Hey friends!
Someone challenged me to try my hand at dubcon: it's not my usual scene, so I'd love to hear what you think! Poor Coby doesn't know what he's letting himself in for...
I also have a new book out this week, a gay age-gap romance called "No Experience Necessary" - I really appreciate anyone who checks it out!
Happy reading!
-Alex
"Cheers"
"I changed my mind," I hissed, under my breath. "I wanna pick truth instead."
Eli shook his head, grinning. "Too late, dude. You refuse, you lose."
I glared at him, even though I knew - were the tables turned - it was exactly the same response I'd give. Even though "losing" in this case meant little more than being the guy to end the streak of truths and dares, one that we'd kept going for more than a month, now.
We'd got through the low-hanging stuff early on. Who we had a crush on at the moment, and which teacher we'd always had the hots for; the weirdest place we'd jerked off, that sort of shit. The truths that two best friends find hilarious when they're nineteen.
It wasn't as if I didn't already know most of Eli's secrets, anyway. Or, for that matter, like he didn't know most of mine. That's the thing, when your best friend was also your neighbor growing up: it's a whole lot of time to figure that embarrassing stuff out.
The dares had started out tame. Downing drinks - and regretting it the morning after, when we'd each had the hangover to end all hangovers - or making prank calls. Eli had run down our street at 1am, wearing nothing but his boxers and a pair of sneakers; I'd gone galloping through the Sunday morning sprinklers, while the neighbors shook their heads and pretended they weren't laughing at us idiots.
After a while, though, the branches where the low hanging fruit has been are all empty. And, while there was nothing stopping us from just quitting the game altogether - me and Eli were the only ones playing, after all - neither of us wanted to be the person to suggest that. Whoever did would be the loser by default.
Still, given the direction Eli's imagination had taken, it was tempting to call a halt to it, and suck up his inevitable crowing. Turned out, my best buddy was fucking devious.
"I just don't think..." I started.
"You chicken?" Eli's expression was that smirking, knowing, you're-gonna-wuss-out one, that had always been a source of infinite frustration. Ever since we were both little kids.
"No, I just..."
"Bock-bock-bock-bock" he clucked, flapping his arms while he grinned at me.
He looked ridiculous, and yet I knew calling him out on that wouldn't derail things. Eli would only accuse me of trying to distract from my being gutless, and welching on a dare.
"It's just dumb," I snapped, glaring at him. "I look ridiculous."
He raised an eyebrow. "I'm sure the nice gentlemen in there won't think that, Coby. I'm sure they'll all be very impressed, that you made such an effort."
"Fuck you," I told him, even though there was a part of me curious just what said-gentlemen might actually think.
As dares went, "Get dressed up like a cheerleader, go to the neighborhood gay bar, and get a guy's number" wasn't exactly the sort of thing I expected my best friend to come up with. Clearly, I hadn't been giving him - or his imagination - enough credit. Assuming you were ranking things on a scale of evilness, anyway.
"So rude," Eli said, shaking his head as though tremendously sad at what a disappointment I'd turned out to be. "And after I compromised, and said you could wear the shorts instead of a skirt."
Some fucking compromise. For a start, of the two of us, only Eli had a sister. She'd never been a cheerleader, so there wasn't a skirt we could've used anyway. And it wasn't like the shorts I had on were that much better: Eli had insisted on picking a pair that my younger brother used to run in. Given he was only seventeen, and the difference in our build, to say the shorts were clinging to me was an understatement.
Factor in the matching sleeveless vest top, and while I wasn't 100-percent convinced I looked like a cheerleader, there was no question in my mind that I definitely looked ridiculous.
All that was left was actually going into the bar, hence us standing in the part-shadows across the street, having our last-minute argument.
"Can't I just..." I started, hearing the whining edge to my tone but unable to prevent it.
Eli crossed his arms. "Coby, are you seriously gonna wuss out on a dare?"
Gritting my teeth, I shook my head. He knew I wouldn't, and I knew I wouldn't, and that meant this whole damn thing had a galling sense of inevitability to it. I'd just been hoping that, if I appealed to whatever pity might still be present in my best bud, he could decide to call it all off.
No such luck.
"Are you gonna come in?" I wasn't sure whether I wanted his answer to be yes or no. On the one hand, a smaller audience to this whole, embarrassing endeavor was definitely preferable. At the same time, it wasn't like I made a habit of hanging out in gay bars - in fact this was a first, for me - and the idea of knowing my buddy was there for moral support wasn't an unpleasant one.
Eli shrugged. "I guess I gotta make sure you actually go through with it."
I gave him a baleful stare. "How thoughtful of you."
He laughed, as he shoved me by the shoulders, across the street.
The doorman flashed us the sort of look which said he wasn't interested in anything other than the fact that we were both under 21. A stamp on the backs of our hands, and a green plastic wristband - that came with the gruff caution "don't take this off, okay?" - made it clear that, while we were okay to be inside, trying to order anything stronger than a root beer would see us rapidly ejected.
Ironic, really, considering my stomach was already fluttering as though I'd downed a couple of glasses of vodka.
I wasn't sure how busy it would all be. 10:30pm on a Thursday evening; I knew the bar scene was pretty lively in town over the weekend, but officially it was still a school night after all. Inside, though, it was pretty crowded, though not wall-to-wall with guys.
