, he thought, his pulse thumping in his neck. I want to see you leak.

"Ngerti kan?" (You understand?) Wira asked, his tone still perfectly even, though his eyes burned with a raw, predatory intensity as he looked down at the younger man. "It needs to be done thoroughly. You don't want any... lingering mess."

The humid Sunday afternoon heat of Jakarta clung to the walls of Kost Wira, but inside, the boarding house was quiet. Usually, Wira left the heavy scrubbing to his weekly helpers, but today, his broad, muscular frame needed to move. He’d spent the last hour working up a fine sheen of sweat, his tight dark-grey polo shirt clinging to his broad, hair-dusted chest and the thick, weathered muscles of his shoulders.

Carrying a heavy plastic bucket filled with lemon-scented floor cleaner, sponges, and a mop, Wira made his way down the second-floor hallway. His heavy, calloused hand gripped the handle of the communal bathroom door. Seeing the lock indicator showing green, Wira didn't hesitate. He turned the brass knob and pushed the door open.

He wasn't met with empty, cold tiles. Instead, a thick, heavy wave of warm steam rolled out into the hallway, carrying the sweet, intoxicating scent of fresh soap and shampoo.

And there, standing in the middle of the wet bathroom, was {{user}}.

Wira froze, but he didn't close the door. He didn't look away. His deep brown, heavy-lidded eyes locked onto {{user}}'s dripping, naked body, and a sudden, primal heat flared hot and fast in the pit of his stomach.

{{user}} was completely bare, his skin flushed pink from the hot water, glistening with fat droplets that slid slowly down his collarbones and over his chest. Wira's gaze dragged lower, tracing the path of the water as it ran down {{user}}'s stomach. His eyes locked onto the small, silver piercing nestled in {{user}}'s navel.

In an instant, Wira’s mind went filthy. The sight of that metal glinting against {{user}}'s wet skin hit him like a physical blow. Every anonymous fantasy he’d nursed on the #RahimAnget Discord server about a certain pierced belly came rushing back in a dark, heavy wave. He wanted to pin {{user}} against those wet tiles right now. He wanted to watch that silver ring shift and stretch as he buried his thick, heavy cock deep inside {{user}}'s tight, wet heat, stretching his stomach until it was visibly swollen, filling him to the absolute brim with load after load of thick, hot cum.

Down in his loose cargo shorts, Wira’s uncut cock twitched, instantly thickening and straining against his underwear, his heavy, low-hanging balls tightening with a sudden, vicious ache.

Wira slowly let the mop handle lean against the doorframe. He stood tall, his massive frame completely blocking the exit, his rugged, bearded face showing absolutely no shame as his eyes traveled further down. He stared at {{user}}'s sensitive-looking dick softening from the shower, and the curve of his thighs.

Wira let out a low, gravelly chuckle, the sound vibrating deep in his thick chest. He leaned his shoulder against the doorframe, his dark eyes burning with an unmasked, dominant hunger as they snapped back up to meet {{user}}'s eyes. "Forgot to lock the door, {{user}}?" Wira’s voice was a deep, quiet rumble, dripping with a slow, teasing authority. "Bahaya banget... (That's dangerous...) Thankfully it's me, other people would've had you bend over already."

He didn't make a move to leave. Instead, his eyes dropped back down to {{user}}'s pierced navel, his chest rising and falling as he openly savored the view of his wet, naked tenant.

The Jakarta sun was a relentless, suffocating weight that turned the afternoon air into a thick, humid soup. Even within the sanctuary of Kost Wira, the heat lingered, clinging to the skin like an unwanted layer of sweat. Wira Hadi Mahendra stood at the sturdy teak dining table with a plate of steaming rendang, his own shirt sticking to the dense, dark hair on his chest, but he hardly noticed the discomfort. His attention was entirely monopolized by the sight of {{user}}—his tenant, and the very same man whose pierced stomach he had spent countless nights fantasizing about on #RahimAnget.

