The Candy Man
Kenny spat on the cracked pavement, the globule of saliva mixing with the grime that had been a permanent fixture of the urban landscape for as long as he could remember. Nineteen years he’d spent breathing this air, kicking around these streets, and working a dead-end job in a grocery store that smelled perpetually of stale bread and desperation.
He tugged at the hem of his bomber jacket, a nervous tic. The neighborhood was changing, and not for the better. “Fucking yuppies,” he muttered, watching two men in impeccably tailored suits stroll past, their hands intertwined. A sneer twisted his lips. The area had once been a working-class haven, a place where blokes like him could afford a pint and a packet of crisps without wincing. Now, every other shop seemed to be a boutique selling overpriced trinkets or a café serving obscure coffees with names he couldn’t even pronounce. Liam, his mate, sauntered up, cracking his knuckles. "What's got your knickers in a twist, Kenny?" Liam asked. "This shithole," Kenny gestured around with a sweep of his arm. "Turning into some poncey playground for trust fund babies. Remember when this was a proper neighborhood?" Kenny scowled as he leaned back against the brick wall, the familiar scent of stale urine and cheap cigarettes comforting in its grim familiarity. "Remember the arcade?" Liam asked, his voice laced with nostalgia. "Proper machines, none of this touch-screen bollocks." "Gone," Kenny spat again. "Replaced by that… that sugar palace." He gestured towards the brightly lit storefront across the street, the Candy Shop, with its garish displays and the lingering, cloying smell of artificial sweetness. "Candy Man," Matt sneered. "Fucking fairy." They all laughed, a harsh, discordant sound that bounced off the surrounding buildings.
But Kenny felt it in his bones, a creeping unease. This wasn't their turf anymore. "Bet they're all fags anyway," Liam spat, eyes narrowed at a man strolling past, a splash of color in a tailored suit. Kenny nodded, a familiar anger bubbling in his chest. "Probably. Soon this whole place will be a gay quarter." Just then, their other friend, chalky-faced Ben, hurried over, panting slightly. "Heard they're hiring at the candy shop. Pays good, apparently." Kenny snorted. "You wouldn't catch me dead working in some fag's shop."
A sleek black car pulled up to the curb, and a man emerged, all wet-gelled hair and a silk shirt unbuttoned just a bit too low. It was Mason, the owner of the candy shop, the one Kenny and his friends derisively called "Candy Man."
Kenny's eyes narrowed. "Look at 'im," he muttered. "Strutting around like he owns the place." Matt chuckled, a low rumble in his chest. "Maybe he does, now. Heard he's got some fancy sweets in there. Candy canes that cost more than a day's wages." Kenny snorted, “Who needs fancy sweets? Give me a packet of crisps any day." Mason, oblivious to their scorn, unlocked the door to his shop, the bell jingling merrily as he stepped inside. Kenny watched him, a storm brewing behind his sharp blue eyes. "We'll see how long he lasts," he muttered. "This ain't over yet." Beside him, Matt cracked open another can. "Yeah, well, what can you do? All these fancy yuppies moving in, pushing us out." Liam grunted in agreement, taking a long swig of his lager, “Fucking gentrification!” Their usual pastime was harassing the clientele of the candy shop, a bunch of gays and yuppies who were too scared to fight back. He had to admit it was pretty fun. So the three sprung into action, when an elderly woman emerged from the candy shop, her arms laden with pastel-colored bags. She glanced at them nervously, clutching her purchases tighter. "Oi!" Kenny yelled, his voice thick with malice. "How much you pay for that shite? Could've bought a week's worth of fags for that!" The woman hurried away, her face pale. Kenny grinned, a flash of white teeth in his rough face. "That'll learn 'em."
A few days later, Kenny found himself stocking shelves in the cramped aisles of the grocery store, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. It wasn’t his dream job; actually it was shit, but it was a job and he needed the money.
"Kenny!" his boss, Mr. Patel, barked from behind the counter, "get your arse in gear and stop daydreaming.” Kenny sighed, grabbing a box of cereal from the back. As he turned, he nearly collided with a man browsing the dairy aisle. He recognized him instantly: Mason, the Candy Man. His heart pounded in his chest. Without his mates around, Kenny felt a strange mix of anxiety and… something else he couldn’t quite define. He ducked his head, hoping Mason wouldn’t recognize him - he needed this job! Mason, oblivious, continued to examine the shelves, filling his basket with imported cheeses and organic produce.
