Текст книги "Rough Trade "

Автор книги: Todd Gregory

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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

Tricked

Jonathan Asche

“Okay if I smoke in your car?”

Ordinarily Martin would say no. He’d quit smoking six months ago and didn’t need the extra temptation (his willpower had already been strained being amongst all those smokers in the nightclub). Plus it would stink up the car’s interior, hurt its rapidly dwindling trade-in value.

But this wasn’t an ordinary moment. “Sure,” Martin said, smiling at the man—the young man—sitting in the passenger seat. Make that slouched down in the seat, like he was being pulled down by the weight of his crotch, Martin thought. He eyed the young man’s basket, bulging in his fashionably worn blue jeans. Martin’s heart quickened its pace, and his eyes traveled up the man’s torso, still bare, the street lamps and sheen of sweat making his taut, sinewy muscles gleam appealingly.

Soon, he thought, this will be mine.

His eyes stopped on the young man’s face—his features still soft, not yet hardened by time, though his eyes revealed a depth of experience. Martin’s eyes stopped at the mouth, an unlit Winston dangling from those fleshy, peach-colored lips. Those lips curled into a smile. Or was it a sneer?

“Checking out the merchandise?”

Martin looked away. “Sorry,” he mumbled, embarrassed, looking away and running his hands through his thinning brown hair. “You’re just…you’re…very attractive.”

The young man’s name was Ty. They’d met barely an hour ago, in Armory. Actually, Martin had been watching Ty for a while before they met, watching him gyrate on the dance floor. Martin stood on the sidelines, nursing his third bourbon and ginger, wishing he was ten years—hell, twenty years—younger, wishing he had the nerve to go out there and join Ty or any of the other hot, shirtless men undulating on the dance floor, all dancing together, though few with each other.

And it looked like all Martin would leave with was the mental pictures of those hot men who might fuel a listless jack-off session when he got home. That was, if he didn’t drink so much he couldn’t get it up.

Then, as Martin was ordering bourbon and ginger number four, Ty came bounding up beside him, bumping him on the shoulder. “Hey, dude, how’s it going?” he asked breathlessly, like they were buddies. “Uh, fine,” Martin stammered. Like a goddamned dork. Ty ordered a bottle of water and, for once, Martin acted impulsively. “I’ll get that,” he told the bartender, thrusting a twenty in his direction.

Ty suggested they go to the lobby of the club, where it was just a couple decibels quieter. Where they could talk. He kept touching Martin’s leg. He squeezed Martin’s arm, asking if he worked out. Martin felt eighteen again. His cock felt like it just got its first hormonal rush of puberty. Martin wasn’t sure if he hoped Ty didn’t notice the hard-on poking at the front of his khakis, or hoped that he did.

When Ty said he was ready to leave, asked if Martin minded giving him a ride, Martin quickly obliged. A ride to Ty’s apartment could only mean a ride on his dick.

“So, where are we going?” Martin asked, turning the ignition. The car rumbled to life.

“Depends on what you feel like doing.”

“Don’t waste time, do you?”

“Who’s got time to waste,” Ty said, finally lighting his cigarette.

“Well, we could go to my place. I live over in Decatur, but—”

“Decatur?” Ty snorted, exhaling a plume of smoke. “Don’t think so. How ’bout pulling around the corner.” He pointed to a dark, narrow side street. “There’s an alley you can park in. No one will bother us.”

“That’s preferable to Decatur?”

Ty took another drag. “You willing to spring for a motel?”

Martin was willing, and they were on their way, down Spring Street, blood racing through Martin’s veins and pulsing in his cock as he pondered all the possibilities with his young trick.

Twenty minutes and a $74 charge on Martin’s Visa later, they were entering room 206. Ty had put on his shirt—a body-hugging electric blue tee—for the walk from the car to the room, though he needn’t have bothered. Martin planned on tearing it off him in the next thirty seconds. He shut the door and prepared to do just that, but Ty was fishing another cigarette out of crumpled pack.

