Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32
Notes: Thanks to Leanne and MAB7991 for their editing expertise.
STRAIGHT NO MORE
I was getting ready for a trip to Washington on business, for work when Bill, a guy I didn’t like at all, said at coffee, “If you are in D.C. you have got to go to the Iron Rod.”
“The what?” I asked, barely listening since all the guy did was bullshit.
“The Iron Rod is the best pick-up bar in Washington. You are literally guaranteed to get fucked,” he explained.
In retrospect that was the hint of what was about to happen to me, but I didn’t catch it. His smug smile should also have been another clue. I quipped, “Yeah and you will fuck anything.”
“True,” he agreed, “but this place is legendary. I fucking guarantee even an average looking dude like you will be a sure thing.”
I said I already had plans but we would see what happens.
The second night in D.C. after a long boring day of meetings, a supper with clients that included a little too much booze and goggling at hot waitresses in short skirts, I returned to my hotel drunk and horny.
Remembering Bill’s mentioning of that sure thing bar I figured what the hell, I would check it out, maybe even get laid.
The bar was a bit out of the way, so I got a taxi to get me there. On the drive, I concluded although I was not hammered, I was feeling pretty buzzed.
Buzzed enough to pay the ridiculous thirty dollar cover, buzzed enough to not question when the massively steroid built bouncer insisted that they keep my driver’s license till I left the club, buzzed enough to sign a piece of paper just to get into the bar and buzzed enough to not notice the complete lack of women in the place as I sat at the bar and ordered a drink.
I had one good long sip of my drink before I surveyed the bar. It took me only a few seconds to realize Bill had sent me to a fucking gay bar. There was not a woman in the place, unless you counted some of the fairies wearing punk scarfs or prancing around like queer pipe blowers and poop chute takers they were. I instantly cursed Bill and texted him.
You fucker, I will get you back for this.
I decided to shoot my drink and get the fuck out of there before some queer thought I played on their fucking side.
As I shot my first drink, the bartender placed a second drink in front of me.
I said, “I didn’t order a second drink.”
“It is from Bulldog,” the bartender said, as if that ended the conversation.
There was no way I was accepting a drunk from some faggot. “No Thanks,” I said, pushing the drink back.
The bartender looked at me alarmed. He leaned in and whispered, “You don’t say no to Bulldog.”
“Who is Bulldog?” I asked, amused by the name.
“The master of the house,” he answered, before adding, “and he loves fresh white meat.”
“I am not a fag,” I said.
“Oh you will be by the time Bulldog is through with you,” the bartender promised with a knowing smile.
Curious who supposedly had so much power, I asked, “And who is this Bulldog?”
“See that big muscular guy with all the tats,” he said, pointing to a table in the corner.
I looked to the table where a big, bald, black guy was sitting staring at me. “Holy shit, he is huge,” I gasped.
The bartender agreed playing with my words, “That he is, even with his pants on.”
I glanced back at him, he had his drink in the air and was clearly giving me a toast.
Not wanting to offend the man who could break me in two with his bare hands, I took the drink he had bought and raised it to him.
He gave a nod, as if giving me permission to have a drink. Trying to prove I was a man I downed the drink.
As I looked at him again, I noticed something I hadn’t before. Some queer’s head was bobbing up and down, assumedly on Bulldog’s cock.
Shaking my head after the instant buzz from the drink, I quipped, “Looks like he already has some queer blowing him.”
“Be careful what you say, straight boy, or you will end up in the hospital,” the bartender said, not offended but clearly issuing a warning.
A guy who looked a lot like Matt Damon, but younger, came to the bar and said, “Ken, Bulldog wants another cocktail and another one for his new friend.”
“Of course,” Ken the bartender replied.
The ridiculously good-looking guy who could easily get any chick he wanted with just this looks alone, was obviously a knob polisher, which I bet a ton of woman felt was a shame, said, “Bulldog would like you to join him for a cocktail.”
I was proud of myself for not saying what I was thinking, which was shit you are a cocktail (he had a cock and he takes it in the tail). But I replied, “Um thanks, but I was just leaving.”
The pretty boy said, “Well, you have a drink to finish and it would be very impolite to not at least say thanks.”
Every time he kept saying cocktail I had to hold back laughter, men did not say cocktail. Finally, I realized it would be easier if I just ended this personally. As Ken returned with my whiskey, I gave a nod and said maltepe escort to the pretty boy, stressing the word ‘cocktail’ as two separate words, “Lead the way cock tail.”