He approached the checkout, paid and then turned to Mr. Patel, "Hey, could one of your lads help me carry these groceries home? I seem to have overdone it." Kenny’s boss didn't hesitate. "Hey Kenny you blighter, work for a change something for your wage and help Mason!" Kenny's face flushed crimson as he reluctantly grabbed the overflowing bags. Head bowed, he followed Mason out of the store, his pace submissive yet inwardly resentful. The walk to Mason's loft was agonizingly slow, each step amplifying his inner turmoil. Mason's apartment was a stark contrast to Kenny's own council flat. It was on the top floor, a luxury loft with panoramic views of the city – a sleek, minimalist space of black leather, chrome, and glass. Kenny felt out of place, his bomber jacket and track pants a glaring anachronism. He placed the bags on the kitchen counter, his eyes wide with disbelief. The place was spotless and expensive. Mason patted his pockets, a frown creasing his brow. "Sorry Kenny, but I don't have any cash at hand for a tip. But don't you want to try my famous candy canes instead?" He indicated a tray holding a single, swirling purple and black candy cane. Kenny hesitated. "Aren't candy canes just for kids?" Mason chuckled, a low, resonant sound. "Oh and you think you are too old for candy canes? These are for adults, not so sweet like the ones for children!" Kenny, wary of offending his employer’s customer, reached out and tentatively grasped the candy cane.
He brought it to his lips, tentatively licking the tip. The flavor exploded in his mouth, unlike anything he had ever tasted before. It was sweet, but with a strange, almost metallic tang that tingled on his tongue. It seemed to stimulate every taste bud, sending a shiver down his spine. He licked again, more eagerly this time, almost compulsively, his senses reeling. Mason settled onto the black leather sofa, his eyes fixed on Kenny. "Do you like it?" he asked, a smirk playing on his lips. Kenny just nodded, unable to speak, his senses overwhelmed by the taste. He licked and sucked on the candy cane faster, desperate to prolong the sensation, until nothing remained. "More," he gasped, his eyes wide with craving. Mason smirked, a hint of something darker in his expression. "Now for the real cane," he said, and unzipped his fly. Kenny's eyes widened in shock. "What the fuck?" he stammered, taking a step back. "I'm not a fag or something!" Mason ignored him, pulling his cock out of his pants. It was covered in the same black and purple striped icing as the candy cane. Kenny stared, his stomach churning. He was disgusted, repulsed by the sight of another man's cock.
But the taste of the candy cane was so addictive, so all-consuming, that it overshadowed his revulsion. He hesitated for a moment, torn between his ingrained prejudices and his overwhelming desire. Finally, the craving won. He sat down next to Mason on the couch, his heart pounding in his chest. "I'm not doing this because I like it," he mumbled, his voice barely audible. Mason chuckled, a low, throaty sound. "Of course not, Kenny. You're doing it for the candy." Kenny edged closer to Mason, the black leather of the sofa creaking beneath him. He lowered his head, the scent of sugar and something subtly darker filling his nostrils. His tongue darted out, tentatively at first, then with increasing eagerness, licking the icing-covered flesh. Mason chuckled, a low rumble in his chest. He caressed Kenny's back, his touch surprisingly gentle. His hand snaked down, slipping beneath the waistband of Kenny's track pants, his fingers probing, insistent, finding the sensitive skin of his rose. Kenny was too eager and voracious licking the icing to even protest. The taste was even more intense now, mixed with the salty tang of sweat and the musky scent of Mason's skin. Kenny licked harder, his head bobbing up and down, his senses completely consumed by the pleasure. When Mason's cock was almost licked clean of the icing, he withdrew it, the sudden absence leaving Kenny breathless. Mason shoved two fingers, which he had put into the icing, into Kenny's mouth. Kenny suckled on Mason's fingers, his eyes half-closed, lost in the rush of sweetness. Mason's other hand gripped the waistband of Kenny's track pants, pulling them down, exposing his pale ass. Kenny lay prone on the sofa, his head lolling over the armrest, still greedily licking Mason's fingers. His ass, exposed and vulnerable, was offered up to Mason’s gaze. With a predatory grin, Mason positioned himself between Kenny’s spread ass cheeks. He pressed the head of his cock against Kenny’s rose, the slick pre-cum a welcome lubricant. With a forceful thrust, he breached Kenny’s tight opening. Kenny gasped, a sharp intake of breath from the jolt of surprise. He bucked against the intrusion, a primal instinct to reject the violation. But the taste of the candy cane dulled the edges of his resistance. Mason lay his upper body on Kenny's back, his weight pressing him into the sofa. He gripped Kenny tightly, one arm snaking around him, and let himself fall astride, so that Kenny sat impaled on his cock. Now Mason gripped Kenny’s hips, guiding him up and down. The candy cane had left Kenny in a trance-like state, relaxed and pliable, and he let it happen. He let the sensation wash over him, the push and pull, the friction, the growing heat. Despite having licked the icing clean, the taste lingered, amplifying the experience, blurring the lines of pleasure and disgust. Mason reached down, his fingers closing around Kenny’s cock. He stroked it firmly, adding another layer of sensation to the mix. A moan escaped Kenny's lips, a sound he barely recognized as his own. He enjoyed the feeling of being fucked, the fullness, the pressure and soon he was teetering on the edge. A jolt of pleasure ripped through him, a blinding flash of white-hot sensation. He came with a strangled cry, his body convulsing against Mason’s.