Definitely only guys, though. Not a woman in sight, even if the crowd of men wasn't as regimented as all the stupid "can you define these words to describe gays" videos on social might lead you to expect. As if anybody doesn't know by this point that there are twinks, and bears, and otters, and the rest.
Anyway, maybe on Friday night it was more niche, but Thursdays clearly drew a more mixed crowd. Some looking casual; others as though they'd headed down right after work, and hadn't bothered leaving yet. My darting eyes spotted a handful of other green wristbands, but there were far more older guys, too.
Nobody dressed as a cheerleader, mind. I figured that was why me and Eli - or, probably more accurate - just me - were getting some curious glances.
Eli pulled some cash out of his wallet - I'd had to leave mine at home, since there were no pockets in the shorts, so he had my driver's license, too - and held it out to me, grinning as though the whole evening was even more hilarious than he'd expected it to be. "I'll take a Coke, dude. And get yourself something, yeah?"
Scowling, I snatched the bill out of his hands. Trying to pretend like I not only belonged, but was comfortable in a bar like this, as I sidled across the room.
It wasn't like I didn't know gay people. Hell, my dad's brother was gay, and at least one of my cousins had come out as a lesbian the Christmas before last. I sure as hell didn't have a problem with queer people, and I knew Eli didn't either.
The thing was, having no problem with gay guys, and also being the subject of increasing attention while surrounded by them, was starting to feel like two very different things.
It was just curiosity, I knew that. Curiosity I was encouraging, both with my outfit, and the fact that I probably looked like I was seriously out of my depth. A new face, and one that just so happened to be blushing, too.
There were a fair few people waiting for drinks, and it took a little effort to locate a spot where I could ease myself in. Noticing how it was hotter, here, compared to where I'd left Eli; almost grateful now for my bare arms and legs.
The chatter around me was nearly as loud as the music, though I couldn't really make out any one, particular conversation. Content to let it all wash over me, with just the occasional word or exclamation piping through. There were just two guys working the bar, big dudes with t-shirts pulled tight across their torsos, mixing drinks and knocking the caps off beer bottles.
Part of me wanted to ask them about their workout routines. I'd been going to the gym since I was sixteen, but it was only really in the past twelve months that I'd started really taking it seriously. I'd definitely got bigger, and I thought my arms and chest were looking pretty good, but these guys were another level.
Trying to actually catch their eye and order, though, was proving to be difficult.
"Gets busy in here."
I jerked my head around, surprised.
He was in his early thirties, maybe. Taller than me, just north of six foot. Eli liked to tease me, insisted I was self-conscious about my height. Not like he was more than a couple of inches more than my five-eight, though as he loved to say, "a couple of inches can make all the difference."
"Uh, yeah... I guess."
It was like the eyes didn't go with the smile. Everything about his expression casual, gregarious, apart from a stare that seemed disconcertingly close to piercing. Like I was a puzzle, something out of place that needed to be solved.
"First time?"
In a way, I was glad of the excuse to blush. "Is it that obvious?"
He chuckled. "I'd remember seeing you, I suspect. Even if you weren't dressed as... a long-distance runner?"
I went to hold my arms out, as if to show off the stupid outfit that Eli had made me put on, only the crowd at the bar was too dense. Muttered apologies as guys glanced at me, wondering why I'd just nudged them.
"I'm meant to be a cheerleader."
His eyebrow arched. It did nothing to soften that sense of focus.
"It was a dare," I added.
He leaned back, as if to get a better look at me. As though, now he knew that the clothes I was wearing were contrived, in some way, it was suddenly acceptable to check them - to check me - out more blatantly. My skin prickled at the attention.
"You don't strike me as the cheerleading sort," he observed, his eyes back on mine.
I laughed. "Not really. I'm more of a gym guy."
"I figured," he said, glancing at my arms.
Just as I opened my mouth to respond, someone bumped me from behind. Sending me toppling forward, right into the guy; only his hands on my biceps stopped me from falling further.
His fingers squeezed, softly but pointedly. Pressing into the muscle, as assessing as his gaze had been a moment before.
Instinctively, I tensed my arms. No way not to notice, this close, the curl of his smile as he felt my biceps resist his grip. Or the faintly woody spice of his scent.
"Careful." His voice was low, pitched only for me to hear.
I swallowed, suddenly feeling awkward and clumsy. Mentally kicking myself, for looking like an idiot in front of a stranger. When I went to pull back, though, his hold on my muscles tightened.
"How many days a week do you lift?"
It wasn't like he was overpowering me. Barely gripping any harder than a moment before; he'd been more forceful when he caught me in my stumble. Only the idea of pulling away felt impossible.
"Uh... four, usually?"
He nodded, as though the answer had satisfied some other question only one of us had known about.
"And how often do you skip leg day?"
Asked with the hint of a smirk. A teasing expression, something close to conspiratorial.
I pushed a leg forward, tilting it side to side, pointedly. "Does it look like I do?" I asked him, grinning even with the lump still in my throat. I wasn't sure when it'd appeared, why I felt so antsy; where that churning feeling in my belly had come from.
He let go of one arm, so he could look down uninterrupted. Gaze raking across my muscled thigh, the broad expanse of skin exposed so throughly by the tight, tiny shorts. For a moment, I half-expected to feel his hand drop down and squeeze my leg instead.
