Go-go

Go-go 3

by Emile

Copyright 2009

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Mitch decided he should do the 2am show in a Lycra thong.  The thin plastic sheath clung like shrink wrap to his studded and pinned dork, at the slightest movement send waves of throbbing pain from his arsecrack to his dicklips as the taut material pulled at the safety pins and stretched the skin underneath. The Lycra was a dirty cream colour, like a condom, and it not only rode low on his sexy hips, the thin waistband cutting across his hefty cockroot, but it also tapered dramatically to a narrow cuntlick of a strip, so that Mitch had to tuck his his battering ram straight down for him.  With his hands still cuffed behind him and tethered to the dildo, he couldn't dress himself, or put up any resistance.  He thought with horror how much bolder the groping and fingering would be when the johns in the club saw the muscular stud's beefy arms cuffed behind him, or noticed the short chain that dove under the thong, tethering his arms to the partly-seen buttstuffer.

If that wasn't enough, his heavy semi-hard porker pushed the thong away from his waist and  exposed cockflesh on the sides and his vulnerable sac underneath.  The only thing keeping the sac from spilling out was the wickedly short arsestrap, which not only mashed the balls between his thick thighs, ensuring they'd be battered as he danced, but also pulled the rear of the waistband almost to his crack, the small triangle of stretched lycra pushing directly against the still uncomfortably bloated pussyrammer wedged up his hole.  Even after 3 hours, the oversized dong still ripped at his innards, and the slow releasing plastic cockhead deep inside him might have been slowly reducing the girth from extreme to merely monster-sized, but the air building up in his gut was giving him cramps and build pressure on the dong, so he had to keep his chute tightly clenched to stop the dong ripping itself out.  The sweat from the exertion, trickling between his shoulderblades and moistening his crack, was making it harder and harder to do.

Mitch had also smeared his bald crotch with 'skin firming cream' - and it worked as promised, turning his wrinkled ballbag into a smooth and shiny balloon around his nads, and stretching his veiny dork so tight the foreskin slipped back all the way to the frenulum, making every scrape and shift tingle on his unprotected cockhead.  As 'dumb and ugly' as Mitch told him his uncut dork was, a sign of his poor latino upbringing, he knew how much clients would enjoy the fat and exposed mushroom head, achingly sensitive to their touch, and how much Carlos would buck and leak when they played with it.  Carlos was worried because every time Mitch smeared on the stuff, his skin got even tighter and more painful, and stuck glued to the shaft, and he wondered how long before the skin would split, or get infected trapped behind the head. 

Mitch hefted the thong a few times, ensuring the shaved and tortured nads were tightly held in the shiny strap.  Carlos moaned, thinking back to earlier times.  Once, he'd even been popular - senior year at school.  He'd played with the team since junior high, like all the solid guys, and his tall and powerful physique should have ensured his place on the team.  The coach, however, told him he 'didn't want hairy duckfucks on the team who couldn't understand a play', and so he was benched, a reserve for most of school.  Then, finally, he had a break, substituted for a linebacker and not only played well, but his strength and determination, and his towering hulk of muscle, helped the team win the day.  Despite his latent (and obvious) dislike for Carlos, coach put him on the team, and he played linebacker for the rest of the season.  Grudgingly, the guys who had always hassled and humiliated him in the corridors for years for his hand-me-down clothes and his accent came to accept him, he even briefly was taken in by the blonde captain, Tyler, got invited to his house parties, and laid his first non-latina girl.  They were good times, and he even imagined a life outside the projects, maybe a scholarship for college football.  He spent hours hanging with the guys at Tyler's house, even Tyler's state senator dad remembered his name, and stopped calling him Rico.  Tyler gave him some of his clothes, introduced him to his circle, the guys had a real bond.  In fact, Carlos had kid of idolised Tyler, in a mateship kind of way.  Tyler even got him the application forms for the same college.

