BDSM Library

Go-go

by Emile

Carlos didn't like being a go-go boy. For starters, as he slid his arse down the greased pole, squatting wide, a john kept squeezing his ballsac. Hard. The guys weren't supposed to touch, but Mitch the manager had his own rules, and the main one was if it made him money, it was okay. So the guys could pet Carlos all they pleased, so long as they didn't pull off his g-string - without paying anyway. He stayed on his haunches, gyrating slowly just like Mitch had shown him, his arms gripping the pole high above his head, to show off his shaved and muscular arms to the audience, and keep him nice and exposed for the VIP gropers. Another guy slipped his finger under the waistband, fingering his hard meatus under the thin strip of fabric. Fuck, they always did that, the tattoos that seductively curled under the hem, wrapping his shaved cock right down to the root, always drew them in. I mean, that's why Mitch had paid for them. Plus, the swollen knob almost burst out of the white G, the cocktail of drugs they fed him and the thick cockring kept him constantly hard and horny, as did Mitch's rule on cumming - or not cumming, really, unless it was for a john, which was pretty rare - plenty of guys fucked his arse alright, until it was red and painful, and every thrust made him yelp - but few made him cum or even wanted to, once they were done they were done.

The thin strap along his arsecrack did little to relieve the pain as he slid on the pole all night, especially not with guys reaching around and fingering his pucker all through the show. He bucked as the guy that had been squeezing his tackle reached under his corded thigh to do just that, almost lifting his leg in his eagerness to bore into his hungry arse. It was still fairly tight, Mitch made sure of that with regular exercises and tightening gels, but the arselips were puffy and raw, and scratched by guys fingernails and whatever other shit they snuck in there while he performed on stage. Once a guy had even rammed a lighter up his hole, a big steel canister that had scraped the insides, and all Mitch did was pull him back and tell him to easy on. Carlos even had to finish the show with the lighter still jammed up his cunthole, since he was never, ever allowed to cover his package up during an act. Mitch's special rule meant that on nights like tonight, when guys deliberately dragged their hands under his waist straps to inch the g-string lower on his tackle, there was nothing he could do to adjust the slipping fabric, even if half of his cock root showed, or his balls flopped out - nothing, even if they broke Mitch's rule and pulled it down altogether. Even then, he had to turn around and do a full squat showing his arse before leaving the stage, to give something for them to remember before he went off.

Mitch said his mule dick was to obscene for them to see in public, that the ugly horsecock was only fit for private viewing, when they could gawk all they liked at his unnatural flesh. It hadn't been that unnatural when he'd first come through the doors, he was just a regular fit and hung latino guy, but Mitch's gym, drugs and careful attentions had made him into shaved, tattooed muscle freak with a swollen cock and balls to match his pumped chest and arms. Even on the street, the thin tees he pulled on clung to every smooth muscle, and celtic swirls snaked up his neck and down his arms, making him indecent to most. Mitch insisted that they wore the 'uniform' to and from the club - which for most guys was a fitting white collared shirt and tight black pants, suave and sexy, with just a hint of muscle and dick bulging under the cloth. If it weren't for the stallion logo and their exceptional bodies, they could have been waiters at any of the casinos.

But the go-go boys had different uniforms. Thin frayed cotton tees, the shirtsleeves ripped off, and a huge stallions logo on the front, and "dancer" printed in large letters on the back. The black pants they wore were tighter, and cut off at mid-thigh. Flip flops, instead of shoes. Basically, there was no mistaking them, except maybe for the rent boys that plied the strip in later hours. Worse, every time they were late, as well as docking half their pay, Mitch would make an alteration, a little something just to 'tear strips' off the guy, humiliate him so he'd remember not to be late again. Small incentives for the guys to move their arses quickly to and from work. Problem was, Carlos lived with his two brothers, 20 miles away in the projects, and even when their gangs weren't keeping him up, hassling him or making noise, it was a long trip into town.

So now, when he went in public, there was just the two inches of fabric holding the shirt together, the "V' having been ripped to his belly button, exposing his wide brown chest, and not only were his smooth pecs bursting out the top, but so were most of his hard abs, forcing him to keep pulling the rip together to keep the semblence of decency. The shirt was torn, exposing a brown dime sized nipple to the cool air, and people naturally stared at he thick gauge piercing that skewered the nub whenever they looked at him. And if that wasn't bad enough, he'd long since popped the top two buttons of his fly, so without any underwear over his huge tackle, every grannie and street junkie could see the veiny dark cockroot if he twisted his waist or reached up high. And on the crowded bus, when he gave up his seat to an old woman, he always ended up in the aisle, arms stretched above him holding on to the rails, everything from his shaved pits to his smooth thighs in plain view of everyone. It was almost as bad, exposing himself unwillingly in public, as being forced to completely debase himself for cash.