Just a nod, though, further approval. "You're what, twenty-two? Twenty-three?"
Something in me wanted to preen. "Nineteen," I corrected. Flattered again, as his eyebrow lifted in surprise.
"Impressive."
The feeling of a clenching fist, in the depths of my chest. I shrugged, unnerved by how awkward I felt.
My shoulder bumped the man behind me; I turned my head, to mutter apologies, only to find he was already staring back.
"Cute outfit."
I frowned, wrong-footed.
"He's a cheerleader," the first guy supplied.
I wanted to point out that it was just an outfit, a costume, but my voice wasn't working like it was supposed to.
"Cute cheerleader, then," the second man suggested, smirking.
"Davey, come on." The guy still holding my arm shook his head, as if dismayed. Though, if he was, it didn't dim his smile. "He's nineteen."
The man - Davey - laughed. It was a deep sound, rich and dirty. The laugh of a guy older than he looked; I figured he could only be in his late twenties at most, blond buzzcut hair and green eyes.
"Then I won't buy him a beer," he said, still chuckling. "They let him in, Fletch, didn't they?"
I looked back, wondering if my eyes were as wide as they felt right now.
He smiled at me. "Short for Fletcher."
My nod was jerky.
"Davey likes to think of himself as our unofficial meet-and-greet, for newbies," he continued. "He's the welcoming sort, y'know?"
I could sense him behind me, his heat. Close, even by the standards of the packed bar. Close enough to feel his chest brush me, as Fletcher released my arm and I instinctively toppled back slightly.
Strong hands on my waist.
"Careful, now..."
"Coby," I supplied. Hoping they couldn't hear the hollowness to my voice, the echo which was so obvious to me.
"Careful, Coby." Davey's voice was a purr. "Man, this gotta be... what, thirty inches?" His fingers squeezed.
"Uh... twenty-eight."
"Twenty-eight." He sounded impressed. "You hear that, Fletch?"
The older guy grinned at me, his smile lopsided. "Coby hits the gym four times a week," he informed his friend, still holding my eye.
"Well, damn." Davey's hands were big, long fingers stretching around me to brush at my abs through the clinging shirt.
"Guys..."
He smelled of fresh sweat, rich and spiced. A scent so familiar - from the gym, from the locker room afterwards - it was like my brain was caught on an elastic cord to those memories. Dragging me back, to the sight of myself in the floor to ceiling mirrors, as I watched myself do bicep curls and overhead presses.
"Did you work out today, Coby?"
Davey leaned in, his face close to my shoulder. When he inhaled, I could feel the air rush against the tiny hairs on my neck. Enough to make me goosebump and shiver.
"Y-yes."
"Get all pumped up, all hot and sweaty. Just to put this little outfit on, right?" He pulled at the shirt, stretching it even tighter against my skin.
"I... I showered," I insisted.
Davey leaned in again. Close enough I could feel him brush my neck as he sniffed the second time.
"I don't think so, Coby. You smell like pure dude, to me."
Something about the way he said it, the unmistakable smirk in his voice, made me think that wasn't such a terrible thing.
"Nothing to be ashamed of, how a guy smells. Right, Coby?"
I had to bite my lip, to keep the groan in. There was something about the bar, about all these guys packed in so closely, that reminded me of that gym scent. The one which always got me so fired up to lift, whenever I got there.
But it was like taking a deep sniff of the pouch of your boxer briefs, after you'd got done wearing them all day. Real men weren't supposed to admit they did that. That they kinda liked how musky it was.
"You gonna flex those big arms, Coby?"
Davey's voice was like syrup, dripping through my ears and soaking into my brain. No hope for me after that suggestion had been planted, and with Fletcher watching me with his amused, expectant look.
I lifted my right arm, tensed the muscle. Feeling sheepish and ridiculous, even as I squeezed hard and tried my best not to let the strain show on my face.
Fletcher nodded, approvingly.
"Both arms, Coby, come on." Davey's voice was chiding, like I'd just half-assed a test and he couldn't quite believe he had to correct me on it.
Blushing again, not sure whether it was from his scolding tone or the fact that they were both looking at me - no, not just them, I realized, but a couple of guys around us now, too - I raised the other arm. Flexed hard enough to make my jaw ache.
I knew what it looked like, or what it could look like, anyway. Had stood in front of the mirror in my bedroom at home, stripped down to my boxers and trying to watch myself with a critical, dispassionate eye. Judge my form and symmetry, as though I was scoring myself in a competition. Not let that little voice which said I could be bigger, should be bigger, break through and ruin everything.
I flinched, when Fletcher's fingers wrapped around my bicep. Not so much grabbing it as simply holding, like it was a melon he was testing for weight, for ripeness.
"Such a fuckin' stud, Coby," he said, tone blunt. Like it was an assessment, not a compliment. A truth that there was no way for me to wave away, or question, or ignore.
Just as I opened my mouth to reply, I gasped again. Davey's fingers slipping around the bare skin of my belly, the too-small shirt having pulled up when I raised my arms. Exposing me, and nothing to stop him from tracing the outline of my abs.
"You must do a ton of crunches, Coby," he murmured. It was like he wanted to isolate each nugget of muscle, shape my skin around it. Hand pushing up, under the taut hem of my shirt, tracing along the six-pack I was so proud of.