As the aftershocks subsided, Kenny slowly regained awareness. He blinked, his eyes focusing on Mason’s smug face. A wave of horror washed over him. What had he done? He had let a man fuck him. He scrambled off Mason’s lap, his face contorted with disgust. He stumbled to his feet, pulling up his track pants, his face flushed with shame and confusion. He couldn't meet Mason's gaze, couldn't bear to see the satisfaction in his eyes. Without a word, he turned and fled, slamming the door behind him - the taste of candy and sin still clinging to his tongue.
The next days were a blur of conflicting emotions. Shame, disgust, and confusion warred with an insistent, gnawing craving for the taste of the candy cane. Kenny couldn't get it out of his head, the sweet, metallic tang haunting his dreams. He couldn’t focus at work; the mundane tasks of stocking shelves and ringing up groceries felt like torture. So he tried to distract himself, hanging out with Matt and Liam, drinking cheap beer and spitting on the pavement. But it wasn't the same. He felt detached, disconnected, like he was watching himself from a distance. He needed the taste again, that rush of flavor, that strange, unsettling pleasure. He needed the candy cane.
Finally, he found himself standing outside Mason’s sleek apartment building, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs. He pressed the buzzer, his knuckles white against the shiny chrome. The door clicked open, and he rode the elevator up, the chrome and glass reflecting his own anxious face back at him. Mason opened the door, a knowing smirk playing on his lips. "Looking for something, Kenny?" Kenny swallowed, shame warring with desire. "I… I need another candy cane," he blurted out, the words tumbling out in a rush. Mason chuckled, stepping aside to let him in. "There’s no free lunch, Kenny. But, I can show you how to produce such candy canes. Interested in learning the trade?" Kenny hesitated for a moment, then nodded, his gnawing need eclipsing his pride. " Yeah, alright. Show me." Mason smiled, a predatory glint in his eyes. " "Excellent." He disappeared into another room, returning with a peculiar garment. It was a tight-fitting shirt, made of some kind of shiny, rubbery material, striped in black and purple. "Wouldn't want to spill candy syrup on your clothes, would we?" Kenny eyed the shirt with distaste. It looked ridiculous. "What is this?" "Protective gear. Think of it as your uniform." Mason tossed it to him. "Get changed. The kitchen awaits." Kenny reluctantly took the shirt, the rubber cool and slick against his skin. He stripped off his own shirt and pulled on the rubbery monstrosity, the tight fit instantly making him feel exposed, vulnerable. It felt… wrong.
In the kitchen, Mason was already preparing the ingredients. He moved with a practiced grace, measuring and mixing with an air of expertise. As he explained the process, his hands brushed against Kenny's back, his ass, his crotch. Kenny flinched, disgusted, but he didn't pull away. The promise of the candy cane was too strong. "Now, the icing needs to be just right," Mason murmured, his breath warm against Kenny's ear. "A little more of this, a little less of that…" When the candy canes were almost ready, Mason turned Kenny to face him, his eyes intense. He licked over Kenny’s face, a slow, deliberate caress. "Now, you are my Candy Ken!" he whispered into his ear. Kenny recoiled, the words sending a jolt of panic through him - the implication clear. It was almost too much. He opened his mouth to protest, but Mason was already producing a vial filled with a shimmering, iridescent liquid. "The secret ingredients," he murmured, adding a few drops to the icing. He dipped a finger into the mixture and held it out. "Lick it." Kenny hesitated, but then obeyed and licked Mason's finger. The taste exploded on his tongue, even more intense than he remembered. It was pure pleasure, a rush of sensation that washed away his inhibitions, his disgust, his fear. He felt himself relax, his body going limp. He let himself fall onto Mason's black leather sofa, his pants dropping to the floor, his legs splayed open in invitation. He was beyond caring, beyond thought. He was so relaxed.