“Shouldn’t you save that for after?” Martin chuckled, walking toward his young trick. He couldn’t wait to feel that young, smooth body pressing up against his, to see what was bulging in those jeans.

“Let’s settle a few things first.”

“Settle?”

“Like how much you’re planning to spend.”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” Ty lit his cigarette. He tossed his lighter and pack of Winstons on the room’s fake woodgrain dresser. “You want to blow me, it’s twenty-five. I blow you, it’s thirty—fifty if you want to come in my mouth, but I don’t swallow. You want me to fuck you, that’s also fifty, and—”

“You’re…a hustler? ” Martin’s excitement went into a tailspin, spiraling toward disappointment.

There was a definite sneer on Ty’s face now. “You didn’t expect me to give it to you for free, did you?”

Ty’s words were like a slap across the face, and Martin’s cheeks reddened accordingly.

“I guess not,” he said quietly.

“So, what’re you interested in?”

He should throw this guy out, Martin knew. Tell him thanks but no thanks. Push Ty out into the night to go find some other poor S.O.B. Find someone else who was looking back at what could’ve been but never was and make them think it might not be too late—only to make them feel a hundred years old. Find someone like Martin.

And once Ty (or whoever he really was) was gone, Martin would be left in the room. Alone. Hearing Ty’s words over and over.

You didn’t expect me to give it to you for free, did you?

Disappointment took a detour, speeding toward rage.

“How much to fuck you? ” Martin asked.

“Hundred,” Ty said, smoke puffing between his lips, his head tilting upward as if to say, “Bring it on, motherfucker.” “But you have to wear a rubber. Don’t care how much extra you pay me.”

“No problem,” Martin said tightly, unbuckling his belt.

“So, can I see some cash?”

Martin stopped unfastening his pants and looked at Ty coldly. He reached for his wallet and rifled through the bills. Not quite a hundred bucks; only $92. Close enough for this cocksucker. He pulled the money from his billfold, holding it up for Ty to see.

Ty made a grab for it, but Martin pulled the cash out of his reach. He pushed Ty backward, roughly. “Not yet. After.”

“Hey, I don’t operate that way.”

“I do.” Martin stuck the money into his front pocket. “Now get undressed. And put out that goddamned cigarette.”

The two men stripped, silently, each eyeing the other with suspicion and curiosity. Ty shucked off his jeans and underwear (basic tighty-whities) in one quick motion. Though his torso was so smooth, he had surprisingly hairy legs. His black pubes were trimmed into a neat trapezoid, however. Just below Ty’s left pelvic bone was a tattoo: a cartoon rabbit munching on a carrot. Ty’s cock hung limply. The big bulge in his jeans was apparently owed to a pair of hefty, low-hanging balls.

Martin was surprised that he himself was hard as an anvil, his dick jutting forward like a sword. “Wow,” Ty whistled, and he actually sounded sincere.

“You got a rubber?” Martin asked, stroking his cock.

“Yeah, of course.” Ty picked his jeans up off the floor, rummaged around the pockets, bringing out two packets. He tossed them to Martin. One packet was a rubber; the other was a trial size tube of lubricant. Martin tore the condom wrapper open with his teeth. Quickly and efficiently he covered his cock. He snapped open the tube of lube, squirting some into his open palm and rubbing it over his hard-on.

“Get on the bed,” he ordered Ty.

“How you want me? From behind or face-to-face?”

“Face-to-face.” There was no question: Martin wanted to see this little bastard beg him to stop.

Ty sprawled back on the bed, his legs spread. Martin climbed on the bed with him, positioning himself between the hustler’s legs. He pushed Ty’s legs back, curling his body into a loose fetal position. Ty’s butthole was a puckered, dark tan ring, nestled in a valley of silky black hair. Martin squeezed the remaining lube on the hustler’s asshole, tossing the empty tube over his shoulder. He circled the rosebud with his index finger, lightly pressing the raised ass ring as he spread the slick liquid around. His finger then stopped at the hole, shut to invaders but easily opened. Martin pushed, and his index finger slipped inside the tan lips, into Ty’s warm chute. As he suspected, Ty’s sphincter didn’t offer much resistance.