The lights went down, a hot spotlight zooming in on the squatting spic fucktoy. Everyone in the room could see his pumped brown muscles now, and the guy drilling him as he squatted on the brass pole. Guys wandered over from the tables, seeing the chance for some free and easy entertainment. It was a hard and nasty life, but, you could say Carlos was destined to be a go-go fuckboy. He was good looking and sporty, and his body naturally beefed up easily. He came from poor latino trash migrants, went to a third-rate school and got a bad education, and his brothers had already turned to gangs and drugs. Still, he was shy, and straight, and was completely humiliated by his (somewhat) secret life, so maybe, if he'd been a little stronger, a little more self assured, he could have kept his dream of a clean, Catholic couples life alive. Of the family, and the white picket fence. But he was too passive for that, he was no pusher, he was always pushed. Pushed out of school with a knocked up junior high girlfriend and no job. Pushed into strip shows for milk money. Pushed into brutal fucks for bread. Pushed to fuck up his own flawless body into the greasy freak show that his clients wanted. It had taken years of unrelenting breaking, years of compromise, unmanned by a thousand cuts, but he was Mitch's bitch now, and he just had to push those feelings deep inside. The guy wormed another finger deep into his pulsing pussy. Pushing them deeper in, for him. Grunting, he pushed back, splitting his own mancunt on the knuckle. The middle aged client smiled, spit dripping off his beard, stabbing his fat fingers deep in Carlos' crevice, while another hand began working on his thinly covered nads. Yeah, he didn't like being a go-go boy, but then, what choice did he have?

Go-go 2

by Emile

It had been an hour long show, and finally the hot spotlight swung over to the next stripper, leaving him to shake off the last few guys that were feeling up his exposed flesh. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, a guy was gesturing for him to come over to the far end of the stage. His heart sank. Sometimes it was a good thing - an excuse to prise himself off whichever john was groping his taut flesh as he swayed to the music, and get a few dollars tucked under his waistband - his main income since Mitch paid so little. But his show was almost over, and the last bus before daylight broke was leaving soon. He sauntering over as Mitch had shown him to do, his whole slick body on display. He knew the guy. He was a young but sadistic suit, would shove the money deep inside, knowing Mitch would allow him to fingerfuck Carlos and plough his digits deep, so long as there was a couple of dollars in it. Carlos went over, squatting on his bulging calves, hands on the ground, just below his hovering arse, ready to defend himself. Too late, he noticed the bills were rolled tightly to form a paper tube, like a cigarette, and realised the guy's free hand was grabbing at his fat and leaky helmet, popping the meaty head out of the thin material, and spearing his pisslips with the crisp rolled notes. He yelped, as the guy plunged down with his thumb, driving the wad of notes deep into his burning urethra. Almost as quick as he had begun, the roll was almost down to the dicklips, and he popped the skewered head back under the material, before Carlos had an excuse to end he show. The burning was excruciating, and the tube wickedly sapped his cockslop from deep within his pisser, making him leak more and soak the front of the G-string. As he slid up to do his last dance on the main stage, the guy winked, saying there was enough there to pay for an hour, and that he'd be waiting in his change room after the show.

When Carlos came off the stage, sweaty and sore, Mitch was waiting for him, running a hand down his sweaty lats and slipping the strap down so his shaved tackle flopped out. It was all business for him, and he pulled out the roll of cash from his dicklips brutally while Carlos just stood there, puffing, his hands by his sides as he'd been taught. He counted out his share - 40%, shoving the other precum soaked notes into Carlos' hands, and telling him he'd been rostered to do the 4am show. Carlos hadn't slept in hours, he was a wreck, but Mitch just shrugged, either he wanted the money or he didn't. "Now don't keep your client waiting" he chuckled, pushing him towards his "change room". He didn't have a private room to retreat to like the others, all his worldly possessions were in a rucksack by the stage, for anyone to rifle though (and they frequently did). His 'change room' was a small fuckroom at the back of the stage, which was only ever unlocked when he had clients. Mitch would toss his bag in when they booked him, so he had his clothes after (he said), but also to force him to do whatever gig Mitch arranged. When he walked in, the suit who had shoved in the bankroll was rifling through the bag, unapologetic, just holding up a picture of a young guy. "Who's this" he asked, and Carlos mumbled it was his son, the guy just nodding and pocketing the photo. Carlos cried out, it was his only photo of the teen, and had his address on the back. But the guy was already distracted, concentrating on Carlos's hot and tight body. "Come here, spic, and let me see you up close..."