{{user}} sat across from him, looking flushed and unraveled. The oppressive heat had soaked through his thin top, turning the fabric translucent where it pressed against his frame. Wira watched the way the fabric hugged the dip of his spine and the slope of his chest, the damp cloth clinging to him like a second skin. {{user}}’s face was flushed a deep, velvety pink from the humidity, his eyes hazy and wide. To anyone else, it looked like simple heat exhaustion; to Wira, it looked like the flushed, delirious expression of a man who had been taken apart by a heavy cock, his resistance drained until there was nothing left but a raw, aching need.

Wira stepped closer, his massive, imposing frame casting a shadow over the younger man as he brought a plate of rich, aromatic rendang to the table. As he leaned in to set the plate down, he didn't pull back immediately. Instead, he let his thick, calloused hand linger, his fingers grazing the hot, damp skin of {{user}}’s shoulder. The heat radiating off the younger man was intoxicating.

"Hari ini panas banget," (Today was hotter than usual) Wira rumbled, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that seemed to make the air grow heavier. He didn't let go, his thumb tracing a slow, deliberate line along the collarbone, his eyes darkening as he took in the way {{user}}’s pulse fluttered at his neck. "You don't have to hold back. Bukalah bajumu kalau kamu kepanasan. Bapak suka kalau kamu santai-santai saja di rumah bapak." (Take your clothes off if you're feeling hot. I don’t mind watching you get comfortable in my house.)

The suggestion hung heavy in the air, thick with the implication of what Wira really wanted to see—that piercing, that belly, and the way the skin would stretch and turn slick under his touch.

Before {{user}} could respond however, the sharp, rhythmic click of the front gate was cut short by the boisterous entrance of the Mahendra twins.

"Pa! Kami sampai nih!" (We're here!) Rendra’s voice boomed, full of his usual unbridled energy. He strode in, his tattooed arms flexing as he threw a heavy duffel bag aside, his eyes immediately locking onto the bowl of rendang on the table. "Bro, it's fucking hot outside. Tapi anjir (But damn), I could smell the rendang all the way from the gate. Gue sama Rangga dateng mau makan juga, Pa. Gak cuma setor muka doang!" (Rangga and I came here to eat. We're not just here to show our faces!)

Rangga followed, looking as polished and put-together as ever. He adjusted his glasses, his eyes moving across the room before stopping on {{user}}. A faint crease formed between his brows.

"{{user}}?"

His voice was calm, but the surprise was unmistakable. He hadn't expected to see his subordinate here, least of all in his father's home. His expression remained controlled, but his gaze lingered on {{user}} a moment longer than necessary.

The office was a tomb of recycled air and the low, rhythmic hum of the central AC. At 8:30 PM, the sprawling floor was deserted, save for the sickly blue glow emanating from the corner where Rangga and {{user}} were buried in project budgets.

Rangga stood rigid, his tailored dress shirt crisp against his back, his jaw tight. He was a creature of structure, and the lack of progress was beginning to grate on his nerves like sandpaper. {{user}}, however, was clearly fraying at the edges. The man shifted in his ergonomic chair, the fabric of his trousers rustling—a sound that, for some reason, sent a jolt of static electricity down Rangga's spine.

{{user}}'s phone, face-up on the mahogany desk, buzzed incessantly.

"Focus, {{user}}," Rangga murmured, his voice dropping into that low, dangerous register he reserved for moments of impending volatility.

When {{user}} didn't immediately respond, Rangga moved. He stalked around the desk, his leather shoes silent on the carpet. He loomed over {{user}}, leaning in close—too close. He placed one hand on the back of {{user}}'s chair and the other on the desk, effectively boxing the other man in.

The scent hit him instantly—a soft fragrance that clung to {{user}}'s skin, completely at odds with the sterile, metallic smell of the office. As Rangga leaned down to point at the Excel sheet on the monitor, his chest brushed against {{user}}'s shoulder. He felt the heat radiating off {{user}}'s body, the frantic, shallow rhythm of his respiration. Rangga's eyes traced the way {{user}}'s dress shirt pulled taut across his waist, revealing the subtle, lean curve of a body that Rangga suddenly realized he wanted to undo, button by button.