A hiss and groan left Ty’s lips. There was no sneer this time. His eyes were closed, his lips parted. Martin wondered, briefly, what he was thinking. Was it ever fun for him, or was it truly “just a job,” like all the whores interviewed for salacious cable documentaries said? But these musings were interrupted by what Ty had said—

You didn’t expect me to give it to you for free, did you?

–and Martin no longer cared what Ty’s thoughts were.

He pushed his finger in deeper, wiggling it around the warm, moist channel of Ty’s anus. Martin thought he felt the prostate and applied some extra pressure. A louder moan from Ty’s lips this time. His cock was finally beginning to stir.

Martin’s middle finger joined his index finger, the digits sliding deep into Ty’s asshole. Still a lot of give to those nether lips. A third finger was added, taking up the slack. Martin added a fourth, and this was Ty’s limit.

“Okay, that’s enough, dude,” he grunted through clenched teeth.

“Can’t handle it?” Martin pushed his fingers in a little deeper. This time Ty winced, sucking in his breath.

“C’mon…that’s…enough.”

Ty’s dick was completely hard now. Not quite worthy of his pendulous balls, Martin noted, but a respectably sized boner nonetheless.

“You ever been fisted, Ty?”

Fear suddenly crossed the young hustler’s face. “Look, man, that’s not what I agreed to.” Trying to sound tough, and failing miserably. He had his legs up over his head and four fingers up his butt—how threatening did he expect to be, Martin wondered.

“I might want to renegotiate our terms.” Martin chuckled. He applied a little more pressure, and Ty’s ass reluctantly swallowed another half inch.

“This…this isn’t funny.” Ty was whimpering now. “I don’t do that shit.”

“Looks like I have the upper hand, so to speak,” Martin said, grinning at the frightened whore. He started spreading his fingers, stretching open Ty’s sphincter and pressing against the wet, rubbery walls of his ass. “I bet you can take it.”

“No, no, don’t !” Ty’s voice was panicky. Tears were forming at the corners of his eyes. His hard-on, however, raged on.

For one tense minute, nothing was said. Only breathing was heard, Ty’s breaths escaping with anxious squeaks; Martin’s breaths were deep and throaty, sounding like a bull about to charge.

And then Martin withdrew his fingers. Ty’s ass lips shut, slowly, like a flower closing its petals for the night. Ty let out a relieved sigh.

“I’m still going to fuck you,” Martin assured the hustler, clamping his hands down on Ty’s furry thighs.

Martin leaned in, pressing his stiff, sheathed cock against Ty’s pliant butthole. The head of his dick nuzzled the slippery opening, not quite making it inside. He had to reach down, grab the shaft of his cock, and guide it. Martin pried Ty’s sphincter open with his cockhead. The stretched muscles of the hustler’s ass ring gripped his shaft, not as tightly as Martin would prefer, but tight enough. He inched his way in, the way he would with a lover, or even a trick. Someone he cared about, if only for one night. But he didn’t care about Ty.

His cock was halfway up Ty’s ass when Martin jabbed all the way in, brutally. “Hey, easy!” Ty protested. Martin silenced those protests by bringing a hand down over Ty’s mouth, muzzling him with his palm.

Ty looked back at him, eyes wide with fear. Eyes that begged for mercy.

Martin had never felt so uncontrollably horny. Good God, he thought, is this how —

He stifled the thought with another one: You didn’t expect me to give it to you for free, did you?

“I’m gonna fuck you so hard,” he snarled, relishing the feel of Ty quivering beneath him.

His hands gripped the rent boy’s thighs once again, holding them steady as he rammed his cock up his chute. There was no attempt to be gentle, no regard for his partner’s enjoyment. This was raw, unrestrained fucking. The little shit would be lucky if he could still walk when it was over.