But things never went right for Carlos, and just three weeks from homecoming, Tyler's dad resigned to become the ambassador to Panama.  A few days later, and he was shaking the old man's hand in front of their house being told to 'visit when you're over there', evidently mistaking Carlos for Panamanian (or just not giving a fuck) while Tyler, stripped to the waist, hauled boxes to his SUV.  When his dad went in, Tyler came up to Carlos, grabbing his hand and hauling him into a sweaty bear hug.  "Hey I'm real sorry, but with my parents gone they're making me go upstate - we've got family up there and its close to college..."  Tyler had a thought and brightened up, giving him a winner smile. "But hey man, it's, what, three fucking weeks and then homecoming!  I'll definitely be back for that, the Mindy twins have already said yes to both of us, and then graduation, college, here we come.  You gotta keep it a secret, but I had a word to coach today, and he promised he'll make you captain for sure.  The scholarship's in the bag!"  With another sweaty hug, he was gone.  Next day, Jimmy Wick made captain, and Carlos sheepishly went to see the coach.  After a few mumbled sentences about thinking he was maybe up for it, the coach tossed him out of the room with a "hell no, wetback, I don't care what the fuck your little friend told you, he shipped out on us, so I ain't doing nobody no favours.  Jimmy's the man, and for that backtalk, you're back on the bench, spic boy."  Every game the scouts were out, he was on the bench.  Scholarship wasn't in the bag, it was out the window.  Tyler never made it back for homecoming, or graduation, but then Carlos didn't make it either.  His brother was taken in about a shooting, and he had to fill his job at the burger joint, to pay for his father's addictions.  When they finally released his brother without charge, he took his job back, but Carlos had already flunked out, and had nothing.  That was the week he heard about Mitch's.

But thinking of Tyler wasn't a happy memory for Carlos, and his tight stretched dickskin only reminded him how different his life was now, how much he'd fucked up, or been fucked up, or just fucked.  A few months ago, in a private session with soundproof walls, a client had gone a bit wild on Carlos, ramming indescribable objects in every orifice, pummelling him inside and out until he had to be hospitalised.  This had happened before, in fact Mitch depended on the scars and tear marks to 'grade' his dancers from newbie to fuckhole, and showed nothing but professional concern.  Wearing just a hospital gown and thin sheet, with both his arms in traction so the gown pulled up and didn't even cover his horsecock, were the two most uncomfortable weeks of his life.  He was whacked out on painkillers most of the time, and when he came to, it was always a shock.  The first time, he awoke to find Tyler standing over him, on crutches but still looking like a corn-fed hero.  His face was lined with concern, but he flashed Carlos a toothy grin when he stirred.  "Hey bro, one of my visitors saw your name on the board when they visited, told me you were in here.  Came down as soon as I could.  Wow, you look like shit, what'd you do, pick a fight with The Hulk?"  Carlos was grateful the gown and thin sheet covered most of his injuries, although his face was still a mess of dark brown welts, and he could feel his cock stirring uncomfortably as Tyler sat on the bed, with his hand reassuringly patting his thigh.  He'd been a manwhore for too long, and since he rarely got his rocks off, his body reacted on cue, pushing at the thin sheet, without even the gown to weigh it down.  If Tyler noticed, he said nothing, chatting about college girls and varsity football, never asking why Carlos had never come.  It was like imagining the life he almost had, all over again.

When Tyler left, he was at the mercy of the public ward, getting the most basic healthcare Mitch afforded him while slut nurses and sleazy dealers ogled his Altantean body, his tightly stretched cockflap had softened to its normal elasticity, and then some, the once beautiful firm velvety skin hung in loose folds on his cockshaft, overhanging the head by inches instead of hugging the meatus like it used to do.  Some of the boys came down from the club to see him all beat up and whacked out on painkillers, and had pulled the threadbare sheet down from his pits and pushing  the gown up to his neck, revealing his naked fucked up body to the ward, and taking pictures on their phone to show their buddies.  The boys had taken special care of his dork, pumping it til it was hard, so the fat fucker stood proud from his taut stomach, loose flaps of stretched skin hanging like bags from the shaft.  It was humiliating.  Mitch called it his hooting dog pizzle, putting him down a notch on his list.  Not that that mattered in the short term, once the guys in the ward had seen them working over the dancer and knew he was powerless to resist with his arms slung above his head and legs bruised and tender, he was fair game for every throbbing dick that could hobble the few steps to his bed and climb on board.  The female nurses stayed away, the male nurses took pictures.

