Go-go

Go-go 6

by Emile, 2009 - 2010

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Eventually Carlos fell into a fitful sleep.  Even Carlos' dreams were invaded by the club.  He recalled vividly how shy he'd been when he first auditioned.

He didn't know what he'd expected, when he had first rang for a role, the guy gruffly told him to turn up at 6pm that day.  He arrived dressed in his best jeans and a tight white tee that accentuated his big guns, with a cocky swagger that he hoped would defend his masculinity - to say "sure I'll dance in my underwear, a bit but I'm still straight".  He knocked on the door, flexing his arms experimentally, waiting for them to open up.  To his surprise, after a few minutes the door opened, to a burly tattooed guy in a wrestler's costume, who looked him up and down critically.  Carlos checked him out at the same time.  The guy had to be 6'6", massive melon arms and a bulging chest, which struggled against the tight black lycra costume, tapering to a narrow waist that accentuated his bulging dicklump.  It was obscene, more humiliating than Carlos could ever imagine, but the guy seemed unfazed by being so completely exposed.  Little did Carlos know then just how much worse the bar boys could sink.  "Hey man" he growled in a deep baritone, sticking out a large meaty hand "I'm Ross.  Mitch told me to show you the ropes, he'll be here later."  Ross led him across the bar floor, his high bubble butt swinging in the lycra, taking him past dozens of guys similarly dressed in the filthiest exposed shit Carlos had ever seen. 

Near the bar, a hairy barrel chested bartender in just a leather jock called over to a mate wearing loose orange running shorts, too small for his gear so his tackle hung out of like laundry.  Carlos had seen the pair years before, cruising up and down Santa Clara Beach, showing off their rock hard bodies to all the chicks, and remembered how envious he'd been of their lady-killer cocky swaggers.  That had gone now.  They were both clearly uncomfortable being so close to each other in that gear, flinching every time they brushed arms, and something about their averted glances that told Carlos they were deeply ashamed about some recent act.  "Hey man" the leather jock said sheepishly, handing the other a set of jumbo rubber balls on a rope "uh, can you give me a hand?  I gotta get them in before Mitch comes or I'm screwed".  To Carlos' shock, he then spun around, bending over a bar stool, arse out and one leg high, ankle hugged against his chest.  He reached back to pull the leg strap away from his large red arsepucker, exposing his abused hole to the room.  Carlos watched mesmerised as the other hulk hesitated, trying not to look at his friend's winking fuckhole, and had to psyche himself up, finally pressing the first large rubber ball against the man's sphincter.  The recipient gasped loudly as he pushed, screwing his face up and suppressing the groan, slowly accepting the unnatural intruder.  There were tears in both their eyes.  "C'mon man" Ross barked, hauling by one arm into the back.  His veins turned to ice with fear.  If he wasn't so desperate for the cash he would've bolted, but Carlos swallowed hard, drove his demons down and looked around the new surroundings.

Now they were in a large locker room that all the staff shared.  Ross told him the pecking order - the lockers fanned out from the central room (for newbies) to the two adjacent rooms for senior staff, since patrons could see guys junk as they changed in that central room whenever the door swung open.   Of course what Carlos didn't realise was the other reason - that some of the senior staff were so fucked up and fucked out that seeing them would scare off newbies.  The crowd was cute and muscular, all stripping off clothe, the first two in front of him flopping out impressively large throbbing dongs.  They were both blonde and young, and put on a show when they saw him stare, giving each other a sloppy kiss.  He flinched but Ross had already dragged him to one side, flipping open a locker.  "Here, you can wear one of my old costumes tonight" he said. It dawned on him that Ross, a huge, tattooed muscular dude, wasn't just a waiter, but a strip dancer too.  "I got a new spot in the seniors room" he said "you just put this on, put your gear in there and go knock on the manager's door when you're done.

Carlos stripped off his shirt and pants, down to his jock, reminding himself it was just like being at the gym.  At the gym he wore boxer-style swimsuits, but Mitch had told him to wear a jock over the phone. He hopped from foot to foot, trying to get comfortable in just the strap of material, while he opened the locker door and pulled out the costumes inside.  The room was pretty crowded with manflesh now, and he leaned in, shoulders grazing the door, to get a bit of privacy.  He pulled out the first outfit - a black wrestlers suit, size XS.  He held it up, wondering how the fuck a guy Ross' size could fit in that.  He felt a hand on each shoulder and spun around to see the twin blonde boys flanking him, naked, hard-ons at full mast.  "No, not that one" the left boy said, taking it off him, "No, not that one" the right one echoed, leaning in and rifling through Ross' locker.  He leaned in, his cock grazing against Carlos' side, leaking precum onto his waist. He could feel the left boy's cockhead pressing against his own through the jock as he shuffled forward.  Again he felt the panic rise and had to force himself to calm down, reminding him it was just temporary, and  it didn't matter if a couple of guys he'd never see again saw his dicklump under fabric - it was just like the beach.  But of course it wasn't, and his poor but deeply religious upbringing made him flush with shame.  He was damp with sweat, too.

