I don’t usually frequent bars, as a matter of course. I’m too old, now, to want to subject myself to some kind of “meat market” where everyone there is judging everyone else based solely on how they look that night, and whether they’ve been to the gym, and how much their haircut costs. I’m not a fan of sports, which is typically being broadcast on too many screens above the general din of the fans cheering on one team over another in a contest that couldn’t, in the grand scope of things, matter less. And beer just bores me.
On the other hand, I am a sucker for these so-called mixology places that take a list of mysterious, house-made ingredients and shake them all up together into some alcoholic brew that tickles your tongue and leaves you swimming in a haze of happiness. So it was with no small amount of anticipation and pleasure that I stood before the unadorned door to an establishment that had left hanging from my door an invitation to come by and try them out.
They were not in my neighborhood—one already overrun with shoe boutiques and cupcake stores and all manner of trendy little shoppes selling expensive wares—and were instead located some distance away in a section of the city that was, shall we say, less than optimal. Why they had chosen this particular spot was a bit mysterious, though with lease prices through the roof in most other areas, perhaps this was a more judicious choice than I gave credit for.
There was no sign, no windows, no outward indication at all that this was the place. The numbers of the street address, in fact, were nowhere in evidence and I had to deduce its location based on the neighboring properties.
It was called, simply, “Drink.” I liked that. It was all I really wanted from a bar. A good, stiff drink. The invitation itself was a plain white sheath of paper—more like an index card—with the name of the place, its address and hours of operation on one side (no phone number, I noted), and a hand-scrawled invitation on the other which read, “For those with discerning tastes. Ask for Rex.”
The name—Rex—looked to be a kind of signature, leading me to believe that whomever Rex was, he had written the note with his own hand. Seemed like a lot of work, to me, writing all these invitations and sticking them to doors all over the city, but who was I to judge someone else’s waste of time?
I was there early, hoping to avoid a crowd. The sun was just setting, causing a pink hue to color everything, and it made the outside of the building—normally a sort of indistinct beige color—to look very much like skin. I half-expected the place to start breathing.
There was no bell, and the handle wouldn’t turn, but it was at least an hour after the supposed opening time so I elected to knock.
A panel, which could not otherwise be observed, slide aside and a pair of dark eyes, rather remarkable in character, appeared there observing me. “Invitation?”
By the voice, it was a man who was addressing me, though the lashes surrounding the eyes appeared fairly dark and thick. “Invitation?” I echoed. I was unaware that any was required.
“I, uh—Rex sent me?” It was a wager.
The eyes crinkled into what I expected was the reflection of the man’s smile.
The panel slid shut, the handle turned and the door slowly opened, showing only darkness beyond. It smelled a bit like sawdust inside, as well as whisky and leather. Very manly, in other words, but in all the good ways. I suppose there was a whiff of something else, but it disappeared or was masked by citrus and juniper. I stepped inside and the door closed after me, allowing my eyes to slowly adjust to the relative darkness inside.
Happily, there was no music playing and there were no screens mounted over the bar or anywhere else. The dimness was diminished by a series of sconces arrayed about the walls, that looked to be actual working gaslights. The floor was dark, bare wood, polished to a ruddy shine, and the walls were likewise covered in something like mahogany. It was a small space, and quiet, with three tables arrayed about the floor and a very long bar along the far wall.
“Welcome,” a man said. He was the same one who had allowed me entry, and I turned slightly to thank him when my voice caught in my throat and my pulse began to race.
He was, easily, one of the most striking looking gentlemen I had ever beheld, either in person or in print. Tallish—at least, taller than me—with a lick of slicked-back black hair on his head and a rather rakish and impressive mustache on his upper lip, his eyes were black coals set into a face that was, to be blunt, making my dick swell. He was certainly handsome, but it was something more than that, as if a kind of invisible shield of physical beauty and intense charisma surrounded him. He was smiling, a slim curve of his full lips, and it showed a set of dimples in his cheeks. He had a broad neck that was encircled by a high shirt collar buttoned to the top. He wore a thin, archaic tie that dangled over an impressive chest and the sleeves of that shirt were visibly straining to maintain their composure over what appeared to be 18-inch upper arms with thickly swollen biceps.
Perhaps he was used to this reaction, for he simply stood there looking at me until I said, at last, “Thank you,” before he gestured towards the bar and the man behind it mopping the surface with a white towel.
“Please,” he said. A man of few words, apparently, but with a voice as deep and beautiful as that, perhaps few were necessary. I nodded acquiescence and turned towards the other end of the room, walking with as much composure as I could manage—I could literally feel the man behind me—to the bar. The barkeeper looked up and smiled, and I stumbled slightly at the sight of him.
Where did they find these men? The man behind the bar was every bit as beautiful and imposing as his workmate. He stood up, now, to a towering figure and, again like his friend, he was a collection of perfectly arranged and massively developed muscles encased inside a long-sleeved, buttoned-up shirt and tie. His hair was a shock of red-blonde waves that wanted to slide over a pair of sea-green eyes. He was sporting a full beard, impressive in its size and fullness, and his smile was filled with intensely white teeth. His neck was at least as wide as his head, or perhaps it was the way his ears stuck out in a most attractive way.
It made me think of grabbing them as his mouth sucked on my still-throbbing cock, like handles.
He nodded to me and I perched on a stool. The other man leaned his muscled bulk on the edge of the bar and nodded to the barkeep before casting his dark gaze at me.
“Rex?” I asked, at a loss for words.
The barkeep’s smile increased in wattage. “He’ll be in later tonight.” He offered his hand and I took it, feeling the cool, dry skin and rough, hard grip as he said, “I’m Ivan, and this is Jon.” Jon nodded again, and Ivan said, “He’s the strong silent type.”
“So I gathered,” I said. Curiously, I didn’t feel at all self-conscious under the close scrutiny of the man. I wanted him to look at me, and the way he was doing it made me feel…good, as if he was quietly complimentary without saying anything at all. Certainly I was being stared at, but it felt more like I was some piece of art to be cherished and admired, rather than some animal in a zoo. “Interesting place.”
“We like to think so.” He had an odd accent, one I couldn’t quite place, and his consonants seemed slightly soft as if they drifted into his vowels. “Can I make you the house special?”
I looked for a blackboard or some other notice of what that might be, but there was nothing at all around—and no menu was offered, either. But something in his manner and his voice made me instantly trust him, and I answered, “Yes, please.”
“Coming right up,” he said, and he pulled a couple of recognizable liquor bottles and a few unlabeled ones up onto the dark wood of the bar and started mixing. “You… from around here?” he asked, looking up at one point in his pouring.
I nodded. “It’s interesting, I didn’t even see anything happening in here. It’s like it sprung up overnight.”