Mason needed no further encouragement. He spread Kenny's cheeks and shoved his erect cock deep inside him. Kenny moaned, the taste of the candy cane still lingering on his tongue. The combination of the taste and the sensation was overwhelming, a perfect storm of pleasure. "Oh, Candy Ken," Mason groaned, pounding into him. "You're so good." Kenny didn't protest, didn't resist. He was lost, consumed by the sensation, the taste, the need. He came, a shuddering release that left him weak and breathless. When he finally came back to himself, he was lying naked and spent on the sofa. Mason stood over him, a satisfied smirk on his face. The realization hit Kenny like a punch to the gut. He was addicted. He would do anything for that taste, even submit to this. The sickening certainty that his future would be to get regularly fucked by Mason, and he would endure it, just to receive the candy canes, haunted him.
The next day, Kenny quit his job at the grocery store. The minimum wage, the drab routine—it all seemed pointless now. He sought out Mason, an uneasy mix of shame and anticipation twisting in his gut. "I need a job," Kenny mumbled, avoiding Mason's gaze. Mason chuckled, that knowing glint in his eyes. "Is that all you need, Kenny?" Kenny swallowed, the taste of the candy cane suddenly vivid on his tongue. "And… more of those sweets." "Then you're hired," Mason said, a predatory smile spreading across his face. "You’ll start at the Candy Shop tomorrow." Kenny dove into his new role with an eagerness that surprised even himself.
He learned the recipes, the techniques, the art of crafting confections. Mason taught him everything, but he kept the special ingredients of the candy canes a closely guarded secret.
Some months later, Kenny worked in the Candy Shop. He hummed to the melody of Sammy Davis Jr.’s "The Candy Man," his voice a low, almost hypnotic drone. "The Candy Ken, the Candy Ken can, the Candy Ken can 'cause he mixes it with love and makes the world taste good…The Candy Ken makes everything he bakes, satisfying and delicious…" His sharp blue eyes sparkled with glee as he polished the gleaming chrome counter. The bell above the door chimed, announcing a new arrival. Kenny glanced up, his sharp blue eyes widening in surprise. It was Matt, his old mate, back from youth reformatory after half a year away.
Matt stood frozen in the doorway, his jaw slack as he took in the sight before him. Kenny, clad in nothing but black pants, a purple apron draped over his naked upper-body, and a black silk bow tie around his neck, looked every bit the part of the Candy Shop's star attraction. "Oi mate, what are you doing in that fairy shop?" Matt finally blurted out, his voice laced with disbelief.
Kenny’s smile widened, revealing perfect white teeth. "They are paying far better than the grocery store, and I learn how to produce sweets!" "Mate, that isn't…" Matt began, but Kenny cut him off, his attention already shifting. "Sorry, need to care about the customer!" A man in a brown leather jacket and black leather pants had entered the shop.
Kenny approached him with a practiced charm, his posture radiating confidence. "Hi, I'm the Candy Ken. What can I do for you today? Have you already tasted our candy canes?" The customer's gaze lingered on Kenny, a suggestive smirk playing on his lips. "Don't you want to taste my cane, Candy Ken?" Kenny laughed, a bright, innocent sound and his eyes were twinkling. "I'm on duty, no sweets for me while working!" The customer chuckled, leaving a generous tip on the counter as he departed. Matt watched him go, his face contorted with disgust. Matt turned to Kenny, his expression a mixture of confusion and incredulous, "Uhm, mate, didn't you notice that this fag asked you to suck his cock?" Matt asked, his voice rising in indignation. Kenny shrugged, his eyes gleaming with amusement. "Yeah, but have you seen the generous tip he gave me?" Matt spat onto the floor, the sound echoing in the otherwise silent shop. "Need to go, can't stand any longer that fag shop!" He turned and fled, the bell above the door jingling a fare well as he left. Kenny watched him go, his expression unreadable.
