Go-go

Go-go 4

by Emile, 2009

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Carlos was getting uncomfortable.  He squirmed, his thick thighs quivering as he struggled to keep his wide legs in a squat, slowly lowering himself into a fuck position on Tyler's stiff and turgid bone.  But it wasn't just the squat that made him uncomfortable.  He lowered himself another half inch, his pucker pulsing involuntarily as arse slime and prefuck squirted around the impossibly thick fleshy dick that Tyler was pile driving upwards.  Stretched and sloppy as Carlos' manpussy was, he still struggled to accomodate Tyler's battering ram, especially since gravity - and Tyler tugging down on his nuts - was forcing the blunt head hard against his love nub, giving him a wicked, aching boner that throbbed and leaked like crazy into the tight latex cocksheath.

Tyler always slipped a condom over Carlos' hooded dong, sometimes a paper thin stretched out giant taken off his own stalk, this time a tight thick band that choked his own fat babymaker, but always clogged with juice of former fucks. He said it was to stop Carlos' heavy spic dickleak from spattering him when they fucked, plus the humiliation of it squirting goop up the shaft as he groped and mauled him, soaking his ballbag and crotch with leaking mixed juices.  Or maybe the pleasure of making Carlos chow down on the soupy contents and swallow the dicksheaths after every session.  Carlos must've swallowed dozens by now, and he feared one day he'd need his stomach pumped from the number of dirty rubbers swimming around inside him.  But it wasn't just the tight cocksheath, or even the battering on Tyler's blunt tool that was making Carlos the most uncomfortable.  His discomfort - and really it was getting more extreme than just discomfort - came from Tyler's new found obsession with marking Carlos as his special 'property'.

Tyler's obsession with Carlos meant he was never quite ready for Tyler's sickest and most depraved ideas.  When their session started, Tyler showed real care for Carlos, easing his battered body into the private room from the show, stripping him down and finally, gently easing out the mammoth buttstuffer plugging his hole.  He methodically extracted the safety pins that were snagging his veiny thumper, and massaged his sore and tired legs.  In fact, if Carlos wasn't butt naked and sweaty, and Tyler wasn't still fully clothed and paying, it could have been mistaken for love.  Carlos had even begun to warily relax, lulled into the moment by sheer exhaustion and lingering respect for Tyler, easing back onto the couch, nestling his head against his pumped outstretched arm as Tyler worked down to his calves, kneeling between his trunk-like legs.  Maybe Tyler wanted to enjoy the moment, he thought, maybe he was just up for a trick and a hug.

Tyler reached over to his leather bag and pulled out a camera, telling Carlos he was catching up with his old bud, Jimmy Wick, and wanted some photos of the two of them together to show him.  Carlos mumbled something about this being secret, but Tyler swore he would keep it decent.  So the first shot was a Thelma-and-Louise style of two old buddies, arms clasped around each other, grinning into the lens.  It was a bit odd, Tyler's styled blonde mop and striped V-neck against Carlos' matted slick hair and bare chest, but it could pass for decent.  Tyler took a few more, and then taken in the moment, stood up, telling him he wanted 'just a couple' of Carlos alone.  Carlos stayed frozen, his arm spread out along the back of the couch, his big chest rising and falling as he tried to keep his breath regular, despite the sick feeling in his stomach.  The first shot appeared to be to waist, a bit intimate, but not pornographic either.   But Tyler wanted more, and kept edging back, taking more of Carlos' prone body, now ordering him to spread his legs more, to pump his dork a little, each shot a bit worse than the last.   Finally, he came back, and Carlos thought it was over, until Tyler took his ankles, levering them up and forcing Carlos over double.  Tyler's elephantine package pressed against Carlos' arsenub, he camera hanging down between them.  Carlos grabbed his own ankles, figuring Tyler had worked himself up to a fuck, but Tyler stood back, brandishing the camera for some last, special shots.   Carlos was humiliated, fully exposed, his feet wrapped around his ears, his hole and junk on full display to the camera.  Quietly, he mumbled to Tyler "You won't show Jimmy, will you?"  and saw Tyler grin idiotically behind the camera.  "Yeah, sure, whatever, I'll stop the slide show on us.  I told him they were trip photos anyway...". Carlos' heart sank.