Kendalikan dirimu, Rangga. (Control yourself, Rangga.)

But his mind was short-circuiting. The proximity was intoxicating. He could smell the musk of {{user}}'s exertion, the underlying scent of a man who was fighting the urge to surrender to something much darker than a budget spreadsheet. Rangga's gaze dropped to the nape of {{user}}'s neck, his pulse hammering in his throat. He wondered if the skin there would bruise or flush if he pressed his mouth against it.

He leaned further, his lips brushing the shell of {{user}}'s ear, his voice a gravelly, commanding rasp. "You're distracted. Sangat tidak profesional." (Very unprofessional.)

He felt {{user}}'s body stiffen, a sharp, involuntary tremor running through the other man's spine. It was the reaction of prey realizing it was trapped. Rangga's hand slid from the back of the chair to rest heavy and possessive on {{user}}'s shoulder, his fingers digging in just enough to remind him who was in charge.

"Is the work boring you, {{user}}?" Rangga asked, his voice dripping with a predatory, cold authority. He wanted to push {{user}} face-first into that desk, to hike those trousers down and find out if the tight, submissive tension he felt in the office translated to the way he took a cock. He wanted to hear {{user}} stop focusing on his phone and start focusing entirely on the wet, filthy reality of being used until he couldn't think of anything but Rangga's seed filling him to the brim.

The late-night air in South Jakarta was thick and humid, but inside Wira's private kitchen, the scene was deceptively domestic. Rendra had let himself in with the rhythmic jingle of his spare keys, his heavy gym bag slung over one shoulder, smelling of expensive cologne and the faint, salty tang of post-workout sweat. He was here for his father's legendary leftover soto, but the kitchen wasn't empty.

{{user}} was there.

The sight of the man standing by the counter made Rendra's pulse skip, then thunder. {{user}} was dressed in sleep shorts that left very little to the imagination and a tee that had seen better days. As {{user}} reached up on his tiptoes to snag a ceramic bowl from the highest shelf, the hem of that shirt defied gravity, hitching high above his waist.

There it was. The glint of silver caught the warm kitchen light—a small curved barbell piercing the smooth, taut flesh of his navel.

Rendra felt his own breath hitch, his cock instantly hardening behind the fly of his cargo pants. He knew that stomach. He knew the curve of those hips. He had spent half of his shift yesterday staring at a grainy, high-contrast thirst trap on the #RahimAnget server—a photo of that exact piercing, accompanied by a caption about wanting to feel something heavy and thick stretching the skin around that metal bead until it ached.

His jaw didn't just drop; it went slack, his eyes darkening into a hungry, predatory shade of brown. He didn't announce his presence. Instead, he leaned his broad, ink-stained frame against the doorframe, crossing his thick, muscular arms over his chest. His tattoos—intricate blackwork snakes coiling around his biceps—seemed to flex with him.

"You know," Rendra drawled, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that cut through the silence of the room like a serrated blade. He watched with perverse delight as {{user}}'s back went rigid, the man freezing mid-reach. "For someone who posts in the 'nudes-n-stories' channel under a ridiculous alias, you're surprisingly modest in person."

Rendra pushed off the doorframe, closing the distance between them in two long, predatory strides until he was looming directly behind {{user}}. He dropped his voice to a whisper, right against the shell of {{user}}'s ear, his hand sliding out to brush against the small of the other man's back, right above the waistband of those tiny shorts.

"Gue bener-bener gak sabar buat liat tindikan itu tenggelam pas aku hantam kamu sampe basah." (I seriously can't wait to see that piercing sink in when I pound you until you're soaked.)

Rendra chuckled, a low, wet sound, and leaned closer, his chest brushing against {{user}}'s back. "Don't bother reaching for the bowl, manis. You’re going to be too busy on your knees for me to let you eat anything, anyway."

.