Ivan smiled. “We like keeping a low profile,” he explained.
“Seems like a bit of a poor business decision, though.”
He shrugged one shoulder. It was like watching a mountain swell. “We’re a bit particular about our clientele,” he explained. “We like to know they’re fully enjoying what we do here.”
I looked at Jon and asked, “And what do you do here?”
Jon’s handlebar mustaches curled upwards and he said, “Magic.”
I smiled back, trying to appear that I understood. “When do things start to pick up?”
“Things?” Jon asked.
“People. When do the crowds turn up?”
“There are never any crowds,” Ivan said, holding a silver mixer in one hand while he twirled the heavily iced concoction with the other. “As I said, we’re a bit particular.”
“I feel honored,” I said, because in a way I did. Having this personal attention was nice. One normally has to flag down a bartender just to get a gin and tonic. And here I was, alone, getting such amazing and personal service. “By the way, why did I get an invitation?”
“Why?” Jon asked. His voice nearly rattled the glasses.
I looked over and nodded. “Just curious.”
Jon looked at Ivan, his dark eyebrows rising slightly. Ivan poured the house special into a coupe glass and said, “You’d need to ask Rex. He’ll be here later, if you’d care to wait.”
“With such amazing service, why wouldn’t I?” I looked at the drink. It was slightly filmy, with a foamy layer on top. “Egg white?”, I asked.
Ivan smiled. “You wouldn’t want me to give away our secret recipe, would you?”
“I suppose not.” I lifted the cold glass in my fingers and took a whiff. Gin? Maybe? And something like nutmeg, or long pepper. A definite citrus tone, and something I couldn’t place, the same scent that I thought I smelled when I first entered. “What do you call it?”
“The same as the bar,” He said. “It’s just called The Drink.”
I laughed slightly. Very simple, though the drink itself looked to be anything but. “Skål,” I said, using the traditional Danish toast, and brought it to my lips.
An immediate and unexpected tingling sensation tickled my tongue. Was it effervescent and I hadn’t noticed? Perhaps a champagne float, but then how to explain the egg white foam? It was shockingly good, though! Both refreshing and soothing. I felt it slip down my throat and branch out like mercury inside me, cooling threads that lead everywhere. “Wow,” I said, genuinely impressed and pleased. “This is amazing.”
Ivan said, “Thank you,” and looked at Jon with a wink. Jon moved a bit closer to me, watching me with even more intent than before. I looked over and met his smile, and he set his hand on my shoulder and squeezed firmly.
“Good,” he said.
It didn’t sound like a question, but I answered, “Very good!” And I drank some more. The tingling dissipated on the second sip, and other flavors became more pronounced. I looked at the bottles, still on the bar, and said, “I can taste the lime and ginger, but there’s something….” I licked my lips and drank again. “Something so unique.”
Ivan nodded. “Yes, it’s something unique. We make it ourselves.”
“Like, bitters? Or a tincture?”
“Something like that.” I downed the last of the drink, slightly abashed that I had finished it so quickly, and set the empty glass on the bar, looking at it longingly. Ivan asked, “Would you care for another?”
“Perhaps I should wait a minute or two. I’m feeling a bit giddy.”
He smiled as he took the empty glass. “Understood, sir. No problem.” He looked at Jon. “What about you?” he asked.
“Sure,” the dark man answered, and he straightened now but did not move an inch away from me.
I thought it a bit off that the employees were going to partake, but then perhaps knowing their product was important. “The usual?” Ivan asked him.
“Please,” he answered. Now that I listened to him, Jon seemed to possess the same unusual accent as Ivan, though a bit more pronounced. Perhaps his reticence to speak was an indication of a lack of command over the English language, though it was hard to fathom that the man would be embarrassed about anything whatsoever.
I glanced down and noticed, now, a rather prodigious and impressive bulge. He was wearing a pair of wool slacks, with the shirt tucked in tightly, and it appeared, from the side, that the man was either keeping an extra pair of socks in his groin, or that he was gifted with one of the biggest sets of sexual equipment in the state—or the country. I was honestly shocked at the prominence, and realized a tad too late that I was staring quite openly at it.
But Jon turned slightly to face me, as if to showcase his assets proudly, and when I managed to pull my eyes from the hugeness of his bulge, I found him smiling back at me with a knowing gaze. I said, “Sorry,” because that was all I could think to say.
“It’s all right,” Ivan said beside me, “everyone has the same reaction.”
I looked down again at his bulging pride, and now it seemed to me that details I hadn’t seen before were emerging. The shape of his cock. The ridge of the helmet. The length of the shaft. I turned back around to face Ivan, feeling a bit overwhelmed. “Jesus,” I said, quietly.
“He gets that a lot,” Ivan explained. “I’ve told him that perhaps he shouldn’t wear his pants so tightly, but it doesn’t seem to matter.”
Looking down, there was another Drink on the bar before me. Looking over, I noticed that Jon was partaking of something different, more milky and thicker than my own, like a Gin Fizz with cream and crushed ice—without the ice. He gulped it down in a single quaff, and set the empty glass on the bar, closing his eyes in apparent appreciation of its taste. I took the opportunity to cast my gaze south again and could clearly, now, make out exactly how long his cock was, and its girth, and the size of the head that pushed with insistence against his trousers. The man had nine inches, easily, and I watched a miraculous and wonderful movement.
Was he growing aroused? Was he growing bigger as I watched? Lengthening along his thigh, stretching and swelling, engorged on his own masculine beauty?
I looked up and he was watching me again, and he said, “Good.”
“I guess so,” I agreed, reaching now for my own drink. The tingling was back, stronger now. I looked at the drink to see if the mix had changed. “Is this the same?”
Ivan smiled. “I added a bit,” he explained. “You seemed to like it so much. We tend to go lighter at first, but I think Rex was right about you.”
“Who is Rex? The owner?” I sipped again. Damn, it tasted so good! My head was starting to feel a bit fuzzy, though. I needed to slow down a bit.
“We all own the place together, Rex and Jon and I. Rex is more of a…recruiter. He finds me….people who would be likely to—understand what we do here.”
Was Jon standing closer, still? I didn’t look over, but it felt as if he was almost touch my arm, brushing it with his own. But his arm was so big, so…overwhelmed with muscle, perhaps it only seemed that way.
“He’ll be in later,” Ivan said, drawing my attention back to the conversation.
He nodded, then looked at Jon and asked, “How are you doing?”
“More,” the dark-eyed man growled. It sounded like an order, rather than a request.
But Ivan just smiled through his thick beard and started to make another drink for the man looming so closely besides me.