Oblivious to my intended insult, he smiled, his voice going disconcertingly high, “Right this way.”
Bulldog’s eyes never seemed to leave mine as I walked over to his table, the faggot still bobbing up and down, oblivious to how absurd he looked sucking cock in public, even in a gay bar.
Arriving at the table, I took control, “Thanks for the drinks, but I’ve really got to get back to the hotel.”
Ignoring what I had just said, he spoke, his voice soft yet strong, “Where you from?”
“Detroit,” I answered, my eyes gravitating against my will to my first live queer scene.
He kept talking to me as if it were natural to have someone sucking his cock while having a conversation (which for him it probably was). “Cool, I am a Red Wings fan.”
I am a diehard fan and not realizing I was being pulled into a conversation I had come over to prevent, I said, “Me too. I grew up when they sucked in the late eighties and have met Yzerman on a few occasions.”
“Very cool. I loved Yzerman too, too bad he ended up in Tampa Bay, not really a Mecca for hockey,” he said.
“So true,” I laughed.
“Take a seat,” he said, not rudely, yet it was clearly an order and not a suggestion.
I don’t know why I obeyed, but I felt my legs bending and soon I was sitting on the opposite side of the cocksucker.
Closer now I could see the blow job clearly and my jaw dropped open even wider, when I saw how big Bulldog’s cock was. It was obvious why he was called Bulldog: his cock was long and thick. It made my five inch cock look like a child’s toy.
“Eleven inches,” Bulldog said.
“What?” I asked, only partially hearing him.
He said matter-of-factly, “My cock is eleven inches long.”
Trying to act casual, I commented, “That must get you a lot of action.”
Ignoring my assessment, he asked me, “So why are you in D.C.?”
“Work,” I said, trying to avoid what was natural to want to look at. It was like driving by a car accident, you don’t want to look but you can’t resist.
He chuckled, “Want to replace him?”
“Pardon?” I asked realizing I was staring. I quickly looked away at what was the biggest cock I had ever seen not in a porn movie and quickly clarified, “I’m not gay.”
“Then why are you here,” he asked.
My eyes gravitated back to the older white guy sucking away on the massive cock. “A co-worker of mine told me I was guaranteed to get fucked here,” I admitted.
He laughed, “Well that is a guarantee I can make you too.”
I began to get up knowing I was getting in way over my head and quite nervous about the implication of his guarantee.
As soon as I stood up he ordered, his tone firm and authoritative, “Sit down, Martin.”
I didn’t sit down but instead asked, “How do you know my name?”
Pulling something out of his pocket he read what appeared to be my drivers’ license. “Martin White, born April 3.”
I demanded, “Give that back to me.”
“All in good time. Now sit,” he ordered, his tone more aggressive and clearly absolutely intolerant of any insubordination.
This time I did as I was told.
“So we have a bit of a predicament Martin,” he began.
“And what would that be?” I asked, shooting down the rest of my drink and getting rather annoyed by the whole situation.
Bulldog snapped his fingers and the Matt Damon looking faggot got up and went to the bar, assumedly to get me another drink.
“You see when you entered here you became part of the Iron Rod family,” he continued.
“Which means?” I asked, glancing back to the white dude still slobbering up and down on Bulldog’s cock. A thought of sucking cock flashed in my head and I just as quickly dismissed it.
“Still in denial aren’t you Martin?” Bulldog asked.
“What!” I asked, just as another drink arrived.
“You are having flashes in your mind of sucking my chocolate perfection,” he correctly assessed.
I stammered, after taking a long dug at my drink, “I-I-I am m-n-not.”
“Liquid courage,” he said, before continuing, “Do you remember signing a paper when you entered the club?”
The booze beginning to get to me, I vaguely remembered signing a piece of paper and joking I was signing my life away, the irony of that statement now becoming crystal clear. “Yeah, so what?” I shrugged.
“Every person here, a top or a bottom, signed the same confidentiality waiver, but as you probably know waivers aren’t worth the paper they are written on,” Bulldog continued.
“Are you getting to the point anytime soon?” I asked, trying desperately to ignore the temptation to look at the cocksucker sucking Bulldog’s cock, while trying to look tough and straight.
“The tough man bullshit doesn’t impress me, if anything all it does is further convince me you are a bottom in denial,” he said, calling my bluff.