"Here you go, this'll look ace" the right boy said, pressing something into Carlos' hand.  "It'll look ace" left boy echoed, taking his clothes from his other hand and stuffing them into the locker.  They were almost on top of him and he had to step out into the room to escape them, with just his jock and the costume they gave.  They both stood there, arms folded, dicks throbbing, in front of his locker, waiting for him to change.  A few fresh faced guys looked over, amused, as they crammed their own gear into tiny outfits.  He stripped off his jock, still cupping his package with the other hand.  In a flash, left boy was over, taking his jock from him, so he found himself naked, dork dangling as he tried to step into the garment.  It was hard, and he was rushing, but it seemed to be all string.  Finally he pulled it up, realising what it was.  It was a white g-string, with just a strap up his arse and a ting triangle at the back, and a larger elongated triangle at the front.  It had little tassles that hung from the straps, tickling his inner thighs.  He wasn't sure if it was even meant for guys, and it was particularly obscene, barely a scrap of sheer material.  Of course it had no room for his heavy prong and ballbag, which pushed out the front, making the weave stretch.  "Oh shit" the right one said, sarcastically, "I guess that's Mitch's girlfriends panties, that one."  "Yeah" left joined in "he doesn't even know Ross has em.  I guess they look better on smooth cunt than on a hairy cock like you."  They both began laughing hysterically, and he cupped the front, lunging forward to try grab them and haul open the locker.  But they parted, and when he grabbed the locker, the door was stuck shut.  He realised the boys had punched in a code.  He went to grab one, but they slipped under, laughing, dashing back to their locker to haul on their shorts and high-tail it into the lounge.  A bunch of guys were laughing now, and he realised he'd been duped into wearing the ridiculous panties all night.

He slowly wound his way back to the bar, now in the final stages of pre-opening.  The two barmen were behind the bar now, trying not to look at each other.  The bar was just a plank with lights mounted underneath, so their bodies from the waist down were now on neon display - both the orange runner guy's tackle flopped out below the hem, and the leather jock's bow legged stance.  Both he could see were uncomfortably hard, but made no effort to adjust their straining cocks, concentrating on cleaning glasses instead.  Carlos had yet to learn the hands-off-tackle rule, or the exquisite humiliation of bar staff who were fingered and fondled all night by patrons under the bar, as their hands were occupied making drinks.

If only Carlos had known more about the two boys, Buster and Beau, he would have never let himself get trapped in Mitch's web.  The two swaggering guys had started working at a legitimate bar Mitch ran across town, as an easy way of picking up women.  Even though they were arrogant jocks, he hired them, knowing that the party lifestyle would get to them soon enough.  The high roller bar was a den of rum and coke, and the more the pair blasted and partied with the customers, the more they fell into Mitch's debt.  Soon they were dependent, first losing their apartments, then their friends until their lives revolved around the bar.  Mitch worked on them, 'lending' them a grimy studio above a restaurant for them to move into.  It was small and cramped, and the guys had to share the bed, but they kept at it, working double and triple shifts Mitch rostered until they didn't know night from day, and increasing their habits to cope.  Finally, when they could barely get through a day without his help, he fired them for partying on the job, telling them they wouldn't work at another place with a reference like that.  Plus they owed back rent on the studio.  The guys were wild eyed and desperate, so he went in for the kill, 'offering' them jobs at the strip joint  if they were willing to work for tips.  The studs were desperate, despite their discomfort in downshifting to a sleazy gay strip joint, for tips, but they reluctantly agreed.

It was a great investment for three reasons: One, they were cocky, and Mitch knew how his customers enjoyed taking cocky men down a peg.  Two, they were hot.  Three, true to his name, Buster had a thick cuntstuffer, which filled out his pants impressively.  Beau, likewise was the more striking guy, a real swarthy "man's man".  He knew what a hot duo they would unwillingly make, especially if Beau was forced to take Buster's thick prong on a regular basis.  But it was a slow process, first getting them to serve in just loose fitting sweatpants, their torsos on display, and when their tips didn't cover their expenses, 'suggesting' new uniforms - the tight leather jock for Beau, and the flimsy orange running shorts for Buster.  When Mitch showed them how they'd make more tips getting them straight into the leather jock or the frayed front pocket of the orange shorts, the two jocks squirmed, but soon they were secretly sticking out their packages, letting the johns cop a good feel of their goods, trying desperately to hide their debasement from each other.  Tips were good, and they partied hard again, until the regulars got tired of the two 'prickteases' and left smaller and smaller tips for their long invasive gropes.  It happened constantly now, and neither could hide being mauled from the other, almost prostituting themselves out to be felt up for loose change.  Then Mitch took a personal interest, 'suggesting' one crowded night that they play a little - slap each other's arses, or tweak a nipple, to give the johns a show.  It worked, and soon suggestions were flying down their earpieces every night - a long probing tonguefuck, rubbing their crotches together, Beau groping Buster's cuntbuster until he was rock hard - and they did it, and the crowd went wild. Mitch took to announcing their impromptu shows on the loudspeaker - until he was directing the action over the mike instead.  They still pretended it was just kicks, until one evening, Mitch called out "Up next, the bar show tonight, Beau blows Buster for the first time in public!"  The crowd packed around the bar, and the sweaty duo shrank back.  But what choice did they have?  Beau dropped his dishcloth, mouthing an apology, and slowly sunk to his knees, coaxing Buster's hem up until the semi flaccid porker came into view.  To both of their shame, Buster hardened up almost immediately, a pearl of precum glistening on the tip even before Beau began to take the blunt tool into his virginal lips.

