I had just had my first gay encounter, yet I had never felt more masculine or virile. It was as if I had reached the pinnacle of what a man could achieve. My apex. Driving home and hardening again in my pants, I decided to stop off at a bar for a pint and to cool off.
I strutted in. In a perfect world, I’d be able to share my conquest with my fellow bros sitting at the bar, showing them the degrading pictures of my cock down the faggot’s throat. The video where he declared himself to be my property, flexing his toned arms while handing me money. We’d laugh and high-five, bonding as men who fuck, own and exploit those who need us. Our conversation would arouse the jealous females, and they’d clamor to hang on to our shoulders, join in, and hope to be taken home and ravaged themselves.
In an even more perfect world, the waitresses would all be Hooters girls or sissies, strutting around in tight clothes, debasing themselves to earn our attention, and serving us our drinks. Fags would be chained to the bottom of the bar, offering up their mouths. We’d fuck their throats, ignoring them while talking about how our investments were doing or about the game on TV.
I was so lost in my fantasies that I almost thought the familiar face at one of the table’s was a figment of my imagination. It was the cleaning woman I had seen at the fag’s house: Gina. I smiled and grabbed my Blue Moon from the bartender. I walked over to Gina. “This table taken?”
Intrigued, she said, “I’m meeting my friend soon, but you’re welcome to sit.” As I pulled out the chair from the table and took a seat she added, “You never did say how you knew Zack.” Zack? Oh, right, the fag. Sometimes I forget his name.
I thought of how Zack was strutting around like he owned the place when we first met while Gina kept house. I smiled devilishly, thinking of how I'd remade him. “Well, I’ll tell you how I met him. But you have to promise to keep it between us.” Her eyebrow raised.
“$50 a week, times 4 weeks is $100, times 12 months is $1,200,” raced through my mind as I fruitlessly tried to find a combination of short-shorts and crop-top that didn’t make me look like a total fool. $1,200 was doable. Not ideal but… worth it? Then, the thought of giving money away for nothing made me retch.
Having orgasmed, my submissive dedication was fading. I thought of using the pants Alex left me for work and refusing his orders. Lord Alex, I mean. Certainly, having nutted himself, he’d also have gotten bored of checking on me. My chances of running into him in public were slim to none. I’d send the cage check pic and then put on regular clothes…
Almost like he could read my thoughts telepathically, I got a text. “Going out tonight? Show me what you’re wearing.” At first, I sighed. Then, I started straining in my cage yet again. He wanted to keep controlling me. He’d be relentless.
My worst fear was that the top of my thong would ride up my ass and my friends would see. I settled on a pair of jorts that weren’t too frayed and tight enough around the waist that it was unlikely to happen. I put on an old college t-shirt that now had deep armholes, barely covering my pecs and crossing my belly button. I donned the pink cap and put it backward on my head.
I looked at myself in the full-length mirror. The outfit would maybe pass if I were going to the beach or a crazy frat party. But it would be out of place and eyebrow raising at my planned dinner with friends. I resolved that I’d tell them I forgot my change of clothes at the gym.
I took a picture of my outfit for Lord Alex and he replied with, “Haha. Good fag. Show me you’re caged and plugged.” Fuck, I forgot about the plug. I produced it from my sink, where I had cleaned it, took a squirt of lube, adjusted the thong, and reinserted it. I sent Lord Alex another video with my caged nub out over the top of the jorts and twirling around to show him the plug.
“You’re something else, slave,” Lord Alex texted. “Take another pic in the bathroom when you go out so I know you’re not cheating.”
The stimulation of the plug and my Lord’s continued demands caused me to strain all over again. Subspace reactivated, I grabbed my things. My shorts were so tight that I couldn’t fit my wallet, keys, or phone in my pocket. I’d have to carry them.
I arrived at the restaurant. It was a bit fancier than I remembered. Luckily, the hostess did not turn me away when I said I was meeting friends. Instead, she looked me up and down, looked amused, and said, “Right this way.”
My friends Johnny, Mike, and Greg were seated at a table in the center of the dining room. They all stood up as I met them, awkwardly shifting the items I was carrying around in my hands and setting them down at the table's empty seat.
“Woh, there, tiger– it’s dinner, not spring break,” Johnny, my most bro but well-meaning friend, said with a forceful hand-in-hand shake.
I shook my head and performed my rehearsed speech: “I forgot my change of clothes at home. I came right from the gym.”
“Damn. I wish I had your dedication, it’s really working for you, man,” he said, appraising my body.
“You’re really riding that ‘no shirt, no shoes, no service line,” Mike, bespectacled, always the critic, and surprisingly fit underneath his baggy jeans and nerdy graphic Marvel tee, remarked.
“I thought that the bridal shower over there ordered a stripper,” Greg, our group’s younger, skinnier and most innocent member said.