“I manavgat escort don’t even know what a bottom is,” I countered.
“You will soon enough,” he laughed. “So where was I?”
“Explaining that waivers are shit,” I offered, my years in legal experience confirming he was right.
“Of course, you are a good listener Martin. So anyway since waivers are not legally helpful and utter discretion is needed to protect our clientele, many who are celebrities, or in positions of power, we need to have something damaging on you to make sure you don’t out any of our members.”
“Why would I do that? I don’t even know anyone here,” I asked.
“Don’t you?” he asked. “Say hi, Judge Wellington.”
The cocksucker took the huge black cock out of his mouth and looked up and said, “Hi.”
It took me a moment to correlate that the man who had been slowly sucking on Bulldog’s huge cock was one of our countries federal judges.
Bulldog snapped his fingers and one of the most powerful men in the country returned to sucking cock. “Did you take a good look at the men in the bar?”
I still was in shock but really I hadn’t in retrospect. Once I realized I was in a gay bar, I got disgusted and avoided eye contact, although truth be told I was always rather oblivious to my surroundings (something that drove many ex-girlfriends nuts). “Not really,” I admitted, adding, “once I realized where I was I quickly decided to finish my drink and head back to my hotel.”
“Yet here you are,” Bulldog smiled.
“Not by choice,” I countered.
“You always have a choice Martin,” he responded, before suggesting, “Look around. Take a good long look.”
Curious, I did as suggested. I turned around and was suddenly overwhelmed by reality. First off there was a stage at the back that I couldn’t see from the bar earlier. Currently on the stage was a male stripper dressed as a fireman, a guy who was easily one of the most ridiculously good looking men I had ever seen. Although I am not gay, I know when someone is good looking.
As I continued scanning the room I became overwhelmed with the shocking reality of what I was witnessing.
At another table was Senator Hawkings and he had some young black man bobbing furiously like his life depended on it. At another table a middle age white guy was seemingly riding the cock of a similarly aged white man. On the dance floor guys were making out, slow dancing and so forth.
Yet, the biggest shock came as I was turning back around to Bulldog. In the corner, Carter Harper the tough guy for the Washington Capitals, was bent over getting fucked by some older man in his early fifties. It was unfathomable that such a tough guy could be a faggot. Even more shocking was the clear facial expressions of pleasure that was on his face; he loved getting ass fucked by this old dude and didn’t seem to care who saw.
Bulldog laughed, assumedly at my stunned face as I couldn’t stop watching the tough guy get roughly fucked by some old dude. “You see that is the luxury of the Iron Rod Martin, complete anonymity. No one in the city knows that the resident tough guy loves nothing more than to be fucked in the ass. He will take a half-dozen cocks up his backdoor in one night regularly, although his record is 21.”
“Fuck off,” I said to know one, still unable to believe what I was seeing.
“Look at me, Martin. You can fuck him later tonight if you want,” Bulldog said.
My cock flinched in my pants at the thought even though before today I had never once considered fucking a guy. I reluctantly quit watching the bizarre scene and returned my gaze to Bulldog.
“When you signed that waiver at the door, you agree to be filmed tonight and any other night you are here,” Bulldog informed me.
“I won’t be here again,” I responded, desperate to hold onto every last straight fibre in my being.
“Oh, I have heard that before. But they all come back,” he chuckled, confident in his words, before repeating, “they all come back.”
I didn’t respond as I just tried to process everything going on around me.
He continued, “To guarantee the protection of our clientele we have to make sure you never have any inclination or temptation to reveal what happens here or who frequents our establishment.”
“I won’t,” I promised, thinking who would believe me anyway.
“Oh, I believe you,” he said, before adding, “but your word isn’t enough to guarantee your silence.”
I was beginning to understand his unsaid intent. “You are not serious.”
“Deadly,” he said, with not even a hint of a smile. Snapping his fingers, the judge who had been slowly bobbing up and down for over twenty minutes sat up. Bulldog’s facial expression didn’t change as he said, “Your turn.”
A million thoughts ricocheted in my drunken brain, yet his big cock saluting me was blurring my straightness. I could feel the urge to suck his cock growing, thinking to myself no one will ever know. Yet, the lingering masculine side of me, the one that marmaris escort made gay jokes and mocked gay men was yelling for me to walk away.
Assumedly seeing my inner struggle, he said, “Go on, Martin, fate led you here, and woke up a long repressed inner desire you didn’t even know existed. Just relax and let it happen. I know and you know you want to suck my cock. Don’t fight it.”