But that was hours ago now, and the dingy lights were flickering again, a sign Mitch wanted the last patrons to leave so he could shut the club for the day.  Tyler saw it too, and now Carlos would have to fuck himself faster, before Mitch came in.  Carlos bucked again, tugging painfully on his own nads still trapped in Tyler's fingers.  "Carlos baby" Tyler crooned "just ease into it.  Hey why don't you push out your foot along to make it easier."  Carlos couldn't protest, with the bit gag still wedged between his teeth. Reluctantly he slid his foot out, even though his shakes increased and the skin of his stretched perenium began screaming out as much as his splitting hole.  No, his main discomfort had nothing to do with the fuck - agonising and emasculating a a straight guy fucking himself on his former best bud's dork may be - it was his barrel chest - well actually more the thick gauge barbell riding high on his dime sized nips - that had him really sweating.  Tyler had always liked the idea of pouty teats, and now Tyler had found something old fashioned and mechanical to help, so the barbell stood an inch proud of Carlos' titflesh - not a cone of titflesh, but a straight out stretch - as the contraption encircled the brown nub with a tight metallic spring, yanking the steel bar outwards with pounds of coiled pressure.

After the photo shoot, Tyler's transformation from lover to aggressor had been swift.  Rooting around in his bag of goodies, each new thing he fished out made Carlos' flesh crawl. Carlos had actually begged and cried when Tyler had brandished the tit-stretcher, begged him not to leave visible marks.   It was bad enough getting the bus in the slutty torn dancer tank top, he wasn't paid much respect as a go-go boy, how much worse would it be rolling into the projects looking like a boy-bitch instead.  But Tyler was obsessed.  He'd even brought in the piercing gun, and two new thick gauge piercings to match his earlier tit-skewer.  He'd freaked at that point, and Mitch and two of the bouncers had to come in and hold him down, legs spread wide, his heavy junk dangling between his legs, so Tyler could get his satisfaction.  They'd shoved the bit gag in then - a wide heavy log that was well bitten with the marks of many a fuck-boys muffled pain.  Tyler had this sick idea that Carlos' should always ache for him, even when he wasn't there, and the best 'reminder' would be the friction he caused on Carlos' swollen unreleased tackle.  The first piercing he lined up with the base of the stretched frenulum, still tantalisingly revealed by the boner and the artificially retracted hood from Mitch's tightening lotion.  Buried at the base of his dork, the beaded rod would bump and grind against the seam in his glans, sending his juicer into overtime.  Once he'd punctured his cock-tether with a whoomp, making Carlos suck air through the gag.

He lined up the second piercing, this time peeling back the overtight foreskin, feeding the underside into the jaws of the gun, and squeezing.  The pain was exquisite, and Carlos almost blacked out in agony as the hole was punched through his nerve-laden helmet, wedging a heavy ring through the rim.  This, Tyler told him, would probably make for extra tightness as his cocksleeve slid back over the shaft whenever he sported an iron hard on, one piercing grinding over the other, but really he was more interested in the pouty hungry look his half-hard dork would take on as the heavy weight dragged all that extra flesh down.  Carlos realised this would be worst in his 'normal' life, just doing chores and mucking around with the other dudes - his one escape from these torments - when his dork had calmed down enough to sag down the leg of his pants.  Usually, this let him shoot hoops or cruise the mall without his package drawing too many stares. but now his pouty skin stretcher would make that uncomfortably difficult.   They taped it up for now, to stop his prefuck from spewing crap into the wounds, and yet it was torture, the whole of his cockhead throbbed and stung.  He shuddered to think how much worse it would be when the metal slugs were free to move around and irritate him.

After that, Carlos didn't have enough fight in him to resist the tightly wound jaws of the tit spring, and watched with muted anguish, his chin scrunched against his collarbone, as Tyler twisted up the tit piercing, fitted the steel trap and then yanked the pierced flesh out, forcing it to rest on on the coil, an inch away from his pectoral muscles.  He knew that it was doing permanent damage, and he wouldn't be able to get on the bus without everyone seeing his mauled titflesh now.

Mitch banged on the door, telling them to finish, and Tyler responded by pulling on Carlos' ballbag, forcing him to take the last few inches of cockroot in one cuntsplitting thrust.  It was like a fist thrust up his hole, and Tyler was itching to unload now, so he battered upwards with careless thrusts, slamming Carlos a foot in the air, and then sending him plunging down till his arsecheeks slapped against Tyler's dark blonde thatch.  Tyler roughly mauled Carlos' fuckstick in the moment, forgetting the searing pain as his grip slipped over the new piercings, and jerked Carlos to near orgasm as he fucked his hole brutally, finally smacking upwards with a roar and pumping buckets of hot jizz deep inside Carlos' moneyslot.  Then, with a pant, it was over, and Carlos slowly pulled off the dong with a pop, Tyler's boycum coating his thighs as it leaked down after it.  As he leant back, Tyler hauled himself onto his elbows, pushing Carlos's broad back down onto the bed with one arm.  Getting up in a crawl, he staddled Carlos' body with his knees, crawling up so that ropes of cumslop leaked and drooled over Carlos' abs and chest, before the heavy thumper hovered ominously over Carlos' mouth.  Reaching around and undoing the bit-gag, he pressed the streaked cockhead against Carlos' full lips. "I love you bud", Tyler purred, "now clean me up!"

