Butt Triggered
On the chat app, Ernie and Nels exchange messages, May 4th.
The_Editor: I read your draft. Now time for some honest editorial remarks.
The_Editor: You don’t have it. We need details. Things Hammering cannot just deny. And the address of that place. Ain’t his. He got plausible deniability.
The_Editor: What are some unique features of his dick? A cum-stained tank top? A distinctive birthmark on the scrotum? Textbook stuff is missing! Instead, you write this high and mighty prose, like you are trying to get into the New Yorker or Cultural Hoity-Toity Digest.
The_Editor: When you picture our readers, think Walmart, not Neiman Marcus. We write for the heartland, your people.
The_Editor: Also, that NDA creates problems. You need to work that ass harder. Catch him in a spontaneous unscripted moment. I thought you knew how to pull those strings.
The_Editor: I am not publishing this. We need more, you must do better.
The_Editor: So what will you do now? Can you get another round with him?
Nels_NYcontrib: this is important af. not just tryna get clicks or whatever. that doorman he hits different. I low-key think he sniffed my true purpose, even better than I did, perhaps, and he put me on game where the real action goin down.
Nels_NYcontrib: I filled you in on the rumours of auctions and hot guys disappearing mysteriously. and get this, the spot that doorman pointed me to is this mad exclusive, low-key bar, dudes only, hella discreet, you'd never find it unless you knew. major mystery vibes, ngl..
Nels_NYcontrib: I feel it.
The_Editor: So you are going to investigate? Do you expect to find Hammering there in latex and leather? You need that for a story.
The_Editor: You are paid per word published, so it is in your self-interest to catch him with his pants down, dick out, and waving an oversized dildo around. You get the idea.
Nels_NYcontrib: maybe idk… but this is mad important, no cap. I’mma get to the bottom of this. I promise. this is a risk I gotta take tho get to hunnid. make the world a lil' better or whatevs.
Nels_NYcontrib: just lemma cook on it a lil’ more. this could deadass be Pulitzer-level content, no kizzy.
The_Editor: Keep it simple, keep it transactional, go for the dirt.
Draft authored by Nels on May 6th, recovered from digital device, NYPD evidence archive number B-55-2x54-2
It was on the second night that the approach happened. To the average visitor, closeted tourist and passer-by of the New York City gay scene, it would have looked no different than what takes place on these streets, in such bars and within our clubs every day: a big muscled man of a rough masculine appearance grabbing a smaller, smoother man in revealing tank top and shorts that are low enough on the waist to reveal that no more fabric than that of the most minimal jockstrap awaits underneath.
This time, however, when I was approached and my inner thigh expertly grabbed by the manly, callused palm of the big guy in a metallic grey ribbed sweater and full beard, I instantly knew this was more than yet another man who wanted to spread my ass for a moment of penetrative pleasure. His purpose was unstated, yet nonetheless ominous and foreboding.
I had sought out this approach — enticed it even. It was my mission. For months I had heard stories about handsome young gay men disappearing, seemingly without explanation, from the New York gay scene. That itself is not strange. It is a tough scene that puts great demands on the body, and the mind, not to mention the purse — this city after all is the poster child of rapacious financial capitalism.
My instincts as an investigator and observer of the world around me told me, however, that this was different. The men who disappeared had too much in common, men of a particular delicate stock, as it were, for these events to not be of a very specific cause. They had been targeted.
From interviews with concerned friends, two things stood out. The men were extremely beautiful, paragons of young manly perfection and refinement. And by all accounts, most far too graphic for print, the men were full-blooded bottoms. In the ancient era, their nude form would have been carved in marble, like Apollo or Narcissus, and admired throughout the known world.
Their friends and acquaintances also described the vanished men as melancholy, a bit sad of late, and crestfallen. Some figurative weight of the world, dislodged from its natural order, had landed on their soulful shoulders.
I suspect there is another third common factor, which takes us back to my fondled thigh: the bar Boy At the Round Table, discreetly located in Chelsea, at which worn oak bar counter I felt that firm confident grasp around my inner thigh that marked a satisfying turning point in my mission. Several of the disappeared young men had supposedly made furtive remarks about solo visits to an outdated bar in Chelsea, or something called BART — an abbreviation of Boy At the Round Table, perhaps?