Not that I was complaining. Something about Jon felt safe, as if I needed him there, close to me. Again, a palpable sense of his size, his bulk, his power, seemed to wash over me in a sudden wave. I looked over…and up, into his eyes. He seemed taller than ever, but perhaps I was only slumped on my stool, enjoying the stupefying effects of the Drink.
Then his hand was on my shoulder again. He leaned into me. I could feel the strong, hard muscle of his chest pressing against me. I could… smell him. That odd scent on his breath, distilled and pungent. Something sour and sweet, but not altogether unpleasant. His other hand, I now noticed, was cupping his crotch, and he was kneading the meat swelling there.
I knew I should’ve been shocked by this development—not to mention the ongoing and alarming development of the meat in his pants. The bulge was swelling at an amazing rate, and it was very clear that the man’s arousal was not abating in the least. But rather than being embarrassed or taken aback by his outright and overt fondling, it was turning me on.
My cock was showing renewed signs of life, and I could feel the head pushing against my jeans and the whole of it was throbbing with hard, dull pulses.
I swallowed hard and my mouth felt dry. My pulse quickened and the room started to feel hot. I looked at Ivan and said, “Those things pack quite a punch. I think I had better slow down a little.”
“Feeling okay?” His head tilted. So did the room.
I stuck a finger in my collar and said, “Feels kind of hot.”
Jon’s hand squeezed my flesh. A tingle of something like sex echoed through my entire body. “Good,” he said, his favorite word. Then he lifted his hand from me—I immediately missed its weight and heat—and started to undo his tie. His fingers were big and meaty, and his neck was too.
I looked at Ivan to see if he was going to object, but he was only looking at me in the same way, to see if I would. And I didn’t.
Then Ivan was joining the two of us in our cups, pouring something thick and white into a heavy-bottomed glass and pulling that his lips. I watched his Adam’s Apple bob as he swallowed the whole drink in a long, luxurious gulp. He wiped his lips with the back of his hand, then used his fingers to gingerly straighten his impressive mustaches.
He stood there for a heartbeat looking at me. He seemed to take a deep inhalation, his nostrils flaring and his chest rising and spreading, stretching the material of his tight shirt into sun rays. But he did not seem to exhale. His shirt—and his chest—stayed that way. Swollen and stretched and larger than before.
I looked back at Jon and he was unbuttoning his shirt and pulling it open. His chest was as broad and muscular as the shirt had hinted, with a wealth of manly curls dusting his ruddy skin. I noticed that the whiskers on his chin and cheeks extended down his neck, in an almost unbroken forest of fur leading to his chest.
He pulled the shirt open and out of his tight slacks, and his undone tie hung between the brawny hemispheres of his meaty pecs. He reached over and took the glass of filmy liquid in his large hand and downed it. His eyes never left mine as he drank with evident gusto and thirst, sighing with contentment as he placed the empty glass on the bar’s dark wood.
“Good,” he said. Then his hand was inside his shirt, and he was rubbing his own nipple with his middle finger.
I watched him with an odd sense of detachment. I realized that he was watching me as he pleasured his nipple. His eyes, dark and sparking with sexuality, were scanning my face and my body as his rough finger plucked at his fat nipple. He was breathing slowly, but it seemed that it was only the sound I could hear. The sound of his breathing, accompanied by the swell of his chest. His chest, made up of two hard globes of meat. Two hard globes of muscle, swelling outward.
I looked down at the man’s obscene and unavoidable crotch. His other hand was cupping the bulging basket, kneading and squeezing what it contained to ever expanding extents. The whole of the man’s insanely sized shaft was now quite easy to discern. It was inches long, thick as a broom handle and extending sideways as it insistently pushed longer and longer.
I felt a bit dizzy, as if the blood was leaving my brain for parts further south. My own cock felt heavy and hot.
I opened my mouth to speak, and suddenly Jon’s mouth was there instead, his lips pressed to mine, and he was kissing me with a passionate intensity that made my heart beat faster. Heat suffused me, the heat of desire and sex, and I kissed him back greedily.
His hand was on the back of my head, now, pulling me to him. His lips and tongue worked magic in the kiss, showing me his need, telling me everything I needed to know without words. My hand drifted down his body, over the sleek and beautiful muscle on his torso, the broad, thick pecs and the…oh my god…heart-pounding six-pack that bulged along his slim belly, and I found the swelling center of his passion, rubbing my palm along the heat of his cock.
He was huge. And he sighed and groaned when I touched him there.
He broke the kiss and ours eyes met and he said, “Drink.”
A cup was at my lips. I drank the liquid into my mouth. A shock like electricity coated my tongue and I gulped the thick, tangy drink down my throat. Then he was kissing me again, and his hand was on my prick, kneading the growth and pushing the heat higher and higher.
Ivan said something, but my ears were ringing and my vision went black and all I could feel, the only thing happening, was that kiss and that hand on my swelling, hot cock. It felt like I was going to explode, like I was going to grow so big so fast that I would rip through my jeans, and then Jon was opening my fly and digging my prick free and his hand stroked and squeezed and coaxed me to grow bigger and longer and fatter and harder.
I wanted more. My thirst was unquenchable. Stars were dancing in my vision. My body felt heavy and thick. Jon was on his knees before me, his mouth was wrapped around my cock. I was pushing the shirt from his body as he pulled me effortlessly towards orgasmic release. Throbbing tingles of sex shook me and I could feel my load building towards explosion.
A glass was at my lips. I swallowed as it was poured into my mouth, trickling along the edges and down my chin and neck. A heat accompanied the liquid inside me. It seemed to penetrate me, to travel through me, from my mouth directly to my heavy, throbbing balls. My clothing felt tight and restrictive. My cock was so hard it hurt. I wanted to cum very badly, and Jon was making it clear that he wanted that, too.
I looked at Ivan through the haze of my bliss. He was shirtless now—perhaps entirely naked behind the bar. His body was magnificent. He lifted the glass to my lips and poured it inside me. He lifted another glass to his own mouth and drank it down. I closed my eyes as the heat grew intense, and my cock was screaming for release, and I balled my hands into fists and felt my shirt tearing along the shoulders and chest. I looked down at Jon’s massive shoulders and watched him bobbing on my cock, holding the shank in his rough grip and sucking with steady, insistent need.
It tasted magnificent. I craved it, whatever it was. It was entering me and branching out, as if part of my blood, or part of my bones. I could feel myself grow heavy with its infusion. I was drinking hot metal, and it was infusing itself with me. I was so close. So, so close.
I shot a fat rope of cream into Jon’s mouth. It felt like I was releasing a gallon of cum out of my cock. I regrouped and shot again, feeling it shooting through the inches of my heavy, hot, hard prick and deliver its heat and sweetness into Jon’s mouth. He gagged on me, and his eyes teared up. I was giving him everything.