"Ungh..." It was barely an answer, more a grunt than anything.
"Damn, bro."
I turned, feeling a stab of surprise that threatened to flare into panic, at the new voice. Then jerked as another hand grabbed me, the other bicep now, a third guy standing to my side and grinning as I stared at him with wide eyes.
"Fuckin' ripped," he observed, eyebrow raised. "Where've you been hiding?"
Davey laughed; I felt it on my neck, as much as I heard it. "Coby's new. Came tonight to show us his gains, didn't you buddy."
I wasn't sure if my bobbing head was a nod, or just my muscles disobeying whatever addled thoughts my brain could manage right now.
"Well, damn." The guy sounded impressed.
Still squeezing my arm, he placed his other hand flat on my chest. Almost like he was cradling my pec in his palm. I wondered if he could feel my heart, hammering fit to burst out through my ribs.
There was something unbelievable, otherworldly about it. The three of them touching me, groping at me. Appreciative hands gripping my arms, my waist; tracking up my abs and fondling my pecs. The muscles I'd spent so long working on, become so focused on training that my parents had accused me of obsession. A narcissism fueled by every sidelong glance from another guy in the weights room, and every glance of my own. The men around me a barometer of progress, or what I could look like. What I felt like I should look like.
"Bet you get a ton of attention, don't you, Coby."
I'd closed my eyes, I realized with a jolt. Too caught up in the feel of their hands, all five - no, six of them, Fletch gripping my waist like Davey had been a moment before, his touch sliding to my hip - to focus on the bar around me. Opening them again, to tunnel vision and knowing smirks.
I tried to shrug, not wanting to sound arrogant.
"I bet the other guys love checkin' you out in the locker room, after you've pumped." Davey sounded entertained at the idea. "Nineteen, and already so fuckin' built."
"Whoa, nineteen?" The third guy, the one whose name I didn't know, looked surprised. Not that he pulled his hands away.
"I know, right?"
Now it was pride I could hear, like Davey felt some vicarious success for what I'd made of myself.
"No wonder those guys can't help staring, right, Coby?"
My lip felt thick between my teeth, the flesh tender. You weren't supposed to look, to stare, that was the thing. Even though everyone did it, everyone compared themselves to the physiques around them. I was sure of it.
"You do your squats too, right, buddy?" Fletcher was giving me that assessing look again, the one which made me feel like I had to be careful about my answer. Like he'd know, automatically, if I wasn't telling the truth.
I nodded, my eyes widening as his hand slipped further down to paw at my ass. Squeezing my cheek through the tight nylon of the shorts.
"Lock your hands behind your head, Coby," Davey suggested. "Let's see that chest really swell."
It was easier to obey than to think for myself. I felt the third guy's hand cup my other ass cheek, as I stared straight ahead and tried not to hyperventilate.
There was something unbelievable about it, otherworldly. Davey tugging my shirt up, the fabric caught across my chest and half-exposing my pecs. More of the guys around us looking over, now; expressions of amusement and curiosity.
What felt like the back of a hand brushed across my crotch, and my knees about buckled underneath me.
"You doin' okay, buddy?" The question was solicitous, but Davey's tone spoke of amusement, too.
"Y-yeah." The word sounded mangled, choked out.
He patted my ass. "Feels good to have all your hard work appreciated, doesn't it." Davey waited, for my jerky nod of agreement. "Nothing wrong with wanting to be looked at, Coby. Y'know that, right?"
I half turned my head, to glance back at him. Wanting to agree - wanting his reassurance to be true, accurate - but still hearing my parents' indignation at how my hobby had ballooned to occupy me.
He palmed my ass again, fingers lingering as he groped at me. The damn shorts so tight, a second-skin stretched across my cheeks, it was almost like they weren't there at all.
"I bet you strut around the locker room, don't you, dude." An accusation, delivered with a smirk. "Towel over your shoulder, not a fuckin' care in the world. Knowing they're all checking out this epic body."
I tried not to be egotistical, I really did. That's what I wanted to tell him, to explain to Davey, and Fletcher, and the other guy. All of them, with their hands on me as I attempted to keep up with what Davey was saying, what question he was asking me. Cheeks burning up, at the hungry stares from the men around me, the bar suddenly feeling even more packed.
I could smell myself, and them. The musk and fresh sweat. Dizzying, just like it was in the gym, like it was in the locker room and the sauna. My cock twitching as the heady fog of juicy pheromones flooded my senses.
"I... don't..."
"Bullshit." Davey laughed. They all did. "You know how they watch all this jock meat. Big pecs and tiny waist. Fat cock swinging. Don't bullshit me, Coby."
Some part of my brain wanted to count the hands, to connect them to the men up close to me. Knowing there should be six, and yet there felt like so many more. Fingers trailing across my skin, tracing the shapes of my muscles. Brushing, more insistent now, across the thick swell of my dick as I bulged in the borrowed shorts.
No way to hold back the whimper, as some stranger's hand grabbed my cock and squeezed it.
"You wanna be seen, don't you?"
My nod jerky, confession stealing any grace I might've had remaining.
Davey chuckled, his mouth so close to my ear I'd swear I could feel his lips brush me. Not that I was paying attention to that, not with his fingers pushing at the waistband of my shorts.