Martin drew his hips back, then thrust savagely forward, spearing Ty’s ass with his throbbing dick. Anguished cries mixed with desperate gasps in Ty’s throat each time he was stabbed by Martin’s cock. Martin’s fingernails dug into his thighs, hard, threatening to break the skin. Tears streamed out of Ty’s eyes and pre-cum streamed out of his cock, dripping onto his chest.

“C’mon, baby, take it…easy,” Ty blubbered.

This only got Martin to fuck the young hustler harder, driving his prick into Ty’s ass so hard Ty’s head was banging against the headboard, his skull making a satisfying thud each time it hit. The king-sized bed shook and creaked, threatening to collapse from the frenzied motion atop it. Martin’s body trembled, his muscles quivering from the ecstatic rush rising in his body. The pleasure and anger were welling up inside him, making him feel like a dam about to burst—about to burst out the swollen, purple head of his cock.

Martin looked at Ty’s face. Twisted into an expression of pain, it didn’t look so attractive anymore, and yet seeing Ty this way made Martin’s balls draw up tight. That thought he had earlier threatened to surface again: Is this how ra —

He suppressed it, letting an idea take its place. He grabbed Ty’s cock, which, despite the hustler’s cries and protests, remained stiff and drooling. Martin curled his fist around Ty’s rod, jerking on it in long, quick strokes. He pushed up on the rent boy’s body as he did so, forcing Ty to hoist his butt farther into the air until his body formed a backward “C,” his hard cock hovering over his face.

“This make you hot, pussy boy? ” Martin growled, pumping Ty’s dick with his hand as he relentlessly pumped his ass. “You like it rough? Huh? Like it rough? ”

Ty’s response was a squeaky sob.

“Gonna make you come on your own face!” Martin spit the words out. “Wanna see that pretty face of yers covered in jizz.”

There was no usual signal, no sudden shortness of breath or the usual verbal cues of “I’m so close,” “Oh, God!” or “I’m coming!” Martin was not capable—at this moment, at least—of picking up on the more subtle clues, like the sudden contraction of muscles, the pulsing of Ty’s prostate against the shaft of his cock, or his oversized nuts drawn up so tightly they practically retreated into his body. Just suddenly, before he knew it, a thick dollop of jism splattered Ty’s chin, followed by another that glazed his neck. A few more spurts landed on Ty’s chest before he was completely drained.

Martin’s own orgasm hit just as suddenly. He jerked his head back, like he’d just been punched between the shoulder blades, and let out a loud, deep roar. His skin felt tight, as if it were about to rip away so whatever beast awakened within him could break free. His load shot out his cock in forceful, hot jets. Martin sent his spewing cock one more time into the depths of Ty’s gut, with one savage thrust. He watched Ty’s face as he did this, saw that delicious wince, heard that satisfying gasp.

Is this how rapists feel?

And then it was over.

Holding the base of the condom, Martin slid his throbbing dick out of Ty’s ass. The ravaged orifice made a loud squishing sound as he withdrew his cock as sweat and lube coursed down the trough of Ty’s ass crack.

Martin staggered off the bed, his cock still hard, still covered. The tip of the condom drooped, pulled down by its heavy load. Ty immediately rolled over on his stomach, hugging one of the motel’s limp pillows. His shoulders shook. Was he crying?

“Can I have my money now,” he sniffed, sounding twelve years old.

Martin made no reply. He picked up his pants and retrieved the $92 from the front pocket. He rolled the bills tightly, and then carefully pulled the spooge-filled rubber off his softening cock. The roll of cash went into the slimy prophylactic easily. Martin tied the condom off like it was a balloon (not so easy, it being covered in lube).

“Hey, shithead: catch!”

Ty had rolled on his side just in time to be hit in the face with the money-and-cum-filled rubber. His lips tried to find some retort in a vain effort to regain control of the situation. Martin dismissed him before Ty could find the words he was searching for.