Another shot. A fat gout of thick white honey. And then another. I kept coming and coming.
And with every ejaculation, with every release of cream, with every fat fountain of my delicious cum, I felt myself grow lighter.
I looked down.
Jon. Jon was growing. I could see him grow. His muscles. His muscles were swelling beneath his skin. He stroked me and I came again. I shot myself into him and he suddenly swelled with brawn. The lobes on his shoulders separated and expanded. His neck thickened. His arms swelled with new brawn.
He stroked and sucked. I gasped and came again. Fuck, I came again, as hard as ever. Shoving myself into the man on his knees in worship to my cock. I came into him and he was growing bigger and bigger.
A glass at my lips. Its smell intoxicated. Its taste made me swoon and gulp. It became me and Jon stroked me and I shoved my hips forward and delivered another full, hearty, amazing, overwhelming flood of cum from my heavy, swollen balls and up the thick, hard inches of my cock and he drank it all and grew.
I came again.
I came again.
Jon stood up. His naked body was now swollen huge with muscle. He stood an inch or two taller. His prodigious cock, released from its cage, was at least ten inches long and rose to its magnificence between his thick and powerful thighs. He was smiling as he wiped the remnants of my cum from the corner of his mouth. His chest had expanded so thick and wide and firm that his fat nipples had started to point towards the floor. A heavy forest of dark fur covered his body. Cords of muscle stood out on his neck and his shoulders and arms were swollen with fat balls and thick cables of raw brawn.
He put his hands on my shoulders and forced me to my knees.
His cock rose before my eyes. It was glistening and red and hot. I could feel its heat. I could smell the man’s essence from his balls and his ass.
I looked up towards him, towards his eyes, past all the bulging glory of his muscular body.
He smiled as he grabbed his cock and guided the swollen helmet towards my lips.
I had not heard from my friend in quite some time, which was both worrisome and, to be frank, not totally unexpected. He was prone to bouts of silence, and was not a man tied to his email or mobile like the rest of us. Even so, it was a bit of a surprise when I heard at last from him, and it was in the form of an unusual request and an even more unusual location.
Sorry I’ve been out of touch for the past couple of weeks. I realize we had some plans that I blew off and I apologize for not contacting you earlier. Please meet me at Drink and I’ll explain everything and offer a more personal apology. I know I can make up for everything. I’ve included a map link below. The bar is a bit hard to find, but I promise it’s worth your while.
Wear something comfortable. And tell them Rex sent you.
He was something of a cocktail aficionado, so I had no doubt that wherever and whatever this place was, it would certainly be a unique and interesting experience.
That last line had me wondering exactly what kind of surprise he had in store for me. That was out of character for him. And what was with all the espionage and secret passwords? Was this going to be one of those pretentious speakeasy bars with too many rules and not enough bartenders?
I enjoyed a good drink as much as the next man, but waiting 20 minutes for some organic concoction made from a 100-year-old recipe wasn’t interesting to me. Just hand me a Martini made with a decent gin and some good dry Vermouth and I was a happy lad.
He mentioned a date and time which was, frankly, a bit inconvenient for my schedule, but there was something about his words and his lengthy disappearance that had my curiosity piqued, so I answered in the affirmative and set off at the appointed time to locate this mysterious and “hard to find” establishment.
As it turned out, my friend was not joking regarding the location and discovery of Drink. The neighborhood itself was a collection of buildings that, shall we say, would be better off as rat cages than places of business, and the streets surrounding the bar were both dark and empty. It defied logic that any business would purposely set themselves up in such a place, and it was even more odd that the place itself had no external signage of any kind, let alone a lit-up ‘bar’ indicator in case someone accidentally stumbled by the place.
But according to the map on my cell and his instructions, I found myself standing before a windowless, nondescript edifice with a single door off the street, proper, and no sign that the place was even open. The door was locked, oddly, and there was no bell or other device to let them know you were thirsty.
I knocked, rapping the cold metal door with my knuckles, and a panel slid aside. Hmm, I thought, so it is going to be some Disneyesque pretend bar. This did not inspire happiness in me.
A set of eyes appeared in the darkness of the open panel. Clearly masculine, with a heavy brow and thick lashes set around what was, admittedly, a very interesting and exciting gaze. “Invitation?” the man asked. His voice was deep and had an odd accent, one that I could not immediately place.
The eyes moved up and down, indicating a nod. It seemed very dark inside there, and judging by the position of the panel and the height of his eyes, he was either very tall or the floor inside was a few inches above the street. “Invitation?” he repeated.
“Rex? Sent me?” I felt ridiculous saying it, but it did the trick. His eyes indicated a smile had appeared somewhere on that hidden face and the panel replaced itself with a sealing click and the door opened.
I looked down and the floor did not seem to be any higher than the street, so I was not going to trip and fall setting foot inside. It was certainly dark in there, but a heat escaped the bar as the door opened—heat accompanied by a peculiar scent, both familiar and unfamiliar at once. It was as if someone had taken a set of smells one might associate with masculinity, sweat and leather, wood, something else green and something spicy, and mingled them into a new perfume that was at once enticing and dangerous.
The door opened wider and the owner of the dark gaze stepped into the gap. I’m sure my face registered surprise as I looked upon him fully, because he was, quite simply, devastatingly beautiful.
Just as my friend is an aficionado of the mixed drink, I am something of an expert on male beauty. I…collect it, as it were. I may considered quite plain by most, but I know beauty when I see it, even in its raw and unrefined form.
This man was a diamond in the rough—‘rough’ being a considerably accurate description of his mien. He was very tall, as I had surmised, and somewhat overwhelming as a result. Again, I am not a small man myself, but he was literally head and shoulders above me, standing perhaps six feet and eight or nine inches.
For all his height, he was also, apparently, quite fit. Though he was wearing a long-sleeved shirt and slacks, with a tie knotted at the nape of his muscular neck and his body was covered up, the clothing was doing a poor job of hiding his physical assets—or, put another way, the clothing was doing a marvelous job of displaying his physical assets.
He was very muscular, in an athletic way. In other words, and at a glance, it appeared that he had obtained his rather remarkable physique not by spending countless hours pushing iron around at a gym, but rather through more athletic activities that lent his body an unabashedly powerful frame. His arms were quite thick and well defined—that was obvious even under the sleeves of his white shirt. The pants he wore seemed tailored for his body, and…then I saw it.
It was…well…it was…prominent.
His crotch tented those slim slacks and made manifest in the most conspicuous manner that either this tall, muscular, handsome brute was stuffing socks in his skivvies, or he was blessed with what I could only surmise was one of the largest sets of sexual equipment that I had ever encountered.