I laughed. My phone vibrated. It was Lord Alex. “Cage check.”
“Just need to use the restroom before I sit down,” I said. They looked befuddled as I had only just arrived.
“We’ll order you a beer,” Johnny said, diffusing tension, as I made my way to the men's room.
There were a couple stalls and a urinal. I went inside one stall, pulled down my shorts, and took a pic for Lord Alex, who immediately replied.
“Good faggot. Now strip, except for the hat. Get on Grindr. Find a man to suck to completion. Send pic with cock down ur throat.”
My heart sank. Adrenaline was rushing. My mind was saying no, but my fingers were scrolling to the app. I opened up Grindr.
There were 2 men less than 1000 feet away, both with anonymous profiles. On autopilot, I texted both and said, “Hey Sir, may I suck your cock? In the bathroom.”
The first didn’t reply. It felt like hours were passing, thinking that every second was making my friends more curious about what was up with me.
Finally, a ping. The other close-by guy said, “Oh really?” Then, “Are you a good boy?”
“Yes Sir,” I said as I disrobed, struggling because of the tight-fitting garments, and trying to hang my clothes on the little hanger attached to the door. “I’ll knock twice,” I read as I readjusted the pink cap on top of my head.
Seconds later, I heard the door open. I saw some baggy jeans and New Balance underneath the stall. I froze as the figure did the tell-tale knock.
I opened the stall. It was Mike, who threw his head up in validation. “I knew I had to check Grindr from the second I saw that outfit.” He stepped in the stall and closed the door behind him as I sank to my knees. I had always wondered about Mike and, honestly, was not surprised. I had wanted it to be one of my friends. It was as if I had manifested it, just as I manifested Lord Alex at my doorstep.
Mike unbuckled his belt and unfastened his pants furiously. Mike had always been sort of the group geek. Now he was towering over me. His biceps looked surprisingly bulging in his Marvel shirt. When did he get so manly?
“You’re wearing a cage? Oh my god, that’s so hot.”
“You can’t tell the guys about this,” I said.
“I had no idea you were gay,” he said. He whipped out his cock and started slapping my face with it. It was almost over six inches, hard as a rock, and surprisingly thick. “And you’re like, really gay.”
“Ugh,” I said between the slaps as I handed him my phone. “Please take a picture with it down your throat.”
“Need proof for whoever has the key?” he asked.
“Yeah.” This earned me a slap that stung like hell.
“That’s, ‘Yes, Sir.'” Mike said. He moaned in ecstasy as I wrapped my lips around his cock and went balls deep.
“Yeth, thir,”I said with a mouth full of cock. I looked up as he held the phone in my face.
“Arch your back and widen your knees. I want your plugged ass and cage in it,” he said with a hint of amusement as he fucked my throat steadily. I made his desired adjustments. “Hell, yeah,” he said, pleased. He set the phone down on the toilet paper roller. “You’re going to send that to me too,” he said.
I nodded as he grabbed the sides of my head and upped his speed.
“Fuck. I can’t believe it. Zack Taylor, a faggot. Look at you now, bitch,” he said. For the second time that day, I was glugging like a porn star just like Lord Alex liked. “You’re going to be doing this a lot now, aren’t you?”
“Yeth, thir,” I repeated. He erupted three large spurts of cum down my throat and stifled his orgasmic grunt.
“You better hurry back. The guys already think something is up with you,” Mike said, zipping up his pants. He gave my face a playful slap, shook his head with a smile on his face, and left.
I quickly dressed. I looked at the photo Mike took. I was on a dirty bathroom floor with nothing but my pink cap, which matched the shade of my face with my watery, bulging eyes and blush. My caged clit was clearly visible. I was just like all the pathetic fags I had aspired to be on Twitter.
I sent the picture to Lord Alex and Mike. Lord Alex responded with a “Ha Ha” emoji. Followed by an ominous, “You’ll never guess who I ran into.”
I returned to the table as the waitress was bringing our drinks.
"There he is!" Johnny said as I sat down. "Feeling okay?"
"Yeah, I did cardio today... always... makes me gotta go," I said trying to hide my embarrassment.
The other guys all had their beers and the waitress put down a glass of white wine in front of me. I squinted in puzzlement.
"Oh, I let her know you said you wanted a white wine spritzer instead. And ordered that salad you wanted," Mike said from across the table.
"Thanks," I said. I knew I must have looked like a sweaty mess as Mike gleamed.
Johnny raised his mug for everyone to cheers. "To bro night. Love keeping up this tradition with you boys!" I gingerly held the stem and clinked my wine glass against the thick mugs, so as not to break it. I strained in my cage, thankful to Mike for reinforcing what I knew: they were men. They were the bros. I was not. They deserved beer. I get cum down my throat. And white wine spritzers.