One evening, as a forty year old guy with haemmerhoids was kneeling on the bed, forcing Carlos into a horizontal crouch so he could pump his arse with short careless stabs and call him bitch and slut, he caught a glimpse of Tyler standing at the door, arms and jaw slack with shock.  He never thought he'd see him again, but very late that night, when the guys had had their fill and the ward was a symphony of snores and farts, Carlos awoke to feel hands pressing on his bruised body, to see Tyler climbing up on the bed, forcing his bruised legs wide.  He whispered "I'm sorry" before gently feeding his very hard, cucumber thick bone in Carlos wet and sloppy arse.  He was gentle, almost loving, but the pain of a million tears and stretches, and the horror of seeing his hero close his eyes and fuck him, was overwhelming.  Despite it, his own hooting cock hardened, his dicklips peeking from the purple flap, and he juiced wet throughout the long low rape.  He got hard plenty, and leaked all the time since he was never brought off, but this was different, some part of him was getting off on it, or on the exquisite humiliation of it, a Pavlov's dog for pigsex, for being stretched wide in the worst possible ways.  They both cried as he came, the flood of hot sperm coating his hole, squirting over his legs and Tyler's crotch.  Soundlessly, he climbed down, dick and balls still coated with juice as he left the gown fall back in place, and he hobbled away as fast as he could. By the end of the week, when they took his arms out of traction, he'd been fucked by fifteen different guys, and the male nurses even called him Wet Boy, on account of the messed up leaking choad and the permanent wet patch under his loose fucked arse.  Tyler had never returned, but it didn't matter.  By the end of the week, he was broken.

Mitch kind of enjoyed hearing how he'd been tricked out to the ward, and responded by renting him out to even sicker fuckers on his return.  They chewed and twisted the hooting skin, mauled his puckered tits, tied him up and beat him off, forcing him in tight cockrings that kept him hard, or wicked chastity belts that prevented it, before taking him to parties.  Not just sex parties, on premises. Carlos was led around, tied up in short shorts that were hiked up to the waistband, at regular bashes, with beer kegs and J Crew kids, a freak show for their amusement, the half time entertainment. Before he'd been a clean cut latino boy that had fallen on bad times.  After the hospital, and the constant degradation, ther was nothing clean or cut about him and every john who wanted to prod, pinch, pierce or pummel him had Mitch's consent, provided they paid, fucking Carlos' linebacker's body like never before.  Eventually the cream had tightened his foreskin up again to its current agonising grip, but not before johns had pinched, prodded and pierced him like a well darned sock, and the cuts and holes now stretched obscenely, making his cockshaft even uglier.  And despite his constant fear of word getting back to his family, now every jock boy in town had seen 'Carlos the Donkey Freak' being hauled around, and had him litterally by the balls.

But worse than that, after a few week, Mitch put him on the private lounge.  Carlos had been scared of the lounge, a sign of how much he'd fallen, and his whole muscular body shook. Mitch told him he wouldn't have done it, but a new client asked for Carlos, saying something about a high school reunion.  Carlos' sweat ran cold, Jimmy had been at the parties, where Carlos had told him it was just a costume gig, but Tyler could have told him the truth.  While he sweated on it, Mitch took him through the ropes.  The private area had lush red carpet, which muffled his footsteps, and only served to make the twacking sound of his churning big boy balls and hefty fuckstick louder as he walked the corridor behind him.  In the private area, the dancers went buck naked, hands by their sides or above their heads, unless a client told them otherwise.  Carlos was a good Catholic boy, and had always been shy, protective of the thin straps of clothing he wore in his dances, or the short shorts on the town, so now, to be completely on show was humiliating. Worse was being told to lean against the wall and spread 'em for a cavity search, or to rub himself, hands free, against the glass screen, something any private client walking by could force him to do.   But his biggest fear was the private show itself.  Every guy had his own show, Nikos and the dogs, Doublefucked Damon, the sickest shit went down behind the velvet curtains.  Carlos had only been fucked by half a dozen guys before the hospital, and only had he really been stretched by Tyler.  He still burned in humiliation at arseplay.  So when Mitch introduced him to Brutus, the 12 inch red plastic dong, he knew what his show would be.  It was almost inhumanly large, knobbled and twisted, no guy had taken it without ruining his fuckhole forever.  Mitch led him into the private room, where his first client was waiting.  Mitch handed him the dong, telling him it had been the special request of this client that Brutus be his new toy.  He'd also asked for Carlos to crawl in the room with it hanging out of his mouth, so his first task would be learning how to deepthroat Brutus, at least enough of the fake plastic dong that he could grip it in his teeth.  It would take a lot of concentration, what with crawling bow legged, arse up and dork dangling, at the same time.

The VIP client had just come in, and Mitch had said the word. Carlos' stomach churned.  As Mitch made the final adjustments on his lycra strap, slipping a pill in Carlos' mouth with a scum covered finger, Carlos' mind was dreading not only the 2am show ahead of him, but his private show after. In the audience, Tyler put down his bundle and waited.  His oversized tool was uncomfortable in his pants, and it had been weeks since he'd found a hole that could take it.  Weeks since he'd seen Carlos.  He'd even brought him a present, all the way from Guatamala...