I think I swallowed drily looking at his groin when he said, “Welcome,” and drew my attentions back to his face. It was a series of richly masculine angles, highlighted by those very dark eyes beneath a heavy brow and, again, thick lashes. He was smiling now, with bright white teeth beneath an impressive set of mustaches that turned up at the ends. His jet black hair was slicked back on his scalp with a very distinct part on the left side, and his neck was nearly as thick as his head. “Thank you,” I managed to answer, and then he lifted one of his powerful arms and gestured for me to precede him into the bar.
It was dark, as I had thought, so dark that I required a moment’s adjustment before I could see anything at all. Then the interior details started to manifest and I liked everything that I saw. Dark wood floor boards had been polished to a luster. Three small tables were arranged on the floor, with no one sitting at them at the moment. There was no overhead lighting, and instead several gas lamps with small blue flames were fluttering along the walls.
A large and impressive bar, of the same polished dark wood, took up the entirety of the opposite wall, and the bartender was standing behind it with his hands planted on the surface, looking back at me with a smile on his face.
“Please,” the tall, muscular bouncer said, again gesturing for me to enter. I took a breath—inhaling that odd but enticing scent into my lungs—and followed his instructions. I could feel him looming behind me as we wandered into the room, and he followed me every step of the way as I went toward the bar.
“Hello,” the bartender said, “Welcome to Drink. I’m Ivan.”
I nodded and glanced backwards at the hulking mustachioed brute, who smiled quite warmly, pointed at his meaty chest and said, “Jon.”
“I’m happy to make your acquaintance,” I told them both, and offered my own name before explaining that I was to meet someone here this evening, and he appeared to be late.
Ivan was another impressive specimen. Smaller than the bouncer, but still displaying a body that had to be seen to be believed.
Were these moonlighting Olympic gymnasts? Or professional wrestlers? Maybe they were taking time off from rowing and javelin throwing and archery in their quests to be the most perfect all-around athletic specimens the world had ever seen in order to work at this nondescript bar hidden down an alley in a bad neighborhood.
What other possible explanation was there?
Ivan was similarly attired to his friend, Jon, with an almost identical body and level of muscular development. Did they even partake in the libations they offered? Liquor was almost entirely empty calories, yet these two men looked like they owned about 8% body fat—put together. “Ah, he mentioned you were coming,” Ivan said, smiling. “He didn’t mention that you were so handsome, though.”
I blinked, because I had not expected that—neither the sentiment nor the compliment. “Thank you,” I answered, because it was polite, and though I felt that his words were genuine, it seemed odd that so handsome a man himself would say that I was. Then Jon, still standing behind me (and quite close) seemed to grunt or moan an agreement, and I felt his body brush up against mine. It was brief, but I got the impression that it was intentional.
“What can I make for you,” Ivan asked, “while you wait?”
“You want the special,” Jon intoned behind me, placing his hand on my shoulder. His voice was absurdly deep, and that odd accent—Slavic? German?—made it quite erotic to my ears.
So I said, “I want the special,” and I tried to mimic his voice, but poorly, changing the w into a v and sounding something like a bad 1930’s Hollywood vampire.
Still, I heard the huge man gently laugh behind me, and suddenly his large hand was on my shoulder and he was squeezing me none-too-gently. “I like you,” he said. Was that his warm breath I felt on my neck, or my imagination? The warmth of his hand was also palpable.
Ivan pulled a couple of recognizable bottles onto the bar, along with something that might have been lemon juice and something that might have been milk or egg white. Citrus and milk was not something generally put together. One makes the other curdle. But I assumed he knew what he was doing. “Been open long?” I asked, attempting general conversation. I stood at the bar as Jon continues to loom close behind me.
“Not too long,” Ivan said. I could detect a bit of the same accent that Jon had so thickly on his tongue. He was pouring measurements into a glass and applying a silver shaker on top, lifting the drink above his shoulder and vigorously mixing it. I watched the muscles of his arms and chest swell and flex as he made my drink, amazed again at the development of his body and the odd juxtaposition of that with his occupation. “Are you an athlete?” I asked, genuinely interested.
Ivan put down the shaker and removed the top as he shook his head. “Not really,” he explained. “Why do you ask?”
“Your body,” I said, quite openly, “You seem…quite fit.”
He looked up at me and smiled, saying, “Thank you, sir,” without offering any further explanation. Then he was pouring the milky concoction into a cocktail glass and sliding it towards me. “The first one is on the house, sir,” he said.
Rather than question my good fortune, I simply nodded and took the slim stem into my hand and lifted the glass towards my lips. A pungent, though not unpleasant, scent accompanied the cocktail, and I could discern the juniper from the gin and the lemon quite distinctly. The other sensation wasn’t exactly a scent, so much as a sensation that stung my nostrils and, oddly, sent a thrill of eroticism towards my genitals.
I placed my lips on the edge of the glass, intending to sip its contents, but when the cocktail struck my tongue I had a sudden urge to drink the entire thing down, and so I did.
It was cold, and sweet, but sour, too. Something salty in it, and the milk tasted…familiar. As of course it should, but not exactly like milk. As I set the empty glass down, I asked Ivan, “Is that milk? It’s unusual.”
“It’s a type of milk, yes, sir.”
‘Type of milk’? What types were there? I was about to ask for elaboration when Jon set his hand on my shoulder again and said, “Good.”
I wasn’t sure if it was a question or a proclamation, but I nodded and said, “Yes, very good!”
“Another,” Jon said, again in that way of his that was both question and statement. Either way, and without answering, Ivan began to concoct another. Jon’s hand squeezed my shoulder again. It was an agreeable sensation.
“May I ask an odd question?”
Ivan raised one of his elegant eyebrows. Where Jon was a dark storm, Ivan was morning sunlight. He had a full beard on his boyish face, and a thick mane of strawberry blonde hair flowing across his head. His eyes changed from turquoise to mossy green as he moved, and he had a ready smile on his face that made dimples appear high on his cheeks. More beautiful than handsome, but still attractive to an absurd degree. “Of course, sir,” he said. Jon squeezed me again.
“Why did you open a bar here?”
“In this neighborhood?”
“Oh. The neighborhood. Would somewhere else have been more appropriate?”
I wrinkled my brow. “Well, I just mean…if you wanted to open a business, this doesn’t seem all that…successful.”
“Oh, I understand. Well, sir, we have slightly different goals here. Money isn’t as important to us.”
“Drink,” Jon said, squeezing my shoulder again. It felt powerful and comforting. I liked having him so near to me, and I liked having him touch me.
I took the next offered cocktail—noting that it was the same as before—and gulped it down. Two cocktails in so short a time was unusual for me, but they were unavoidably delicious. “Good,” Jon said, in that way of his.
I nodded, because it was, and set the empty glass on the bar. “You were saying?”