His words no longer seemed ludicrous like they had earlier, instead they seemed logical. Yet, I was still paralyzed by indecision.
He chuckled, “Plus, my cock is going in one of your holes Martin, and I am not sure your little ass is ready for me.”
My eyes went big and suddenly I rationalized I was going to obey not because I wanted to, but because I had no choice. I was trapped in his gay bar and clearly wasn’t going to be allowed to leave until they had me in a similarly compromising position as they obviously had everyone else here. Slowly, I moved closer and leaned forward, taking his cock in my hand. I couldn’t believe how rock hard it was and suddenly imagined him fucking me with it.
As if reading my mind, he smugly said, “All in good time. But let’s start with making you a good little cocksucker.”
The name should have offended me, but yet instead I felt my mouth opening as I leaned forward and took the mushroom top of his huge cock in-between my lips.
“Good boy,” he purred, “enjoy my big chocolate stick.”
Another condescending name and yet it only made me want more. I blamed the booze, I blamed the bizarre situation and I blamed Bill, but those were all just excuses. In the end I wanted to suck his cock. I slowly took more of his long, thick cock in my virgin mouth, suddenly feeling determined to not suck at cocksucking, I know, ironic.
“I think you were born to suck cock, Martin,” he complimented when I had a third of his cock sliding in and out of my mouth.
Each sly compliment only deepened my submission and enhanced my eagerness to please.
“Fuck, you have a suction grip on my cock,” he groaned as I tried to replicate the best blow jobs I ever received, which always had a girl making her mouth feel like my cock was tight like in a glove.
“Faster, Martin, convince me you want to taste my cum,” he ordered, over half his cock now in my mouth and I obeyed, suddenly hungry to do just that, taste his cum.
“You look so hot with a big cock in your mouth, faggot,” he moaned, a minute later, the derogatory name became a harsh quick hit of reality, yet instead of a burning shame I should have felt, I heard myself moan on his cock as I tried to take more of his monster in.
“Shit man,” he groaned, “you really are a natural little cocksucker. I bet you are already imaging my cock in your virgin little man pussy.”
The suggestion and term man pussy should have been absurd, yet the idea suddenly seemed like a natural next step, my cock dying to break free from its restrictive home.
“Proof of your worth, faggot,” he grunted and without warning shot his cum in my mouth. I don’t know what I expected it to taste like, but it was shockingly salty sweet. I swallowed as much as I could but I gagged on the excessive amount and some came out my mouth. Much to my own shock, I apologized, “Sorry, it was just too much cum.”
“It’s ok, cocksucker, you did pretty good for a virgin,” Bulldog replied, “getting over two-thirds of me in your mouth on your first time was pretty impressive.”
“Thanks,” I said absurdly, oddly flattered by his compliments, proud I had impressed him.
“Ready for your movie?” he asked.
“Pardon?” I asked, thinking I was done.
“That was just your appetizer. To guarantee your undying loyalty we need you in a very compromising position,” he informed me, his cock surprisingly still fully erect.
“What else am I expected to do?” I asked, although deep down I already knew.
“You must first get naked, get a cock nice and hard with your mouth and then have him take you in your man-pussy,” he informed me, casually like he was talking about the weather.
“My man pussy?” I questioned as if that were the only odd thing said.
“Yes, straight faking faggots like you get fucked in your man pussy, or your ass if that makes you feel better,” he said, before ordering “Get naked.”
“Here?” I asked, praying there was somewhere private having accepted the reality that I was going to get fucked, Bill’s promise coming true. Oddly, an acceptance had come over me and instead of fear and disgust, I felt instead intrigue and excitement. My cock was rock hard and had been for awhile.
“No, go onto the stage,” he pointed.
“Please no,” I pleaded.
“This isn’t a negotiation,” he replied firmly. “Now, go. We have a pretty big surprise for you, both literally and figuratively.”
Anxieties now filling me with dread and fear at being the center of attention, I slowly walked to the currently empty stage.
“Our newest dancer is Martin, he is a marketing representative out of Detroit here to seal a deal with Parker’s House. An hour ago he was as straight as an arrow, but one look at Bulldog’s magic wand and another straight one is converted. Without further ado I give you our newest addition to the Iron Rod family, Martin,” a speaker said over the intercom like you would hear when a stripper was introduced.