Finally Tyler let up, and vaulted himself up to standing.  His fat monster cock still glistened with Carlos' saliva, at odds with the conservative preppie clothes he pulled on over it, hiding the beast within.  Carlos also rose, and attempted to mop up his rank body as best he could, eager to haul on his paltry clothes and get into the light, away from the horror.  But before he left, Tyler insisted he 'help' Carlos back into his street clothes.  It made Carlos feel even dirtier to have his 'regular gear' handled by Tyler.  It made him feel like he carried the club around with him - that even outside, he was still marked as Tyler's bitch - which actually now the truth.  In any case, not only was he streaked with their combined excretions, and having blown his wad, Tyler had spattered all over Carlos' funky body, the creamy goops still clinging to his pecflesh and trickling down the trench of his abs.  Now as Tyler pulled the thin cotton tee onto him, like a himbo mannequin, the material soaked up everything, Tyler's post-load drippings soaked through the stallion logo at the base of his abs where the tee still joined.  The tight mid-thigh black pants were virtually glued to his thighs by the sweat, and the foul cocktail of manjuices soaked into the seat and crotch, ringing his hefty tortured sausage and bloated nads with a dark halo of moisture.  Tyler left on the condom, for a change, telling him he should 'unload' at home.  Sick as it was, Carlos knew he would obey - wear the tight latex and drying dickleak home, ripping the sheath off in private, cleaning and swallowing it, even though no-one was looking. 

Tyler ran his finger up the long V that ran up to his Adams apple, the glistening slick skin had no protection, until it was slick with tangy smegma, running the finger into Carlos' mouth, forcing him to clean up by ingesting most of the foul mess.  But, Tyler said, he felt sorry for him, and he wouldn't let him go home like that.  He pulled out of his bag a sleeveless sweatshirt - almost a rag with their old school logo on the front, which had been tie-dyed a lurid hot pink and brown.

Tyler pulled it over Carlos' head - telling him that Mitch had let him add it to his gear  - the sweatshirt was thick wool and made him stew underneath, pumping out sweat that only made the manstink worse.  It had clearly done the same for Tyler, as it was already funky and moist, although Carlos would later discover that was mostly henna - the brown dye - which would slowly soak into his skin where it touched his exposed pecs, giving him a mottled starburst tattoo that radiated out from his clavicle.  The thickest brown bands ran from his shoulderblades across his chest to the clavicle - following the footballers 'V' emblem, so most of his upper body would be inked.  As Carlos would realise with dread, he would have to perform with his new emblem, and if it was a crowd-pleaser, Mitch would be sure to get it inked on permanently.  But his more immediate realisation was that the sweats were too small, the hem still cut across his lower abs, and even with a rip at the collar, it still barely sat below the collarbone, the torn arms hugging his underarms, the loose threads tickling the shaved pits.

Finally Tyler slipped a few notes in his crotch, straining the remaining button further, and his fat tackle one last squeeze before going.  That just left Carlos standing dumbly, still shaking from the sweat, heat and abuse, waiting for the other guys to finish and gather so they could collect their pay.

It was bad enough for the hunky Latino from the projects that he turned gay-for-pay at one of the filthiest nightclubs in town, but much worse since his pay had been cut, again.  Mitch hadn't even bothered to make excuses this time, what with the economy fucked, he just rounded up the troupe and told them from now there was a $500 a week fee for "private clients", so basically Carlos had to pay Mitch now to get fucked.  Then Mitch paid them their week's taking.

Mitch always paid the guys up front, from the top earner to the least, partly to keep them mean and keen, partly to keep them resentful of each other.  The smug, buff new boys always got paid top dollar, and most didn't even stick around to see what the dregs took home, a mistake given the older guys always accelerated their fall, and they should have known how little they'd be getting soon enough.  Caleb, the straw blonde surfer who shook his tackle on stage for $1000/week took home the full cut, since he "didn't let the filthy fags touch him", well, yet anyway.  Some of the other guys took home $1500 to $2000 even after the 'fee'.  Unfortunately for Carlos, his cut was last.  With Mitch already taking a 60% cut for 'managing' Carlos, he barely made $600 as it was, less with the fee.  Now he was almost broke.   Since he only got $100 this week, he would have to get the family through on tips, again.  Mitch liked this, the more he depended on tips, the less likely he would be to say no, no matter how depraved was the next John that walked through the door.