Half an hour later, and both of the guys were sweating heavily, the suit from in post-fuck exertion, since he'd punched his 12 inch boner into Carlos' arse until it scraped it raw, and Carlos from the pain of the fuck, and now the post-fuck 'entertainment'. Both guys had stripped down - the guy, "Sir", had stripped the tailored shirt off his rugged body, and his meaty cock hung slack out of his pinstripe suit fly, while Carlos had surrendered his micro thong and now squatted buck naked on the table, his well fucked hole at eye level as he crouched legs apart and balls dangling, as commanded. His legs were cramping, but that was the least of his worries. Not only was his aching hole stretched in that position, already swollen and bruised from constant abuse, but his low hangers and own veiny stalk were fully exposed, and while the hole vainly tried to recover, winking as it burped fucksauce, the suit was working his package over good. He held another safety pin up to Carlos' wide eyes. "And this big fella is for your pretty little cockhead!" His supple olive skin had already been ribbed with pins, from his perenium up his ballsac and along the underside of the shaft - big fucking steel rods that tugged at the sensitive flesh. Gritting his teeth against the pain, he muttered a "Thank you Sir", gripping the table tightly in his beg hands to stop him involuntarily closing his knees against the inevitable savaging. Mitch insisted he take it "like a man", or, at least, "like a mule" - made for whipping.

He was worried he couldn't have kids anymore, between the ballbashing and all the junk they shoved in his pisshole, he could barely piss without screaming from pain already, but Mitch just laughed. He said if that were true, it was a fucking service to society he was stopping him bring any more spic kids into the world, that one was bad enough, and he should be grateful his ugly helmet got any action at all. Not anymore. As the huge spike sunk into his pisshole, he grunted loudly, feeling the point dragging down, ready to pierce the fat head. "Now what would be prettier" the suit asked "underneath and fully plunged, leaving just the shiny clip, or topside and shallow, nice and exposed? I mean the first would hurt like fuck, and make pissing a mess, but you'd still be able to jerk off cleanly, while the second would look wicked, but might rip through when I put the weights on. Yeah, heavy ones, cuntlips, just for you... Tell you what" he said, pressing the spike down, so it began piercing the lower half of the shaft, "how about we do two!" The pain was unbearable, and Carlos couldn't wait to prise them off his dork, before too much damage was done. The suit must've read his mind, because he continued, saying "Oh, and your boss, Mitch, he said to leave these in for your next show, he wants to see how the audience likes em. If you're lucky, you might get some permanent jewelry out of it. So what's that, three hours time?" He slid the pin down to the base, clipping it closed. It was menacing, a 3 inch giant safety pin, and the head began throbbing against the 1/2 inch head. Carlos was scared, 3 hours! And who knows what would rip with these pins against his tight g-string, hands groping him mercilessly. He lined up another pin, smaller this time, but to Carlos' horror, pierced across the head above the pisshole, like a fucking bar. It must've touched a nerve, because it sent a jolt through him, like a punch to the nuts. Involuntarily, his knees quivered, and sweat slaked off his wide smooth thighs. "Jackpot" the guy sneered, flicking the clip until Carlos dropped to his knees, his hands automatically trying to cover his damaged flesh. The guy smacked his hands away. "Big mistake buddy" he whispered, going around behind him, pulling his broad arms tight behind his back.

He stared down over his barrel chest to his pulsing aching dork, thinking it couldn't get much worse. He was wrong. The guy pulled his hands together, cinching them tightly in handcuffs, immobilising his beefy guns and forcing his chest out proudly. That wasn't all, and he felt something large pushing against his exposed and pouty arse ring. If he wasn't so well fucked, the blunt tool wouldn't have gone in, but the guy kept ramming, until the huge rubber plug was deep inside. As he pushed in the last inches, the base yanked at his handcuffs, and he realised he was tethered to his own buttstuffer. Worse, he attached something and began pumping, driving air into the plug, making it expand in his already stuffed arse. He grunted as the plug grew even larger, two squeezes making it uncomfortably thick. "How's that feel" he asked, and Carlos hoarsely responded "Uh, it's really painful, Sir, it feels like it's gonna split my arselips..." He grunted, and gave the pump another couple of squeezes. Carlos screamed,and when he calmed down, he asked again. "Please sir, no more, it's to big, worse than a fist, I'll rip me apart!" He gave one more squeeze, making Carlos scream again, and a small tear appear on his tightly stretched hole. "Okay, that should do it" he said, disconnecting the pump, the valve holding the air in tight. He whispered in Carlos' ear "Now the release valve is on the head of the dong, on slow release. It'll take about 4 hours before it releases enough to pull out safely, bloating you the whole time, unless you want to rip it out earlier. I should warn you though, it's thicker in the middle, so if you pull your hands up, it will split your hole in two. It might be a little uncomfortable even then, though, the thing takes a whole night to go back to its original size. But then, spic holes like yours were made to be stretched, weren't they. Carlos held back tears, his body shaking with pain. "Ugh, yes, yes sir." "Yes what dickditch?" He was playing with his bloated sac, now defenseless. "Yes, my spic hole... was made to be stretched... sir" He flicked the nads, making them jerk. "Right you are."