Ivan smiled as he took the glass and immediately set about making another one. I started to object, but he said, “This is Jon’s,” with one of his beautiful, open smiles. “I hope you don’t mind.”
I was feeling warm and friendly, and I shook my head. “I hate to drink alone,” I offered, looking over my shoulder.
Either I had forgotten how handsome Jon was, or the liquor was starting to color my senses, but his face—the sheer masculine perfection of if—suddenly made my cock throb and my balls tingle.
He met my gaze with his dark eyes and his full, moist lips parted slightly. I watched him breathing as he looked at me, with the sensation that I was looking at some wild beast about to pounce, or some hungry panther viewing his meal. It made a thrill run down my spine and my body heated up.
He smiled at me, making his thick mustaches lift up and causing his face to become instantly less menacing, but no less sensual. “Good,” he growled. Then his tongue licked his bottom lip and he pulled it inside and ran his teeth along the moist, soft surface.
My breath caught in my throat, and I was staring at this man’s overt masculine perfection when Ivan said, “Have a drink, Jon.” It made the huge, dark man’s midnight gaze move away from mine, and the spell was broken.
He shifted his bulk to my side, leaning against the bar and he was again looking at me as he downed the drink in a single gulp. He closed his eyes and I watched his Adam’s Apple bob as he swallowed every drop of the contents, savoring the sensation with something close to ecstasy. “Good,” he groaned softly, and he sucked in a deep breath.
I watched his chest expand and test the strength of the buttons on his shirt. He was, indeed, a monstrously strong man, if the size and thickness of the pectoral plates mounted on his wide upper body were any indication. He stretched his neck around and I watched the tendons and muscle stretch and flex. It was a very sensuous display, and my hand ached to reach up and feel the man’s warm skin, feel the play of his muscles and feel his hardness in my fingers.
With his head bent back and his eyes closed, as if in some ecstatic daze, Jon’s right hand came up to his left pec and he set it there, moving his middle finger very slowly and very carefully over the obvious nub of his prominent nipple. Then he moved the hand down his body, over his flat belly and his belt buckle, until it rested on his ominous and alarming bulge where he proceeded, quite openly, to squeeze, caress and rub himself with open and erotic pleasure. A deep, heavy moan escaped his throat, and when I looked up again, his ebony gaze was locked on me as he continued, with apparent disregard to propriety, to fondle himself with his strong, large hand.
He smiled at me, as if reading my mind, and all the filthy thoughts circling inside.
“How about you, sir?”
Ivan’s voice drew me back from my reverie, but I could not take my eyes off of Jon’s innate and very powerful display of male beauty. “Me?” I asked. I was growing hotter by the minute, but I did not know if that was from the drink, the dick, or my proximity to a man of such overwhelming strength and power.
“Would you care for another?”
“I…I think I should pause until my friend arrives,” I said. “I wouldn’t want to embarrass myself before he even got here.”
“Embarrass yourself, sir? Not possible,” Ivan advised. “You’re among friends here, and you should feel absolutely comfortable to act on any desires you may have.”
“I think… I think I should—”
“Is there anything you might wish at the moment, sir? I’m sure Jon would be happy to provide you with anything.”
Jon looked down at me and smiled. “Drink,” he said, like an order. His hand was still slowly squeezing his overwhelmed basket, and as I looked down again I could quite easily see what effects he was having on his ample equipment.
He certainly had not stuffed any socks in his underwear—if he was even wearing underwear. The growth he was manifesting, indeed encouraging, beneath his tight trousers was providing ample evidence that my suspicions concerning Jon’s natural assets were woefully understated.
What was growing down there, as he caressed himself in an open display of self-love and male power, was a thick shank of prick slowly lengthening along his thigh, swelling thicker by the inch as its flared helmet snuck closer and closer towards his knee.
“My god,” I said, without thinking. Then I swallowed thickly and blinked to clear my head. No one was that big. I had to be drunk. I looked at it again, and its details and ample dimensions seemed even more distinct than before. “Oh my god.”
Jon lowered his head and matched my gaze. His eyes were on fire. “Good,” he said, deeply.
“Sir?” Ivan asked. “May I pour you another?”
“Drink,” Jon advised, smiling. He did not take his hand from his crotch, but he used the other to grasp the cocktail glass off the bar and lift it to my lips. He tipped the rim up and I felt the cold liquid kiss me, so I opened my mouth and he poured it inside as I swallowed hungrily. “Good,” he said.
“Jon,” Ivan spoke his name calmly. “Would you escort our friend to a chair? I think he needs to sit down for a moment.”
Jon nodded as he placed his hand on my shoulder and steered me toward one of the empty tables. I sat down rather abruptly and when I looked up, I was face-to-crotch with his magnificent, unruly and wholly unbelievable bulge, which by this time had manifested itself into an artful and rather lewd display of every piece of ample sexual equipment at the huge man’s disposal.
He was no longer caressing and squeezing himself, and it did not appear that he needed to. He continued growing bigger and bigger inside his trousers, freely swelling and lengthening without aid. His cock pressed itself against the material as if struggling to rip itself free, and the length of the monster was truly impressive, if not impossible.
I heard the sound of glass on wood as Ivan set my fourth round on the polished bar and Jon left me momentarily to fetch it. I looked after him as he left the table and audibly gasped at the site of his truly awesome ass.
Perhaps so much meat was growing in the front that it was pulling all the excess material there to house it. His muscular bubble butt was showcased to its best possible aspect in the manner that the seat of his pants grasped each round, perfect hump, its seam splitting the two globes of meat into distinct hemispheres. I could almost imagine what this man would look like naked as he strode his powerful and meaty rump before me like a prize.
He turned, having retrieved my next cocktail. It looked thicker than the previous, and whiter as well. “Is that the same thing as before?” I asked.
Jon only smiled more brightly, making his dimples deepen and those mustaches to twist up in a most inviting manner. Ivan said, “I cut back on the alcoholic content, sir, since you expressed some concern. But I didn’t want to give you a short pour, so I added a bit more of our special ingredient.”
“Yes, sir. Our milk.”
“Our milk,” Jon repeated. He watched me as he lifted the glass to his own lips, gulping the entire contents inside, and then he leaned towards me, his handsome face growing closer and closer and I realized he meant to kiss me.
I obligingly allowed his lips against mine, then something warm and wet was pressing against my mouth and I opened my lips. He released the contents of his own mouth, now warm and thick, into my own as we kissed, and I found myself gulping the thick fluid hungrily.
It tasted so good. So rich and full and powerful. I had never tasted anything like it.
This time, as the cocktail moved down my throat and branched out like cool liquid silver, a sudden and almost violent throb of sex shook me and made my cock suddenly throb and bulge and my balls tingle. The hair on my head seemed to tighten and the heat I had been feeling grew intense for a heartbeat. I gasped, I think, and shut my eyes tightly.