I'd decided the sewn-in liner would be enough to go without underwear tonight. Hadn't figured on someone digging their hand inside, palming the smooth curve of my cheeks.
I felt as much as heard the rip, as Davey tore right through the fragile inner layer.
"Man, you're smooth all over, Coby." He sounded impressed again. "Do you shave?"
I shook my head. Feeling dizzy, my mouth dry, as his fingers eased between my cheeks.
I could run, I knew I could. Shove them all away; take the few, stumbling steps that would be all that was necessary to shift me out of reach. And yet the idea of actually doing that seemed impossible.
"Oh!"
The exclamation bursting out of me, a hiccup of shock, as his rough fingertip brushed across my hole. Instinct seeing me rise up onto my toes, even though the tight cinch of my shorts took Davey's hand with me.
The guy next to me, one hand pawing at my abs while the other squeezed my cock, pushed his face into my armpit. So eagerly, I almost toppled sideways.
The rasp of his tongue dragging the groan out of me, disbelief setting my brain spinning in my skull. And yet no denying the urgency of his licking and slobbering, or for that matter the way my erection was throbbing at the new and bizarre sensations.
A second hand on my dick. Almost as though my own, silent acknowledgment that I was hard had drawn further attention to it from the men surrounding me. Their fingers somehow both sly and bold, shaping the thick outline through the barely-adequate shorts. Tweaking and stroking and pinching at me, my hips shuddering in the grip still pinning my waist.
It pushed me back, though, against Davey's toying finger. The pressure of its tip firmer against my clenching hole, a sensation that set me wriggling all over again as my body reacted to the flood of unusual feelings. No way not to smell myself, now, too; the sweaty, musky, almost-spicy richness from my pits, even as some stranger still feasted under one arm. No way, too, not to imagine that scent mingling and blending with the heat from between my legs. All of it wafting up, around me like a hyper-masculine haze, and filling my lungs with every pant.
"It's so fucking hot, when guys sweat, right Coby?"
I winced at Davey's words, feeling like he'd somehow managed to dip into my skull as readily as he'd pushed his hand into my shorts. Had his pick of the shameful thoughts simmering and roiling in there.
He didn't bother waiting for a reply. Or, perhaps, my grunt and the way I shifted from foot to foot was sufficient. Evidence that he had my attention, even if Davey was clearly sharing it with other men.
"I knew you'd understand, the moment I saw you. All that bro muscle, squeezed into that painted-on little outfit." He chuckled, finger digging harder at my pulsing hole. "You were desperate to be the center of attention, weren't you."
I wanted to tell him he was wrong, that he'd misunderstood. That all of this was the result of some stupid dare, a misunderstanding. A cosmic mistake, me and Eli not thinking things through beyond the scope of our own friendship. Blind to the fact that putting me here, in this tiny shirt and equally-tiny shorts, my bare flesh could just as readily be seen as an invitation.
Problem was, explaining that would've required a functioning brain, and a working mouth, and words I simply didn't have. Not when I could feel my own sweat making it easier for Davey's fingertip to push inside me. My body betraying me, as hands I'd lost count of pulled and stroked and squeezed it.
The mouth mauling my armpit had shifted around, nuzzling against my pec. Sucking on my nipple, nursing on the firm nub as I flinched and shuddered at the unfamiliar sensations.
"Fuck, he's leaking through his fuckin' shorts."
No way to recognize the voice, only how entertained he sounded as he cataloged my further debasement. The hands rubbing my dick shifting to long, milking strokes, as fingers swirled around the patch of cock-drool that I knew must be turning the yellow-gold nylon dark.
"'Course he is," Davey said, laughing. He was pulling and stretching on me, now; tugging up, the tension on my hole sending me teetering onto my toes to alleviate the foreign pressure. "Coby's all fuckin' man, aren't you buddy?"
The question might've been directed at me, but that didn't stop the gurgle of amusement from the guys around me. I looked up, blinking, at the outstretched finger Fletcher was presenting to me.
"You like the way you taste, Coby?"
My eyes widened, at how his fingertip glistened in the dim bar lights. Knowing, even before the sharp-sweet scent of it hit me, that his digit was coated with a sheen of my own dick-slop.
I'd tasted it, even though I'd never admit to it. Didn't hate it, either; a sweet muskiness I'd first grudgingly lapped at, and then found myself sucking around my fingers to catch the final dregs. Caught up in the feeling of my fist on my dick, the slightly salty sharpness of myself rich on my tongue. Guys weren't meant to get off on their own precum, I knew that, yet there was something about it - how hot and wrong it felt, to be consuming yourself that way - which I couldn't shake free of.
I'd wussed out, though, when it came to trying my own cum. Flinched away, mouth clamped shut, in that final all-or-nothing moment, suddenly afraid of how it would taste and what swallowing that would make me. Left breathless and panting, as the well-aimed spray of it sagged heavily from my face instead.
Even a whimper felt beyond me, as Fletcher brushed his slick finger across my lips.
He nodded, in approval, as I licked the smear clean. Still pointing at me, hand poised and waiting, until I leaned forward and sucked that slimy digit into my mouth.
The noise of my own hyperventilating was loud in my ears. My gaze caught on Fletcher's, that intense stare flaying me. I twisted, the movement desperate and unplanned, as he reached out to grip the back of my head.
"Good boy."