My source, an anonymous doorman of the Upper Eastside provided the key, so to speak, that directed my suspicions to a place. I found the bar behind a solid door, like a minor gate in a castle wall. An interior design big on medieval longswords made it all the stranger — what was the attraction of this place? Not the latest trends and styles, that much was certain.
I will call him Buck. He was not one for small talk, unmoored by the niceties of modern society, so he never said what he was truly named, either before or after he squeezed my leg mere inches from my groin. His rugged, unpolished, animal character made Buck a suitable label. He did not ask questions — he made statements and issued commands. He did not dither — he pushed sternly ahead towards some great goal beyond the horizons of lesser men. Buck stated with a minimum of words facts about my body, as his coarse and powerful hand moved along tender moisturized skin.
“Doctor Matthew is my name, and this looks like my specialty”, said another man and sat down next to me, his penetrating gaze fixed on me. He had that intelligent air around him that only very few men exuded as if he knew the ultimate and primordial designs of man, the universe, and everything in between. A medical doctor, he said, somewhere around his fifties with silver hair, and a tailor-made shirt of the finest Imperial Twill fabric. His hand surgically tickled my other leg.
Doctor Matthew and Buck were coordinated in their approach, like a pair of brotherly lions hunting prey together. How would they split the spoils, as it were, I wondered, and felt the dick stir inside my jockstrap.
Doctor Matthew was more talkative. He skipped the usual pick-up lines and cheesy compliments, however. Rather, he used his verbal capacities to inquire about life, lust and mood of yours truly. He knew how to make a young man talk, think out loud and confess. Buck had not even reached my nipples in his groping journey across my body before I had disclosed to Doctor Matthew my workout routine, my doubts about consumerism, and the circumstances of my first time sucking hard dick (oh, Sam, those short fumbling minutes are imprinted in my memory).
By now I was more than well-acquainted with the ordinary routines deployed by horny men of the city. What I was subject to between the aforementioned two men was no ordinary routine. My well-honed journalistic instincts, trained by top professors and the harsh reality of social malaise, told me I was subject to the identical treatment as the handsome men of my research. This routine was other-worldly.
No doubt, any submissive bottom would be like putty in the hands of these two men who were endowed with different, though highly potent, masculine powers.
I was soon thereafter in the backseat of Buck’s car as it plowed through busy nighttime New York streets. Doctor Matthew was in the back with me, asking more probing questions. They had stated their wish to “enjoy a night of purposeful pleasure”, and it felt wrong to resist that opportunity, despite the risks that might entail. Hence my place in the car. And hence the place of Doctor Matthew’s hand on my hard package between my legs as I spilled the beans about my various interests and desires.
Exactly where Buck drove us must, alas, remain secret — my mind was otherwise occupied. The windowless room was about a forty-minute drive from the BART, give or take a few minutes, with a few burgundy red sofas around a sizeable wooden table at the centre. On the walls were old-fashioned paintings of lush landscapes, mighty oaks, castles and towns of the Middle Ages, and I felt a faint and pleasant smell of fresh wood and burning candles. My apologies to the interior designers reading this, I feel for you.
“Reveal yourself”, Buck said and pointed to the table.
What a peculiar phrase. Both a command to undress fully and let every part of the body be exposed to view and touch, as well as a demand to let the real and raw man, as God fashioned him, come forth from behind the veils of contemporary society.
Buck and Doctor Matthew were seated, their eyes fixed on me. And I undressed and revealed myself, seemingly as an obedient boy caught in their den. I was indeed deep undercover, playing as part of my mission.
The reason, I surmise, for my success on this unchaste undercover manly mission, was my body, which upon the downward cascade of the crimson polyester jockstrap along pulchritudinous legs, that lightly kicked the evocative threads past the table edge, was fully exposed, all firm and festive, as an object to the desires and schemes of the all-powerful pair of ravenous lions. Consider also that on my list of youthful accomplishments are victories in sexiest ass contests and boy bubble butt battles, as well as at the end of high school, to Tammy-Lynne’s great chagrin, I was voted the most likely to suck off an entire college football team in the years to come.
This is all to say I knew that I had the body and flirty cheekiness to drive men mad with lust. Indeed, it was the briefest of inspections before Buck approached, grabbed me and pressed me down on all fours on the table, face down ass up — not one word uttered, but no doubt about the direction. Buck was a natural commander, a source of great force.