I heard something, then. Something distinctive and quite hard to ignore. The sound of a zipper being pulled down.
Opening my eyes, Jon’s enormous cock had been extracted from its cage and was pushing forth from his loins in all its meaty glory. He was stroking himself, now, and I looked up towards his face and he was looking at me, very intently and directly, as he jerked himself off. “What’s going on?” I asked, drowsily.
“Good,” Jon said, and he smiled. He held onto his shank in one hand and moved his fingers to the end of his mammoth erection and rubbed off the thick droplet of pre-cum that had gathered there, and then he moved the fingers between his full, soft, sensuous lips and sucked it off. “Drink,” he groaned.
“I see you’ve already met Jon,” I heard a new voice say, and turning toward the door another tall, broad and obviously muscular figure was entering. “You must have made a good impression if he’s offering you himself already.”
I recognized my friend’s voice, but as the door closed behind him and his silhouette solidified into his person, I did not immediately recognize him.
His face had changed. Indeed, every single physical aspect about him had changed rather drastically. His thinning hair was now thick and luxurious, a lustrous gold mane that fell across his shoulders and hung forward across one eye. He owned a growth of beard on his chin and cheeks and neck, and he was wearing clothing that I knew would not normally be found in his closet. “Hello,” he said to me as he approached. “I’m so very happy you came.”
“What..what’s—?” My tongue was having difficulty, as indeed was my brain. I felt fuzzy and indistinct, but also horny as hell. My cock hurt. My balls felt like lead weights. My skin was on fire.
My friend smiled and looked at Ivan. “How many has he had?”
“Four, and the last was a double.”
He looked at me. My god, what had become of him. He was…gorgeous. And his body. Not as massive as Jon, nor even as Ivan, but he was big. Much bigger than he had been when I last saw him. And he was wearing a black ribbed cotton tanktop and tight jeans that hugged every contour of his impressive bulk. “My, my, we have been busy.” Then he quite easily and without preamble took hold of Jon’s still-swelling cock and squeezed him hard. “Nice to see you again, too,” he told Jon, or told his cock.
Then my friend fell to his knees beside me, opened his mouth, and welcomed the swollen helmet of Jon’s enormity inside. His cheeks sunk as he sucked noisily on the fat shank, and almost immediately he was rewarded by what was obviously a very thick, very full, nearly overwhelming amount of cream that shot into his mouth and filled it to overflowing.
I watched him nearly gag on the volume and velocity of Jon’s sudden delivery. Droplets of cum like pearls appeared at the corners of his mouth, but he gave it his all and managed to swallow the gush of hot cum that the huge man seemed to have delivered by request. “Good,” he said.
My friend’s throat was bulging and flexing as he drank the huge man’s copious flow as if he were some spigot designed to unleash a flood of his cream. There was no potent and obvious stimulation of Jon’s fat prick, he was simply and easily pumping himself into my friend’s mouth. More, it seemed as if he were feeding my friend from his fount of rich cream, and my friend swallowed it with the greed of a baby sucking milk.
Jon closed his eyes and groaned like a bear. He reached up, tearing his shirt open and applied his thick fingers to his nipples, circling their fat nubs with evident self-worship, stretching his head on his neck, showing tendons and muscle pressing against his skin. He grabbed his nipples hard and began to twist and pinch them, and I heard my friend gulp and gag. Looking down, it seemed that Jon’s flood had redoubled as he tortured himself, like twisting the valves of a gushing faucet.
“Good,” Jon growled deeply. And then he looked down and smiled, moving his hands to back of my friend’s head and forcing his mouth all the way onto his pumping tool.
I looked down. As I was watching, my friend seemed to shudder or sigh and then—and I honestly could not believe my eyes—he was growing. Rather, his muscle was growing. I could see, actually watch with my own eyes, as his shoulders expanded and his neck thickened and his lats spread wider. Not by much, but enough that I could see it occur. I had to blink to be sure that I was witnessing what I thought I was witnessing.
My friend was growing muscle as I watched, and seemingly as a result of sucking on Jon’s fat prick and swallowing his warm, salty load.
It was an oddly sensual process. His shoulders and arms displayed the most visible growth, and I could see new fibers of muscle seemingly appear from nowhere, threads of power multiplying on his already impressive brawn. He was swelling up with power, his muscular development increasing the longer he sucked down Jon’s gushing flow. His chest was also thickening, stretching the material of his black ribbed tank, swelling forward as if inflating.
This went on for some minutes as I, enthralled and in disbelief, watched the process occurring. Jon fed my friend from his prick, and in turn my friend was growing.
“Good,” Jon said again, in his usual taciturn style, and then he was lifting up my friend’s chin and looking down into his eyes. “Good,” he repeated, and my friend’s mouth came off the cock with an audible pop and he smiled.
He licked his lips with evident bliss and care, wanting every drop of the food he had been given, and then he was regaining his feet. “Very good. Thank you, Jon.” He leaned towards the huge, handsome man and kissed his mouth. Then he looked at me and asked, “So, how do you like this place?”
His nonchalant attitude was puzzling. Had I just seen what I had just seen? Perhaps it was normal here for these actions, the casual exchange of sexual pleasure with one man sucking another man’s cock to ejaculation, but surely there was no place where the other man would begin to develop new, fresh, hard muscle that pressed out against his skin as he grew larger with power and might.
I looked at him, my eyes falling along his contours, his dimensions, trying to measure the man I had seen only moments ago against the man I was looking at now. He was bigger, wasn’t he? Or was I merely drunk?
He tilted his head and smiled. “Are you all right?” he asked.
“I…what just happened?”
“What do you mean?” he asked.
I looked at him and then I looked at Jon. “You…. He….”
My friend looked towards Ivan and said, “Can you give my friend another round? I think he needs it.”
“Of course,” Ivan answered at once, and then as if anticipating the request, another of the milky, delicious cocktails was on the bar.
“Drink,” said Jon.
I looked at it, uncertainly. “Jon,” my friend said, “would you be so kind?”
Jon, the handsome brutal giant, grunted and reached across me. I could feel tremendous heat pouring from his body as he took the glass and lifted it to his full lips. This time the cocktail looked like pure milk, 100%.
His eyes met mine as he poured the thick contents inside his mouth, and then he was leaning his face down towards mine and his hand was behind my neck.
He pulled my mouth to his and pressed his soft, warm lips against mine. He was prying my mouth open with his tongue and instantly a flood of the familiar taste of the cocktail, warmed now by this man’s mouth, entered mine.