Days turned into weeks, weeks into months. Kenny's old chav friends vanished from the neighborhood like smoke in the wind, priced out by the rising rents and the influx of trendy boutiques. Their faces etched with a bewildered mix of resentment and longing, could no longer afford even a pint in what had become their old stomping ground. The pubs they once frequented were now wine bars serving artisanal cheeses with names they couldn't pronounce. The betting shops had turned into yoga studios, and the greasy spoon cafes were replaced by brunch spots boasting avocado toast and organic smoothies. So, Kenny’s circle of friends changed. No more tracksuits and cheap lager, no more casual violence and petty theft. Now it was designer jeans, craft beer, and discussions about art installations. He didn’t even notice it happening, the slow creep of refinement, like the tide coming in. The bomber jacket and track pants were replaced by tight preppy clothes, unbuttoned shirts, and tight slacks that showcased his now well-defined thighs. He’d started using moisturizer, and there was a subtle, citrusy scent that clung to him, a far cry from the stale cigarette smoke and body odor that used to be his signature.
Over time, the lines blurred. The initial disgust at being fucked by Mason faded, replaced by a strange mix of addiction and something else, something he couldn’t quite name. Was it just the candy canes? Or was it something more? What began as a means to an end—a begrudging submission to Mason's desires in exchange for a fix—morphed into something else entirely. The disgust that once churned in his stomach at the thought of another man's touch faded, replaced by a strange, unsettling pleasure. The sensation of being filled, once an act of violation, now felt…good. He pushed the thought away, focusing on the sweet, sugary rush, the way it made him feel weightless, pliable. He didn’t realize it, not until it was too late. It wasn't an instant realization, more a gradual understanding that dawned on him over time: He caught himself admiring the way a man’s jeans hugged his thighs, or lingering a little too long when a customer flirted with him. Then he caught his reflection in the shop window, the preppy clothes clinging to his frame, the unbuttoned shirt revealing a hint of sculpted chest, the tight slacks showcasing his toned ass. Kenny, the rough-and-tumble lad from the wrong side of the tracks, had been erased, replaced by Candy Ken, a flamboyant, open-minded homosexual himbo - the kind he once hated. He was a walking advertisement for the new quarter, a testament to its power to reshape and redefine.
The candy canes were a top seller. More and more men tasted the sweet, and more and more men found themselves drawn to other men. The quarter transformed, becoming a beacon of flamboyant excess and unapologetic hedonism.
Years passed, and Mason, wealthy from his candy canes, stepped into the shop and surveyed his domain with a satisfied smirk.
"It's been a wild ride, Candy Ken," he said, his sharp blue eyes twinkling with amusement. "It's time for sun, sand, and younger men. I'm thinking of retiring to a sunny beach somewhere, sipping cocktails and watching the waves roll in." Ken, a tight black chefs jacket straining against his muscular chest, leaned against the counter, his gaze sweeping over the throng of stylish men browsing the candy displays. "And leave all this to me?" He raised an eyebrow, a hint of playful skepticism in his voice. "You think I'm ready to run the whole show?"
Mason chuckled, a deep, resonant sound that echoed through the shop. "Honey, you were born ready. Besides," he winked, "I'll be leaving you with the secret weapon." He gestured towards a small, locked cabinet behind the counter. "The recipe for the special ingredients. The black makes them addicted, the purple awakes homoerotic desires. If you only want to keep the economic success of the Candy Shop, you could just sell black candy canes." Kenny smirked, running a hand through his blond hair. "Candy canes in just one color would be rather boring, don't you agree? Besides, I've got bigger plans. The Candy Shop needs to go with the times. I'm thinking of opening an online store, shipping these little delights all over the world. Imagine, Candy Ken candy canes in every corner of the globe." Mason clapped him on the shoulder, his grip surprisingly strong. "That's my boy! Always thinking big. Just remember, Candy Ken, it's not just about the candy. It's about the experience, the fantasy. You're selling a dream, a transformation." The chav Kenny was long forgotten, a distant memory fading like a cheap cologne. In his place stood Candy Ken, refined, confident, a cornerstone of the quarter's burgeoning gay community. He was on the brink of becoming The Candy Man, a legend whispered in hushed tones, a purveyor of pleasure and liberation.
"So, what do you say, Candy Ken?" Mason asked, his eyes filled with a mix of pride and anticipation. "Ready to take the reins?" Ken grinned, a flash of white teeth against his tanned skin. "Born ready," he repeated, his voice laced with a newfound confidence.