Go-go 3

by Emile

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Mitch decided he should do the 2am show in a Lycra thong. The thin plastic sheath clung like shrink wrap to his studded and pinned dork, at the slightest movement send waves of throbbing pain from his arsecrack to his dicklips as the taut material pulled at the safety pins and stretched the skin underneath. The Lycra was a dirty cream colour, like a condom, and it not only rode low on his sexy hips, the thin waistband cutting across his hefty cockroot, but it also tapered dramatically to a narrow cuntlick of a strip, so that Mitch had to tuck his his battering ram straight down for him. With his hands still cuffed behind him and tethered to the dildo, he couldn't dress himself, or put up any resistance. He thought with horror how much bolder the groping and fingering would be when the johns in the club saw the muscular stud's beefy arms cuffed behind him, or noticed the short chain that dove under the thong, tethering his arms to the partly-seen buttstuffer.

If that wasn't enough, his heavy semi-hard porker pushed the thong away from his waist and exposed cockflesh on the sides and his vulnerable sac underneath. The only thing keeping the sac from spilling out was the wickedly short arsestrap, which not only mashed the balls between his thick thighs, ensuring they'd be battered as he danced, but also pulled the rear of the waistband almost to his crack, the small triangle of stretched lycra pushing directly against the still uncomfortably bloated pussyrammer wedged up his hole. Even after 3 hours, the oversized dong still ripped at his innards, and the slow releasing plastic cockhead deep inside him might have been slowly reducing the girth from extreme to merely monster-sized, but the air building up in his gut was giving him cramps and build pressure on the dong, so he had to keep his chute tightly clenched to stop the dong ripping itself out. The sweat from the exertion, trickling between his shoulderblades and moistening his crack, was making it harder and harder to do.

Mitch had also smeared his bald crotch with 'skin firming cream' - and it worked as promised, turning his wrinkled ballbag into a smooth and shiny balloon around his nads, and stretching his veiny dork so tight the foreskin slipped back all the way to the frenulum, making every scrape and shift tingle on his unprotected cockhead. As 'dumb and ugly' as Mitch told him his uncut dork was, a sign of his poor latino upbringing, he knew how much clients would enjoy the fat and exposed mushroom head, achingly sensitive to their touch, and how much Carlos would buck and leak when they played with it. Carlos was worried because every time Mitch smeared on the stuff, his skin got even tighter and more painful, and stuck glued to the shaft, and he wondered how long before the skin would split, or get infected trapped behind the head.

Mitch hefted the thong a few times, ensuring the shaved and tortured nads were tightly held in the shiny strap. Carlos moaned, thinking back to earlier times. Once, he'd even been popular - senior year at school. He'd played with the team since junior high, like all the solid guys, and his tall and powerful physique should have ensured his place on the team. The coach, however, told him he 'didn't want hairy duckfucks on the team who couldn't understand a play', and so he was benched, a reserve for most of school. Then, finally, he had a break, substituted for a linebacker and not only played well, but his strength and determination, and his towering hulk of muscle, helped the team win the day. Despite his latent (and obvious) dislike for Carlos, coach put him on the team, and he played linebacker for the rest of the season. Grudgingly, the guys who had always hassled and humiliated him in the corridors for years for his hand-me-down clothes and his accent came to accept him, he even briefly was taken in by the blonde captain, Tyler, got invited to his house parties, and laid his first non-latina girl. They were good times, and he even imagined a life outside the projects, maybe a scholarship for college football. He spent hours hanging with the guys at Tyler's house, even Tyler's state senator dad remembered his name, and stopped calling him Rico. Tyler gave him some of his clothes, introduced him to his circle, the guys had a real bond. In fact, Carlos had kid of idolised Tyler, in a mateship kind of way. Tyler even got him the application forms for the same college.