“Get your money, get your clothes, and get your filthy ass out of my sight.” Martin did not yell, but his rage remained deafening. Ty scurried off the bed and started pulling on his pants.

“I said go !” Martin grabbed Ty by the arm and pulled him toward the door. The hustler stumbled, his legs tangled in his jeans, which he’d only managed to pull up to his knees before being evicted by the enraged john.

“Let me finish getting dressed!” he whined.

Martin opened the door and pushed Ty out into the corridor. As Ty hastily hiked his pants up, Martin grabbed his shirt, shoes, and condom-covered money and hurled them out the door after him. The sheathed money roll skidded across the concrete floor and under the wrought iron banister on the other side, falling down to the parking lot below.

“Motherfu—”

Martin slammed the room door shut.

“Asshole!” Ty screamed from the other side before rushing down to the parking lot to retrieve his sticky payment.

Martin leaned against the cool metal door, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. The anger had abated. Now he felt hollow.

You didn’t expect me to give it to you for free, did you?

He trudged over to a chair in the corner of the room, the chair he’d draped his clothes on, and flopped down. On the dresser next to the chair, he noticed the hustler had left his cigarettes and lighter. Martin reached for them, taking a cigarette from the pack and lighting it without a second thought.

Sinking back in the chair, he savored the smoke from his first cigarette in six months. “Happy fucking fortieth birthday,” he said aloud, exhaling a gray cloud.

Dinner Party

Jay Starre

When I was invited to the dinner party, I had no idea I would be the main course. It was my idiot buddy Paul who got me into the mess, and in the end we shared the loot. He’s now my pimp, in a manner of speaking.

“You should be dancing at Cuties, Trent. I know you need the money, and with your body you could pick up some extra cash sucking cocks or taking it up the ass.”

Paul and I were in the gym when he blurted out that little tidbit. He was definitely an idiot. As I shushed him, I moved him away from the offended parties on the treadmills who had overheard. I could have smacked him, but then he grinned and I started laughing. He was short, blond, and cute and, yes, an idiot, but he was my friend.

“Anyway, we’re invited to this cool dinner party tomorrow night. A bunch of rich Daddies. Maybe one of them will be a publisher or an editor. You never know.”

“Okay. But don’t be selling my ass to any of them,” I cautioned, as if he would listen to me.

Seattle is full of tech millionaires, and Paul was a social climber with no scruples. He was always dragging me to parties and dinners. I imagined this was just another one of the same. I had no social life of my own, spending every waking hour trying to come up with saleable stories for my writing career. Either I was at the gym or in front of a computer. Paul dragged me out, kicking and screaming, as often as he could.

The next night we stood in the foyer of a hillside mansion overlooking Lake Washington. The sun was setting and the water was bathed in a ruby glow as lights began to come on all over the city. Large windows paraded down the front wall toward a sumptuous-looking living room and dining room beyond. The place was spectacular, and suddenly I was hungry, thinking of all the goodies rich guys had at their dinners.

“You can change in here. The guests will be arriving at any moment and we want you to be well presented when they do.”

This was from a smartly dressed and not bad-looking older dude who shook both our hands and practically pushed us into a small bathroom just off the foyer. When we were alone, I faced Paul with a frown, storm clouds in my eyes.

“What the hell is this? Well presented? Am I supposed to be dancing or some fucking thing?”

Paul was grinning, which I knew boded ill. He was also unbuttoning my shirt. “You’re not dancing, don’t worry about that! You just gotta get naked and be sort of an ornament.”

“What?” My voice went up several octaves and I was about to reach out and strangle Paul when he cut me off with a finger over my lips.

“Five hundred dollars. For one night. Of course I get twenty percent as your agent, and we have to hang around until two a.m. But it’s gonna be fun. I swear it!”

That stopped me. Five hundred dollars. Five hundred dollars. That was a month’s rent. Fuck! Paul had already unbuttoned my shirt and was unzipping my fly. “That’s not all. We get tips too. Maybe we could make a grand tonight if we play it right.”