He tugged down, fingertip pressing against my tongue, until I opened my mouth obediently. Held my head in place, as he pushed four fingers between my stretched lips.
No chance of looking away, now, of turning from the inky vortex of his pupils. Even as Davey pushed his finger deeper into my twitching, fluttering ass, and other strangers lapped at my pits and bit at my nipples. As hands mauled my erection as it strained, harder than I could ever remember it being in all my nineteen years, against the protesting nylon. Every inch of my almost-bared body seemingly up for grabs, available, for any of these men to grope and fondle.
I whined around Fletcher's fingers as I felt my shorts yanked down. Simultaneously grateful at how my cock could loll free, loose of the pressure of the sweat and precum-soaked fabric, and horrified by how it left me even more exposed. Hands quick to grab at my shaft, rough fingers stroking and pulling at me. Tugging on my balls until I was choking back the howl - somehow knowing that hearing it would only embolden them further - while others tormented my swollen, leaky tip. Pinching and scratching at it, as I tried to dance from foot to foot despite the bodies hemming me in from all sides.
"C-Coby?"
Eli's eyes wide, his jaw hanging, as he stared at me in disbelief.
He was probably wondering, some disjointed part of my brain decided, where his Coke was. Whether I'd absconded with his ten bucks.
Not like I could explain, though, even if I'd had the words for that. Fletcher's hand stuffed into my mouth, Davey's finger pumping at my sweat-slicked hole. Men all around me licking, and stroking, and toying with me, and the tangled mess of my clothes only serving to emphasize how much of me was on show.
"Dude, w-what the hell?"
Fletcher - his fingers jammed into my mouth, his other hand still holding my head in place - turned to glance at my best friend. "Was the bet your idea?"
Eli looked overwhelmed, like his brain was misfiring. Not that I could really blame him for that. He nodded, gaze still hooked on mine.
"I think he likes it," Fletcher suggested.
I moaned around him, then choked on a gasp as Davey muscled a second finger into me. His digits hooking and twisting, spreading to stretch my naive hole in ways I'd never experienced before. Shamefully aware of the hand shaking my cock as it happened, how that sent flecks of gleaming precum around, as the deeper probing caused fresh globs of it to gush from my slit.
I was bouncing on my toes, now. Unsure whether it was to escape the sensations of Davey fingering me, or to better grind my ass atop his hand. Losing track of thoughts almost as quickly as they came to me, too caught up in the sensation of being filled so thoroughly and so inescapably. My best friend watching, dumbfounded, as strangers pulled on my nipples and mauled my exposed flesh.
"You ever watched Coby cum?" Davey sounded amused.
Eli shook his head, the movement jerky.
We'd not done that stuff together, even though I knew some guys did. Circle jerks, helping a buddy out; the things teenage boys occupied themselves with, before they found girlfriends and actual sex. Eli had slept over at my house, in my room, more times than I could count. But, beyond a brief glimpse of morning wood in the boxers I'd slept in, I didn't think he'd even seen me hard. Much less getting off.
I couldn't even begin to wonder what he might be thinking about, now, watching me like this. The idea of him standing there while strangers fingered my ass, and made me blow my load across some bar's dirty floor, sending my brain into a tailspin. I wasn't sure if a friendship could survive that.
"Look how fat his fucking cock is," Fletcher said, nodding down at where my thick, over-stimulated inches throbbed and twitched as guys stoked and slapped at it. "You seen your buddy's hog drool like that before?"
From the expression on Eli's face, I got the feeling that the mental image had now been seared on his brain. I whimpered in horny dismay around the fingers still thrust into my mouth.
Davey's lips brushed my ear. His breath hot against my cheek.
"How about we show your friend how you take a third finger."
I'd never even played with my ass before; afraid, perhaps, of whether it'd feel as good as guys claimed it did. Worried that I could end up addicted, unable to get off without that extra hit of pleasure. Little did I know, I was just saving myself to have those sensations applied to me.
He pulled his fingers free, my hole suddenly feeling hollow, but only for a moment before I felt the bunched thickness of what I knew were three of his fat digits. And no option for my virgin ass but to take it, as he twisted them into me and I danced on my toes and squealed around the gag of Fletcher's hand.
A pumping, then, no mercy or delay. Davey seeming intent on working me until my hole showed no resistance to his probing, and every other of his teasing, taunting jabs grazing a spot inside me that sent fireworks erupting through my crotch. Sweat running down me in rivulets, now, my arms still clasped above my head, and the cold, shameful knowledge that if they kept this up, there was no question that I was going to cum any moment.
I wanted them to stroke me properly; would've begged for it, had I been able to speak. To plead for mercy, for the pinching and slapping of my needy dick to stop. Just give me the four or five strokes that I knew would be all that it took to have me bursting.
A hand wrapped around my balls, yanking them down. My flinch back instinctive, only realizing the mistake a moment later when I impaled myself deeper on Davey's probing fingers. Caught, then, between trying to relieve the infernal pressure on my nuts and avoid fucking myself on the hand half-inside me.
Davey licked up the side of my face, then pressed his forehead against my temple. "Don't hold out on us, Coby. Show us how that bull-cock sprays."
Eli had heard him, I knew he had. From the expression of shock on his face. From the way his gaze flicked down, to where I knew the fat head of my cock must be an angry, purpling-red.