But things never went right for Carlos, and just three weeks from homecoming, Tyler's dad resigned to become the ambassador to Panama. A few days later, and he was shaking the old man's hand in front of their house being told to 'visit when you're over there', evidently mistaking Carlos for Panamanian (or just not giving a fuck) while Tyler, stripped to the waist, hauled boxes to his SUV. When his dad went in, Tyler came up to Carlos, grabbing his hand and hauling him into a sweaty bear hug. "Hey I'm real sorry, but with my parents gone they're making me go upstate - we've got family up there and its close to college..." Tyler had a thought and brightened up, giving him a winner smile. "But hey man, it's, what, three fucking weeks and then homecoming! I'll definitely be back for that, the Mindy twins have already said yes to both of us, and then graduation, college, here we come. You gotta keep it a secret, but I had a word to coach today, and he promised he'll make you captain for sure. The scholarship's in the bag!" With another sweaty hug, he was gone. Next day, Jimmy Wick made captain, and Carlos sheepishly went to see the coach. After a few mumbled sentences about thinking he was maybe up for it, the coach tossed him out of the room with a "hell no, wetback, I don't care what the fuck your little friend told you, he shipped out on us, so I ain't doing nobody no favours. Jimmy's the man, and for that backtalk, you're back on the bench, spic boy." Every game the scouts were out, he was on the bench. Scholarship wasn't in the bag, it was out the window. Tyler never made it back for homecoming, or graduation, but then Carlos didn't make it either. His brother was taken in about a shooting, and he had to fill his job at the burger joint, to pay for his father's addictions. When they finally released his brother without charge, he took his job back, but Carlos had already flunked out, and had nothing. That was the week he heard about Mitch's.

But thinking of Tyler wasn't a happy memory for Carlos, and his tight stretched dickskin only reminded him how different his life was now, how much he'd fucked up, or been fucked up, or just fucked. A few months ago, in a private session with soundproof walls, a client had gone a bit wild on Carlos, ramming indescribable objects in every orifice, pummelling him inside and out until he had to be hospitalised. This had happened before, in fact Mitch depended on the scars and tear marks to 'grade' his dancers from newbie to fuckhole, and showed nothing but professional concern. Wearing just a hospital gown and thin sheet, with both his arms in traction so the gown pulled up and didn't even cover his horsecock, were the two most uncomfortable weeks of his life. He was whacked out on painkillers most of the time, and when he came to, it was always a shock. The first time, he awoke to find Tyler standing over him, on crutches but still looking like a corn-fed hero. His face was lined with concern, but he flashed Carlos a toothy grin when he stirred. "Hey bro, one of my visitors saw your name on the board when they visited, told me you were in here. Came down as soon as I could. Wow, you look like shit, what'd you do, pick a fight with The Hulk?" Carlos was grateful the gown and thin sheet covered most of his injuries, although his face was still a mess of dark brown welts, and he could feel his cock stirring uncomfortably as Tyler sat on the bed, with his hand reassuringly patting his thigh. He'd been a manwhore for too long, and since he rarely got his rocks off, his body reacted on cue, pushing at the thin sheet, without even the gown to weigh it down. If Tyler noticed, he said nothing, chatting about college girls and varsity football, never asking why Carlos had never come. It was like imagining the life he almost had, all over again.

When Tyler left, he was at the mercy of the public ward, getting the most basic healthcare Mitch afforded him while slut nurses and sleazy dealers ogled his Altantean body, his tightly stretched cockflap had softened to its normal elasticity, and then some, the once beautiful firm velvety skin hung in loose folds on his cockshaft, overhanging the head by inches instead of hugging the meatus like it used to do. Some of the boys came down from the club to see him all beat up and whacked out on painkillers, and had pulled the threadbare sheet down from his pits and pushing the gown up to his neck, revealing his naked fucked up body to the ward, and taking pictures on their phone to show their buddies. The boys had taken special care of his dork, pumping it til it was hard, so the fat fucker stood proud from his taut stomach, loose flaps of stretched skin hanging like bags from the shaft. It was humiliating. Mitch called it his hooting dog pizzle, putting him down a notch on his list. Not that that mattered in the short term, once the guys in the ward had seen them working over the dancer and knew he was powerless to resist with his arms slung above his head and legs bruised and tender, he was fair game for every throbbing dick that could hobble the few steps to his bed and climb on board. The female nurses stayed away, the male nurses took pictures.