“We? We? I’m the one who’s going to be naked in front of a bunch of people.”

“So the fuck what? I’ve seen you at the baths more than once with your ass spread in one of the rooms waiting for dick. You’re a slut at heart.”

“True, but that was in a bathhouse, Paul!”

“Pretend you’re in a fucking bathhouse. It’s five hundred dollars.”

He was on his knees pulling my pants and underwear down to my ankles. My dick was getting hard. Suddenly I was embarrassed. “How the hell am I going to walk around with a big hard-on in front of everyone at a dinner party?”

“You’ll be on your belly and no one is going to see your boner. At first anyway.”

Paul’s little revelation was still sinking in as he hustled me out of the bathroom, naked and with my hands in front of my hard-on. The well-dressed dude was waiting, all smiles.

“Nice! Very nice. The couch in the center of the living room is all set up. If you will just get Trent ready, Paul, that would be excellent.”

Ready? As Paul dragged me to the living room I looked around frantically to see if anyone was there yet. I didn’t really spot the couch until Paul had me there and was shoving me down on my stomach.

“I’m just going to lie here with my legs spread?” I asked in a daze.

“It’s kind of kinky, Trent. But don’t worry, I’ll be here all the time.”

Next thing I knew, Paul was slipping my hands into padded cuffs attached to the front end of the couch. It was actually more of an ottoman, without sides or a back. Paul snapped the cuffs together so that my arms were on either side of my head and I was suddenly trapped. For one moment I was close to freaking out, then I started laughing. I think I was a little hysterical.

Paul was busy spreading my thighs and securing my ankles in other padded cuffs on the lower end of the couch. He was laughing too, but there was no hysteria in his voice. He was probably laughing with joy at the thought of the money we would make that night.

So there I was, spread-eagled on a black leather couch, cuffed at wrists and ankles, naked with my ass wide open. Waiting for the dinner guests. My laughter subsided as Paul pulled up a fancy chair and sat nearby, a reassuring smile on his face. He could smile—he wasn’t the one naked.

I had a few minutes to think before I heard voices in the foyer. I wasn’t embarrassed about my body. And I was no virgin, although I wasn’t a slut. Not really. I needed the money. But how far would I go for cash? It wasn’t as if I was going to kill someone, or even rob them. It was just some kinky nudity, and knowing Paul, something else that I was going to find out about sooner or later. As I heard men arriving and moving into the living room, I resigned myself to my fate.

The first hand that touched my ass had me jerking around on the couch, my head craning and my fake smile strained. Fingers stroked one butt cheek and even slipped into the crack for a bold feel.

“This is some sweet ass. It whets my appetite for dinner, and dessert.”

The voice was full of raunchy insinuation, even as those fingers cupped one of my asscheeks and squeezed before abandoning it. I shivered and stared daggers at Paul. He smiled back brightly.

My cock was hard as iron, pressing into the smooth leather under my belly. I have a fertile imagination or I wouldn’t be a writer, and I could see myself in my mind’s eye. Tall and broad-shouldered, my torso tapering down to a slim waist just before it swells back out to a full ass. It was early spring and I hadn’t had time to tan, so my skin was milky pale and lightly freckled. As a redhead, I have an opalescent kind of sheen to my body. I was sweating at the moment, and I could imagine the pearls of moisture beading on my rounded asscheeks and dripping down into my deep crack.

I was hot. I was the object of men’s attention, and lust. I felt other hands grope me, and other voices proclaim my sexual attractiveness.

“Hot ass!”

“That muscle boy has a butt to die for.”

“I’d like to lick my dinner off of those cute asscheeks.”

“I’d like to eat my dinner out of that sweet little asshole.”

Hands groped and slapped and fondled me. A few grew bold enough to tease my asshole, which was visible between my spread asscheeks. But there must have been rules, because no one jabbed into it, although I was shaking with a fearful anticipation when those fingers tickled my buttlips in front of everyone. No one got down on their knees and shoved their face in my ass, either.