A fingertip jabbed at that bud of infinite pleasure in my ass, and I howled around Fletcher's fingers while my dick jetted cum.
An orgasm that felt like my whole body was cramping, like I was a towel grasped at both ends and wrung out. Only half-hearing the chorus of cheers from around me, over the thrum of blood and static in my ears. Vibrating on the balls of my feet, as hands kneaded my nuts and stroked my sweat-slicked muscles.
Fletcher pulled his hand free, leaving me gasping and hoarse. He'd let go of the back of my head just as I started cumming, I realized. Had born the brunt of my messy load, too, thick white lashes of it across his arm.
He held it up, in front of me. Eyes flinty.
I knew, even as my body still twitched from the aftershock of my orgasm, even as the hands still pulled and groped at me, even as Davey's fingers squirmed and twisted in my hole, what Fletcher expected of me. A sick sense of dismay, that a bar full of strangers were going to see me finally do the thing I'd never had the guts to try before.
He pushed his arm close to my mouth. The stink of fresh cum and sweat filling my nostrils.
I closed my eyes and leaned in, tongue outstretched, to lap along his wrist.
Thick, and slimy, and musky. The taste of myself overpowering, enough to summon a groan from deep in my throat as I licked again, and again. Fletcher turning his arm as I cleaned it, as my still-teased cock bobbed and jerked with an erection that refused to fade, until it was only the faint burr of his arm hair that I could feel under my tongue.
"Good boy," he murmured, then glanced down. When he looked up again, he was smirking knowingly. "You wanted to get attention at the bar, right?"
It seemed forever ago, standing there shoulder to shoulder in the crowd, trying to order a couple of drinks for me and Eli.
I saw Fletcher catch Davey's eye, over my shoulder. The wink and the jerk of his chin.
Gasped, then, as they twisted me. Surprise and my exhausted muscles leaving me easy to manhandle, to hoist up. Until, mere seconds later, my nearly-bare chest was pressed flat against the bar's cold steel, the force of it slapping the air from my lungs.
I gasped and coughed, the smell of old beer competing with the smears of cum still across my face. An arm pressing down between my shoulders, pinning me in place, even as my legs kicked out ineffectually. Toes only just scraping the floor.
The hands hadn't stopped fondling me, only their location had changed. Pulling my cheeks apart, toying with my hole like Davey had been. Only now, spread out with my ass so lewdly exposed, nothing to stop more of these men from touching me. Fingers digging into me and twisting, tugging me open.
"C-Coby..."
Eli's voice sounded like it had fractured. My best friend barely recognizable to my ears. Then again, I couldn't look anywhere close to normal to him, either.
"Don't worry, buddy." Davey sounded amused at Eli's quavering concern. "Look how much he likes it."
His hand, I assumed, pushing past the tight cinch of the tiny shorts as they stretched taut between my upper thighs. Not that the identity of the hand was what concerned me a moment later, as deft fingers seized my erection and roughly pulled it back, between my legs.
I yelped, hips twitching, as he hooked the precum-slicked length against my shorts. The twisted fabric holding it there, yanked back uncomfortably, forcing me to tilt my exposed ass up in a desperate attempt to alleviate the pressure.
"See?" Davey laughed, as I squirmed from unseen hands scratching and pinching down the underside of my swollen shaft. "Look how hard the horny fucker is. He's fuckin' loving it."
A loud slap rang out, my cheek burning from where someone had spanked me. The squeal escaping before I could stop it, less from the sting on my ass but from how my flinch had further stretched my dick. So stiff, and so thoroughly trapped by my shorts, even just starting to straighten up left me feeling as though it could snap off.
I chewed my lip and tried not to yelp, as fingers wrapped around my balls and yanked them down. Pulling them away from my body, while hands rained down fresh slaps across my sweaty cheeks.
There was nothing I could compare it to, nothing in my life which had left me feeling so thoroughly exposed, so vulnerable. My most intimate parts on shameful, mortifying display. Entertainment, now, for these laughing strangers.
And among them, in that jeering crowd, my best friend watching as - despite the embarrassment, despite everything - my cock throbbed fit to burst a second time. My body betraying me, eager to cum again from the combined, teasing efforts of uncountable hands, from mouths sucking on my fingers and tongues lapping at my muscles, even as I could still taste the remnants of my first load.
I wanted to know what he was thinking, as he watched me like this. What was going through Eli's brain, with this front row view of my stretched-open ass, and my straining dick, and the long cords of sloppy precum that I figured must almost be making it to the floor before they were scooped up and used to better ease thick fingers inside me. Whether I still looked like his friend, despite the inexplicable nature of the situation I was in, or if I'd changed at some point. Become a stranger, become meat - pliant and plied - and identity taking a distant second place to possibilities more simple and base.
I wanted to know - and at the same time was terrified by the possibility - if Eli was hard, now, as he witnessed my nineteen-year-old body being mauled. If his fingers itched to take a turn digging inside me or to twist around the wide flare of my cockhead, flesh left unspeakably sensitive from pinching, and scratching, and the infernal rub of the nylon shorts.
He'd know I wasn't even fighting them, these random guys who just so happened to be here, tonight. Eli had seen what I could bench, knew what strength I had. Even with shock and surprise to mitigate it, he'd have no doubt that - if I wanted to, if I focused - I could shove myself off this cold, slick bar and push them all away from me. Maybe not gracefully, but I could do it.