One evening, as a forty year old guy with haemmerhoids was kneeling on the bed, forcing Carlos into a horizontal crouch so he could pump his arse with short careless stabs and call him bitch and slut, he caught a glimpse of Tyler standing at the door, arms and jaw slack with shock. He never thought he'd see him again, but very late that night, when the guys had had their fill and the ward was a symphony of snores and farts, Carlos awoke to feel hands pressing on his bruised body, to see Tyler climbing up on the bed, forcing his bruised legs wide. He whispered "I'm sorry" before gently feeding his very hard, cucumber thick bone in Carlos wet and sloppy arse. He was gentle, almost loving, but the pain of a million tears and stretches, and the horror of seeing his hero close his eyes and fuck him, was overwhelming. Despite it, his own hooting cock hardened, his dicklips peeking from the purple flap, and he juiced wet throughout the long low rape. He got hard plenty, and leaked all the time since he was never brought off, but this was different, some part of him was getting off on it, or on the exquisite humiliation of it, a Pavlov's dog for pigsex, for being stretched wide in the worst possible ways. They both cried as he came, the flood of hot sperm coating his hole, squirting over his legs and Tyler's crotch. Soundlessly, he climbed down, dick and balls still coated with juice as he left the gown fall back in place, and he hobbled away as fast as he could. By the end of the week, when they took his arms out of traction, he'd been fucked by fifteen different guys, and the male nurses even called him Wet Boy, on account of the messed up leaking choad and the permanent wet patch under his loose fucked arse. Tyler had never returned, but it didn't matter. By the end of the week, he was broken.

Mitch kind of enjoyed hearing how he'd been tricked out to the ward, and responded by renting him out to even sicker fuckers on his return. They chewed and twisted the hooting skin, mauled his puckered tits, tied him up and beat him off, forcing him in tight cockrings that kept him hard, or wicked chastity belts that prevented it, before taking him to parties. Not just sex parties, on premises. Carlos was led around, tied up in short shorts that were hiked up to the waistband, at regular bashes, with beer kegs and J Crew kids, a freak show for their amusement, the half time entertainment. Before he'd been a clean cut latino boy that had fallen on bad times. After the hospital, and the constant degradation, ther was nothing clean or cut about him and every john who wanted to prod, pinch, pierce or pummel him had Mitch's consent, provided they paid, fucking Carlos' linebacker's body like never before. Eventually the cream had tightened his foreskin up again to its current agonising grip, but not before johns had pinched, prodded and pierced him like a well darned sock, and the cuts and holes now stretched obscenely, making his cockshaft even uglier. And despite his constant fear of word getting back to his family, now every jock boy in town had seen 'Carlos the Donkey Freak' being hauled around, and had him litterally by the balls.

But worse than that, after a few week, Mitch put him on the private lounge. Carlos had been scared of the lounge, a sign of how much he'd fallen, and his whole muscular body shook. Mitch told him he wouldn't have done it, but a new client asked for Carlos, saying something about a high school reunion. Carlos' sweat ran cold, Jimmy had been at the parties, where Carlos had told him it was just a costume gig, but Tyler could have told him the truth. While he sweated on it, Mitch took him through the ropes. The private area had lush red carpet, which muffled his footsteps, and only served to make the twacking sound of his churning big boy balls and hefty fuckstick louder as he walked the corridor behind him. In the private area, the dancers went buck naked, hands by their sides or above their heads, unless a client told them otherwise. Carlos was a good Catholic boy, and had always been shy, protective of the thin straps of clothing he wore in his dances, or the short shorts on the town, so now, to be completely on show was humiliating. Worse was being told to lean against the wall and spread 'em for a cavity search, or to rub himself, hands free, against the glass screen, something any private client walking by could force him to do. But his biggest fear was the private show itself. Every guy had his own show, Nikos and the dogs, Doublefucked Damon, the sickest shit went down behind the velvet curtains. Carlos had only been fucked by half a dozen guys before the hospital, and only had he really been stretched by Tyler. He still burned in humiliation at arseplay. So when Mitch introduced him to Brutus, the 12 inch red plastic dong, he knew what his show would be. It was almost inhumanly large, knobbled and twisted, no guy had taken it without ruining his fuckhole forever. Mitch led him into the private room, where his first client was waiting. Mitch handed him the dong, telling him it had been the special request of this client that Brutus be his new toy. He'd also asked for Carlos to crawl in the room with it hanging out of his mouth, so his first task would be learning how to deepthroat Brutus, at least enough of the fake plastic dong that he could grip it in his teeth. It would take a lot of concentration, what with crawling bow legged, arse up and dork dangling, at the same time.

The VIP client had just come in, and Mitch had said the word. Carlos' stomach churned. As Mitch made the final adjustments on his lycra strap, slipping a pill in Carlos' mouth with a scum covered finger, Carlos' mind was dreading not only the 2am show ahead of him, but his private show after. In the audience, Tyler put down his bundle and waited. His oversized tool was uncomfortable in his pants, and it had been weeks since he'd found a hole that could take it. Weeks since he'd seen Carlos. He'd even brought him a present, all the way from Guatamala...

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.