I was in a weird state. I kept telling myself the money was worth it, but then as a writer I prided myself on opening up to experiences. It would make me a better writer, I told myself. That was why I liked Paul so much. He made me experience. I eventually caved in to the scene, and while Paul laughed and joked with the guests, I writhed and moaned on the couch, wiggling my ass provocatively every time some dude would stroke it.

“He’d make a nice pet, don’t you think?”

That’s when I felt something being shoved between my asscheeks. It felt like paper, a note or something. Paul was up on his feet and leaning over me in a flash. He grinned in my face as he waved a bill at me. Someone had shoved money in my ass. I found myself laughing, my ass shaking as someone landed a smack on it. The music and conversation had grown loud all around as I realized there were dozens of men in the room. My laughter died as a hand reached under my ass and cupped my balls. The hand moved under my belly and squeezed my stiff dick.

“He’s hung too. I can’t wait to see this fucker unload after dinner.”

I shouldn’t have been surprised. Paul’s look of innocence was completely feigned, of course. I put thoughts of later out of my mind, which wasn’t hard with all the men leering at me and fondling me. I even lifted my butt and wagged it at the hands groping it. More bills were shoved in my crack for Paul to scoop up. At least he was doing some work.

The restraint was kinky, and made it easier for me to get into the scene. I couldn’t get up or run away. I was forced to allow all those horny men to grope me. There was nothing I could do about it. That made my dick drip all over the leather under me. I knew Paul would release me if I asked him to, but the cuffs were real and when hands slid into my crack, I could writhe and squirm, but I could not escape.

It lasted a good hour at least. Then dinner was announced and the men abandoned me to the dining room farther down the long corridor. I stared at them as they made their way to what I could see in the distance was a bountifully laden table. I was hungry all of a sudden.

“Do I get to eat? Or do I have to lie here and watch?” I hissed to Paul, who had stayed behind, smiling and nodding to the guests as they passed.

“I’ll get you something. But we’re not here to eat, we’re here to make some money. You’re doing great, by the way. Wiggle that big butt of yours some more and we’ll make a grand, I promise you!”

Paul hurried away before I could reply. He was afraid of what I was going to say to him. But I had gone beyond that, I thought. I would never have come if I had known what was in store for me, but now that I was there, I had to admit I was actually enjoying myself, in a raunchy, degrading sort of way.

Paul returned with a plate full of food. He unsnapped the cuffs on my wrists and ankles and I sat up and wolfed down the dinner while he sat beside me on the couch and patted me on the back.

“I hadn’t mentioned it yet, because I know how uptight you can be sometimes. There’s a raffle right after dinner and the prize winner gets to shove a greased dildo up your ass. It’s kind of like the dessert.”

I started laughing again and almost choked on my food. Then I realized he wasn’t joking. I stared at him with my mouth open. He pulled the plate away and dropped it on the carpet as he gripped my wrist and pulled me back down on my belly.

“Just pretend it’s a hot gang bang in the bathhouse. And think of the money.”

Paul snapped the cuffs back over my wrists as I mulled over what he had said. Visions of a big dildo being greased up in front of the crowd dominated my thoughts. As Paul cuffed my ankles and I felt my ass open up, my butthole palpitated and I imagined how it would feel getting porked deep and hard. With a shock, I realized I had never been so fucking horny in my life.

I heard a loud cheer from the dining room and someone stood up with his hands raised as if in victory. The raffle winner. I could see him down the long open room as I faced the dining room. He was older, about forty-five or so, and was bald. He stood and I got a better look. A big guy, with a big grin and handsome too. He was heading for me with the others following.

I felt his eyes on me, drinking of my nakedness. I squirmed under that blue-eyed stare, feeling my ass muscles clench in anticipation. Suddenly he was right in front of me. His legs were big. He worked out, I thought distractedly.