From then on, Beau was almost constantly blasted on crystal to try and deal with each night, as Mitch soon had Buster forcibly fucking his friend with fingers, then toys, then his cock, in complete view of the crowd.  Finally, a week before Carlos joined, while they both cried openly and Beau squatted naked on the bar, Buster opened up Beau's raped arse with his meaty fist.  Mitch made sure Beau took it completely lucid, feeling the full force of the punch.  It so devastated their fragile masculinity and mateship they completely blew all the cash on a drug binge to forget after each one was over, lasting til the day Carlos came in.  As Carlos would discover, this was the start of a long road to depravity. Buster had to work buck naked now, keeping a dripping hard on the whole time, even though it was agony to do so.  His work slowed right down, having to stop two or three times making each drink so he could pump his porker some more - not to mention get probed and mauled by the johns, and smile through it, just to make any sort of tip.  Beau meanwhile barely stayed behind the bar at all, spending most of his nights on his knees, getting stuffed both ends by guys, who had the idea of keeping score of their slut boy by shaving a tally into his chest hair of every suck job, and scrawling on his back in ink for every fuck, until both sides of his torso were covered in scores of tally marks.  When his chest was full, they shaved his pubes into thin strips to continue, then his leg hair, and finally even his eyebrows and pits.  Mitch made him maintain the scoreboard, lending him the same heavy duty hair remover that Carlos had used, to define the marks, until his clippered body hair was lacerated with a permanent scoreboard.  Beau needed no reminder, his stomach was so full of jizz that he burped cum bubbles regularly, and his food was coated in sperm from his jaws before even hitting his tastebuds, making everything cheesy and salty.  His own dork leaked dickcheese into the foreskin regularly now, since Mitch forbade them both from shooting off any of their own dickjuice.  He felt like a stud bull with his heavy nads cinched tightly, never knowing when they'd be squeezed off entirely.

Eventually Mitch would convince Beau to pay his month's rent by getting "Cumwads Fed" inked on his clavicle and "Arse Ploughed" on his shoulderblades, and then to get a month-by-month fuck tally inked on his back in rows, up to that month (June, 102).  Mitch then told them to concentrate full time on their protein injections and took them off the bar altogether, meaning Buster now found himself having to put out as well for tricks. It was worse for Buster, not only did he fall much more rapidly to Beau's level, but he still was expected to keep his mammoth cuntbuster hard and drooling through every brutal suck and fuck.  Ross broke him in, his first virginal fuck a meagre exchange for that month's rent and some pills.  The guys with the fattest dicks flocked to Buster, eager to break down a guy with similar equipment, and his tight arse was quickly and painfully stretched wide.  Like Beau with his anal beads and cockrings, Mitch now sent Buster home each night crammed with long fat dildos, trying to forcibly stretch him out to sluthole capacity, and the constant pressure meant his tool rarely went down, despite their both being on strict cum control.  Writhing about in their small bed, butts stuffed and cocks leaking, their dreams reenacted each day, until their lives were a blur of relentless fucking, the only relief being the tension laden sessions in the gym or loping to and from their studio, always underdressed, fuckspattered and plugged. 

But Carlos knew none of that then.  He made his way to the manager's door, knocking and holding his tackle.  Mitch, when he opened the door, was a surprise - not the mean queen he'd expected, but a grizzly tank of a man, like an ex-dancer or ex-barman or something, flinty and jaded.

When Mitch opened the door to him, his first comment was the choice of outfit was poor.  If he recognised them, he didn't say, except that the fabric wouldn't hold out the night.  Already the thin cotton was sagging under the pressure of his dork and balls, and stretching the straps out from his body.  He mauled the package through the material - the first time another guy had touched his tackle - and though Carlos stiffened, he let him handle his private parts roughly.  "Okay, come with me" he said, arm around Carlos' broad naked shoulders. "What do I do then" Carlos asked, as Mitch took him across the floor, to dozens of glances, to a hidden door.  "Well, like I said, anything we say." he replied, pushing open the door to reveal a small room and a dozen guys.  It was Carlos' hell.  Four of Mitch's employees were already there - Carlos could recognise them for having barely an outfit between them.  Three were clearly the 'entertainment' - two sitting on guys laps with hands roving over their tight abs and under their tighter pouches, while the third had only a tee shirt, pushed up over his nipples on account of being laid out on a bench, ankles pushed up to his ears, forced to grab his calves and hold his legs in his taut arms while three (!) different guys were prodding at his tight arsehole from three different directions, commenting loudly on its elasticity.  The fourth - the poor waiter - had semi-respectable black pants on, although holding the drinks tray, begging them to take off the drinks rather than feeling him up underneath it.  Yeah, his first day was an eye opener for the stud!