Go-go 5 (revisited)

by Emile, 2009 - 2010

Carlos ambled away, figuring at least he could treat himself to a bus trip home. His brother's burger joint job didn't pay much, so Carlos "supported" him - meaning the drug, chick and junk food habit of he and his buddies - to the tune of hundreds of bucks a week. It meant he'd have to dig into his stash, even after his night's cut. Not only was he trapped into being a depraved fuckmonkey go-go boy, but he wouldn't even have anything to show for it. The bus ticket was a luxury. Closing his eyes against the thought, Carlos boarded the bus exhausted, desperate to get away.

He staggered to the end of the bus, as fast as he could go with his arse still burning from Tyler's brutal fucking, pulling his tracksuit tight around his body, to hide the filth underneath. There were no showers at the club, well none for Carlos, he even had to leave the Lycra thong behind, "club property", although at least the safety pins and plugs that had stretched and tormented him were finally out as well. Still he wondered if his pierced dork would ever recover. Even just walking up the bus in the early morning light, with one beefy hand pulling the ripped sweatshirt tight over his sore stretched teats, he had to keep the other hand hanging in front of him like a gorilla - well it was that or grabbing a fistful of his tackle, to stop his monster flopping about, and the loose sweats from dropping to his ankles. He got stares from a few of the black maids on their way back from the hotel strip, but luckily no-one he knew was on board.

He made it to the back seat, but not before the driver took off with a jerk, sending him flying onto the seat with an arse-tearing thud. He gritted his teeth to suppress a groan, and flipped himself around, bracing himself on the seat as the bus swung and twisted through the lanes, trying desperately to ease the pressure on his leaking battered hole, even abandoning his hold on the jumpsuit, the shirt falling open and the waistband sliding down, to reveal a strip of greasy shaved flesh from his collarbone to his cockroot. Finally he got enough grip to slide across to the back corner, tugged his clothes togther and fell into a fitful sleep with his hands crossed tightly over his chest.

He woke up groggily when the bus ground to a halt at the last stop. His bro expected him to stop by the burger joint each morning to share his takings, and even filthy and with no sleep, he forced himself to detour there first. It meant missing his own stop home, and then walking another half mile through seedy neighbourhoods, before walking a mile or so back home.

Carlos' body was soaked with sweat by the time he made it to the back of the burger joint. His bare feet slapped against the pavement as he tugged and pulled at the tight old varsity sweatshirt, which grazed against his body wherever his ripped tee offered no protection - which was most of his torso. Only the thin arms straps, which kept moving anyway, and the narrow band of material around his lower abs remained of the muscle tank. But this sweat was more than just the discomfort from wearing more layers than he was used to, and even more than the early summer sun usually caused. Of course, still aching from the brutal pounding and covered with spunk, this could have just been the discomfort of his normal male funk mixing with Tyler and his combined fuckjuices, but he wasn't sure. Two thoughts briefly passed over his mind - first that he'd caught an infection from one of the many sessions of unsheathed bareback banging, second that one of Tyler's homemade piercings was getting infected. Neither thought was very good, he had no money for doctors, and if it got worse, certainly no money for an ambulance either.

As he rounded the corner of the alley, and saw his brother loafing off with a mate, he stripped off the sweatshirt, hoping to cool himself just a little before getting to the steamy grease-puffing cooking vents. As he did, he glanced down, discovering for the first time the brown ink had soaked through, ruining the muscle tank and dying his hulking body with broad radiating stripes. Tylers tip, too, had stretched his last fly button more than he realised, for the stretched thread now exposed a fat band of dickskin that ran from his hooting cockhood, caught in the base of the fly, all the way to the dickroot that now rode above the unfolding spray-on pants. Although his brother had long since figured him for a fuckjob, Carlos still clung to the idea his life was secret, and hastily tied the jumper around his waist, relying on the knotted arms to hide most of his dickskin. Of course by then they had both seen everything.

Carlos was close enough to make out the two now, and ignoring his brother's anger at his lateness, he noticed his pal was a new employee. He reflexively checked the guy out - the club had conditioned him to see men graphically, and despite his trashy burger bar uniform, Carlos could make out bunched shoulders knitted under the wide collar, and a wrestler's beefy legs in his wide-legged tightly sprung crouch. The guy, more a kid really, maybe 18 or 19, had Iowa corn coloured hair and big white square teeth, and sprang himself up to standing, extending his tanned gold-flecked arm to pump Carlos' hand in an enthusiastic hello. His brother had already unhooked his apron from around his neck and was tossing it to his kid-bro, Carlos. "Kid, I promised Carla I'd take her to the movies today, so you're gonna have to take over from me. Here, I need some bucks for the tickets and food and shit, gimme what you got and I'll give you the rest back later." Of course even though he only needed 20 bucks or so, he fully intended to keep the rest of Carlos' hundreds of earnings, and with the fight beat out of him, Carlos wordlessly handed over his preciously earned money. "Uh, Rick, please I'm really tired." His brother slapped him on the back, none too friendly. "Relax kid, it's just a movie..." He began taking off up the street as Carlos slipped the greasy apron over his greasier body. "A couple of hours?" Carlos called after him, hopefully. At the end of the alley, his brother yelled back "Shift ends at two."