The fact that I hadn't, that I wasn't fighting, that couldn't be lost on my friend.
"He's so fucking hot, inside," Davey said. Casually, as though discussing the weather, not the way it felt when you overcame the meager resistance of my hole and shoved your fingers into me. "You should feel it, dude. I bet Coby would want you to."
I groaned, in disbelief at how much worse the situation could get.
"I... I don't think..." Eli sounded dazed.
"It's like fingering fresh pudding," Davey teased, laughing. "And look how he's fuckin' drooling. He loves it."
I wanted to be able to protest, to deny it. Too distracted, though, by the fist now making long, milking strokes down my cock. The grip just on the teasing side of light, only I couldn't pump my hips because that would just further impale me on the fingers still tag-teaming my ass.
All I could do was close my eyes and hope they couldn't hear my whimpering over the jeers and amusement of the men around me.
No way of knowing who was jerking me, who was stretching me open. No identifying the fondling hands, or the sly tongues, or whether my best friend was now among those taking advantage of my dazed compliance. Unsure, even, whether I cared about that: whether there was anything left in my delirious brain beyond the need to get off again.
Still, I found focus enough to howl as a rough palm circled my throbbing tip and roughly corkscrewed it. Fresh levels of torment, even as I felt my balls tightening and the treatment of my burning ass intensified. Wanting, and yet horrified at the thought of discovering, to know just how many fingers were inside me now. How loose they'd worked me and my tender flesh.
"Push that beer bottle in him," I heard someone call out, chuckling as they brainstormed my debasement, and it was as the cold glass stretched me further still that I felt the first unstoppable shudders of an orgasm ripple through me.
Clawing at the slick bar, legs flailing impotently. A keening, desperate, horny noise bubbling up from the deepest depths of my chest, wordless and lobotomized. The spray of cum something borderline painful, my tortured cockhead burning as it swelled in the still-twisting fist.
The weight of a man, draping over me. Clothes feeling rough against my bare skin, pressing me harder into the countertop as his hand clamped across my mouth and I realized with fresh shock that I was being fed my second load of the night. No choice but to lick, and suck, and swallow, and if there was a mercy it was that his covering me shielded at least part of my body from the ever-hungry hands of the people around us.
Finally, he pulled back. I braced myself for further groping, for things to start over, but the strokes felt more like petting, now. Softer, as if having got me worked up, insensate, the goal now was to bring me spiraling back down. Until perhaps my limbs might work again, my body be able to support itself upright.
They eased me off the bar, onto shaking legs. Painfully aware of what a mess I must look: sweaty and disheveled, my face flushed and sticky. Shocked, too, by how rapidly I'd lost my place as center of attention, the men around me - men who only minutes ago had been pinching and groping - turning back to their drinks and conversations.
I blinked, still feeling dazed, then realized Eli was staring at me. His eyes wide, face pale.
I fumbled to pull my shirt down, suddenly desperate to cover myself again. Achingly self-conscious about my nakedness, about what my best friend had seen. Not knowing - not even sure if I wanted the answer - whether, in those last few moments, I'd felt his hands among those swarming across me. Whether he'd pushed his long, guitarist's digits into my gaping ass; if it'd been Eli who'd pinned me with his own bodyweight, as he force-fed me my own cum from his palm.
That wasn't the sort of question I could ask, though. Not if I ever wanted to look him in the eye again.
Blushing, I pulled up the shorts instead. Hearing the lining rip further, as I tried with clumsy fingers to stuff my half-hard dick inside. Painfully aware of Eli's attention, and that of Fletcher and Davey alongside him.
It was the latter who slung his arm around my shoulders, ignoring my automatic wince as he turned me back to the bar I'd just been splayed across.
"Buy you boys a drink?" From his tone, you'd think we were old friends just casually meeting up.
"Uh... I..." My words didn't seem to want to come out. Brain still teetering, unable to find the excuses that would let us flee. I looked back, over my shoulder, flashing a save-me look at Eli.
"Something soft, of course." My friend held his arm up, showing off the green wristband.
"Of course," Fletcher added, grinning. He gave Eli a gentle push, a hand at the small of his back, until he was standing next to me. "Wouldn't want to get you boys into trouble."
I swallowed, feeling the situation twist out of my control. Painfully conscious of what I was wearing - barely - and how I must look. Unsure why Eli was suddenly so keen to keep us here.
"Dude, come on," I hissed at him, "can't we leave already?"
Eli winked at me, as the bartender pushed a couple of glasses of Coke across to us. Judging by the guy's smirk, he'd seen everything, too.
"Eli!" It was a whine, childish and desperate. Not that he seemed to care, now, picking up his glass while ruffling my hair with his other hand.
"I guess, since you didn't get a number, you failed the dare," he mused, then took a gulp of his drink.
I boggled at him, lost for words.
"In that case," he continued, "you have to do another dare, don't you."
It was phrased as a fact, not a question, but I still opened my mouth to argue. Not that my buddy gave me time to respond.
"Chill, dude, I'm sure the guys can help me figure something out," Eli suggested, grin spreading wickedly, as Davey and Fletcher chuckled either side of us. Then he frowned, feigning confusion, at my expression of horror. "What's the matter, Coby? Don't tell me you're chicken?"