With yours truly pinned down in said submissive posture, Buck began to devour. Indeed, devour is the word that best captures what his mouth, tongue and teeth did to my raw flesh. His full beard tickled my skin, his tongue pushed, probed and pried, and he sucked and slurped on my body parts — all of them, from those that are a little bit tender, to those very much tender. Back by my award-winning butt, Buck licked, sucked and kissed, from balls to taint to buttocks to my twitching hole. His hands simultaneously reached forward, and with the right one he rubbed my right nipple, and his left index and middle finger were thrust into my warm mouth, from which, I must admit, a few muffled sounds of joy emanated. I was deep undercover after all. This way he worked me, tough and methodical, experienced and commanding.
All of a sudden Buck flipped me onto my back — I appeared as light as a feather to his stern force. He stood on his knees by my head, his still-clothed groin hypnotically close to my face, and he reached over, grabbed my thighs, folded my legs back up my torso and held me fixed in an iron grip. I send my thanks to past yoga instructors and heavy men with a proclivity for the missionary position, for the flexibility I had developed under their tutelage came in handy as Buck locked me into this staple posture in every bottom’s bodily arsenal.
My butt, my balls, and my rock-hard dick were this way served up to Doctor Matthew, who approached.
The Doctor’s touch was precise, the penetration deep, purposeful and uncompromising. With two fingers inside my butt, he administered an intense probing. If there is a textbook on Methods of Butt Probing the Young Human Male, Doctor Matthew would no doubt be its author. He turned me into a panting, dripping, moaning heap of tight twitching muscles, and he made me beg for more of the powerful man’s force to be applied. His other hand cupped, petted and pulled on my delicate scrotum, which was quick to tighten from the sensations induced by hands inside, on and around me.
To be truthful, I rather relished the position I was in. That is, locked in the exposed position by Buck’s commanding muscles, his crotch from time to time bumping against my face, and Doctor Matthew finding new spots on my body, and inside of it, to tickle and stroke. Men who know what they do are a turn-on.
It will surprise no reader that the whole-body sensation of a hands-free anal orgasm stirred within me. As my butthole clamped hard around the Doctor’s fingers, I shot my load upwards from my reclined submissive position.
Deep undercover reporting takes commitment and willpower to play the part that advances the truth. I am certain they suspected nothing. My ass and dick and eye-rolling groans of joyful sexual surrender had seen to that.
Buck and the Doctor exchanged a glance and they nodded. What did they communicate to each other? At least this much I can answer after the described intense minutes on the table in the timeless, windowless space: these two men possessed the capacity to fully command any impressionable bottom. The handsome gay men of my research would have been, in every way of the word, at the mercy of the two lion brothers of this den. What had this pair of mighty men ordered their captured prey to do next? What sequence of commands and stimulations led ultimately to the string of disappearances?
Many questions, one conclusion: this investigation had to continue. I had to commit to the path, come what may — it was no longer a choice, duty compelled me. Whatever Buck and the Doctor ordered, I would obey. Commit to face risk head-on, for the truth.
“On May 8th, 8 pm, be at the BART, not one second late. Your purpose awaits,” said Buck after he released his grip on my body. I looked up at his stern face and protruding crotch — my mouth agape, as any dick-craving bottom of repute would be at the said spectacle of manly bodily powers. By the all too common script of contemporary fucking, the two men’s hard penises would next be thrust in and out of my body. Yet neither man had shed a single piece of clothing, their proverbial armour intact. The procedure, the probing, the test — whatever the true label was of what had just transpired — was at an end.
As a precaution, they said, they drove me blindfolded through the city. Doctor Matthew held me in a warm and experienced embrace as he waxed poetically about my “body and creative power and the good life upon a hill”. It was quite unclear what he meant to communicate. Though somehow it was reassuring. He was a professional, a capable man of his craft. What craft, though, that too quite unclear.
I was dropped off on the sidewalk in my scant outfit. My ass had this night put me a big step closer to the truth. I was on the trail of the vanished men thanks to the lurid escapades of this night.
Only when Buck and Doctor Matthew had driven off into the kaleidoscope of New York nighttime traffic did the final mind-fuck hit me: they had dropped me off, not outside the BART, but rather outside the entrance to my humble apartment. This had not been a fortuitous encounter of aroused men. They knew who I was. This had been carefully planned, choreographed and expertly executed, top to bottom.
But to what end?