Deflated, he looked back at his new work companion. The teen was tall, blond, tanned and muscular, and seemed too fresh for a greasy joint like this. Maybe, Carlos thought, he'd be a bit different from the sick townies he saw so often. Introducing himself as "Bo", the Iowa boy's face became serioes, and he reached out his hand not to slap him on the arm like he was expecting, but to grab his apron string, digging his fingers under the arms straps and hefting the material across an inch. "My daddy always sayed that it was heathen for guys to show their manflesh off like that, you better watch yourself..." he drawled. Carlos glanced down, realising his dime-sized pierced nipple had been staring the boy in the face. As it was, the two were barely covered, and he was suddenly keenly aware of how much of his flesh was exposed. Thankfully, he had yet to see his half-uncovered arse. The kids eyes held his own fiercely, and the combination of the biblical flavour, his intent stare and lingering grip on the apron told Carlos he was gonna be in close quarters with a very conflicted boy.

"Rick" the manager called, glancing out and seeing Carlos. "Oh, you. Okay break's over, I got some shelves to stack in the cool room, and then burgers to fry..." Stacking shelves wasn't easy, Carlos on the ladder was keenly aware that every time he reached up to put a box on a high shelf, and the apron pulled up, the kid's gaze would flash from his exposed torso down to his half hidden cock, until you could cut the tension with a knife. Hesitantly, the kid asked him what he got up to. "What you mean like sports" Carlos asked, staring down between his pits at the upward gazing farmboy. "No" he said quietly "I meant like sex. My daddy always said guys that look .. like you are either homos or rent boys. So... which are you?" Carlos lowered his hands, climbing down the ladder. He wondered how much the kid knew. Rather than backing away from the base, the kid stood there, so when he came down, he found himself inches from the farmboy. He placed his hands firmly on the kid's shoulders, friendly but maintaining a distance. "Look, kid, I'm a dancer, that's all, it's a show town. The kid reached up his arm, massaging Carlos' bulging bicep. "Yeah, I remember now, I saw you, when I first came to town..." Carlos' blood curdled. The kids hand now moved down, caressing his abs through the apron. "Strange, I ain't never seen a dancer before get arsefucked" he continued, his hand now directly over Carlos' prick. Carlos lowered his voice to a whisper. "Uh, shit man, look, I jus do it for cash. Can you keep it a secret?" The kid stepped forward, his hard on pressing against Carlos' swollen tool, nuzzling against his broad chest. "Sure" he said into the cleft of his pecs. "If you're nice to me..." Just then there was a bang outside, and Bo shoved him forward, giving him a stinging slap across the face. "Homo" he spat out, and stormed out of the store room.

The rest of the shift was no better. When they were alone in the hot greasy kitchen, Carlos slaving away at the stove, Bo would ask him all sorts of awkward questions, about how often he got fucked, who by, how large, constantly finding an excuse to brush against his nipple or arse. Whenever the manager was around, he called him a spic greasemonkey, deliberately shoving him or pointing out every 'stupid cowpoke mistake' he made. It was hell. Finally 2pm rolled by, and the next shift arrived. Bo fired off a bunch of slurs in their earshot, making them glare at him worse, but he finally stripped off the apron and slinked towards home. He was dog tired, and desperately needed sleep. A minute later, a big SUV drove up beside him, and the window wound down to reveal Bo. "Hey Carlos" he called "wanna join me" Carlos waved his hand - "uh, kid, really, I gotta sleep." the kid grinned. "Sure thing" he said, swinging open the door "you can crash at my place. Come and I'll keep your secret a secret" he added, hopefully, forcing the greasy go-go boy to climb in the new truck. He drove them south, even further away, to the nondescript burbs, occasionally reaching over to squeeze Carlos' ballbag through the sweatpants - his new favourite arousal torture. When they got to the house, the farmboy led him straight to the bedroom. "Please kid" Carlos begged "I'll let you fuck me, just let me sleep some first." He secretly hoped he'd wake up earlier, and get to sneak out. "Sure" the kid said, directing him to strip and lie on the bed. Then he began tying Carlos' hands and feet to the bedposts. "Can't be too careful" the kid said, before stripping naked and lying on top of him.

Go-go 6

by Emile, 2009 - 2010

---

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!

Go-go

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