I gulped because I could not help it. The taste was now slightly altered, perhaps because it was warm, or perhaps I was tasting something of Jon’s essential masculine flavor. I closed my eyes and swallowed all of it, and then my body was heating up very quickly and a sensation of sexual bliss was erupting in my chest and shooting towards my cock.
I could feel it happen as if this gulp of alcohol was sex itself, poured inside me from Jon’s warm, wet mouth and now it zeroed in on my groin and swam unerringly into the throbbing inches of my cock and filled my balls with warm sex.
Jon continued kissing me, wrestling my tongue with his, keeping our mouths together with his hand behind my head as if he was directing this sensation of sex through me. The kiss was passionate and erotic and he reached down with his other hand and grasped my throbbing hard-on, squeezing me hard and rough.
The kiss redoubled in passion, as if he intended to crawl inside my mouth. The feeling of sexual bliss grew stronger, brighter, hotter, and he was kneading and teasing my prick with a deft and strong hand.
Someone was opening my pants. Hands, two or three or four, were pulling apart the button and zipper and digging my throbbing meat from my shorts. Then, warm wetness surrounded me.
Jon’s kiss did not abate. It seemed to go even deeper. I was drunk or intoxicated. I felt sublime and heavy and unfocused. The mouth on my lips and the mouth on my cock were one mouth, kissing and sucking and licking. My whole body was hot. My cock was rock hard.
My toes curled. A trickle of sweat wound down my back to tickle the crack of my ass. My pants were pulled down, and someone was cupping, squeezing, kneading my balls. My huge, fat, swollen balls.
I felt it. It was deep inside me, and shooting towards my cock.
Electricity. Thunder. Liquid silver.
I began to shoot my load into the mouth sucking my cock. I could not stop, did not want to stop, wanted to push my soul from my hot body into the man sucking my dick.
Jon was kissing me.
Jon was sucking me.
How have you been? I know you haven’t heard from me in some time. Apologies. I’ve been a bit busy with some new friends I’d love you to meet. I think you’ll really like them. Don’t worry, they’re very friendly. I know how you are around new people, and I want to assure you that we’ll all get along just fine. If you’ve got nothing to do tonight, we’ll be at the location I’ve linked to below. Just a small neighborhood bar. Very friendly.
Tell them Rex sent you.
I think of the term ‘sultry’ when I spend any time in New Orleans. The air, the culture, the population itself is sultry in its nature, soaked through with a kind of sexual sweat that permeates the houses and buildings that line its narrow streets.
When I am there, I am there for pleasure. New Orleans is not a place, to me, to spend time pursuing anything, anyone or any experience that isn’t for pleasure in its myriad forms. To eat, to drink, to fuck. These are the worthy pursuits and the pastimes that I fill the long, sultry hours with while I abide there.
Tales tell of vampires and ghosts haunting the darker corners of the place. The furniture in its rooms are scarred and swollen with the sensual diversions they have witnessed played out in myriad ways over dozens of years.
I was on the streetcar, and true to Mr. Williams’s play, feeling a strong desire. To be honest, I was already well into my cups, having polished off not merely fingers but entire fists of Bourbon poured liberally over frozen cubes that cracked and buzzed like my brain. Alone, oddly, but with that feeling of being watched, of being observed by someone nearby but unseen. My head was fuzzy and my eyesight a bit worse for wear, of course, so it was easily dismissed, that feeling.
I decided I could use a walk, though it was quite late and I had been warned about the dangers of man, even one such as myself who would be no easy target, walking the streets in the early morning sweat that the city leaked from its sidewalks. But as I said, I was drunk and not thinking too very clearly.
Stepping from the trolley and crossing the street, the sensation of observation grew stronger, still. The moon was full overhead, washed through like spilled white ink behind a vail of clouds. The streets were wet from the earlier meager rain, and the air was scented with jasmine and smoke.
I was mere blocks from my hotel on St. Charles when something shiny caught my eye on the broken sidewalk, raised into shards and hillocks by the large tree roots burrowing everywhere. I paused, stopped by the thing on the ground and that feeling of being watched grew suddenly distinct.
I spun, unbalanced, to look behind me but no one was there. Of course not, I chided myself, huffing out a half-startled laugh under my breath. Of course not.
The thing, whatever it was, remained at my feel and I stooped to pick it up, my tight jeans, soaked with sweat, and my close-fitted shirt, purchased to show off the muscles I had been so diligent about building, stretched and pulled at my skin. It was a postcard, laminated and wet with rain. Plucking it from the cement, I rose again to my full height and looked at the thing in my hand.
The card was black on both sides with white script lettering. On one side—the front I supposed—was a single word: Drink. On the back, an address not far from my own hotel, a few blocks away from the avenue and its rumbling streetcars.
It sounded like a capital idea.
A smile wound across my lips. Yes, whyever not? A nightcap to sing me to sleep, if I were not to find the luck of love or a quick and dirty fuck tonight? The men—boys really—I had encountered so far were either far too eager or far too frivolous for my tastes. Gelled hair and plucked brows and shaven chests. I liked men. Hairy, muscular, masculine men. Men who didn’t trim or manicure or seek to lessen the effects of being men. Men who stood their ground. Men who knew what they wanted and took it.
Men, not boys.
I was a man. Past my prime, perhaps, and not at my fighting weight. Once I turned heads wherever I went. I was big, and well muscled, and good-looking. But that was ten or more years ago, and time and age are not so kind. I was still big, and I was still strong. I had a prominent chest that strained the buttons of a shirt, but it was softer and rounder and less defined than it had once been. My flat stomach was also rounder now, but I had never trimmed the dark forest of curls that coated my skin.
I could be called a bear, I suppose, and I wouldn’t argue. A big man, looking for other men.
I knew what I wanted.
There were even apps now, for finding similarly-minded men looking for similar situations to my own. One could pull out one’s phone, open Grindr and locate men by the foot—quite literally—popping in and out of your vicinity who were searching for a tight butt or a friendly grope or a simple make-out session involving kisses and hand-jobs. It was the opposite of romantic, obviously, but who was looking for romance?
Yet even there, those I encountered wanted nothing like me. All they wanted was youth and inexperience, the trembling, awkward, rushed sex of boys who are thinking about their next lover when their dick is still in your mouth. Boys had certain appreciative qualities, not the least of which was an endless stamina and a seeming ability to come on demand, but boys are not men however they may try. A few filthy words and some latent talent never make up for experience in my book.
Pulling in a deep breath of the city’s wet air, I turned right and started toward the bar’s destination. Odd that it never occurred to me, at the time, that there were no postcards like this anywhere in the Garden District. Perhaps you would get advertisements in the French Quarter for some sleazy bar serving too-sweet frozen horrors meant to supply bad liquor in the quickest fashion. But why this too-simple postcard, and how convenient that it should find me?
The street was dark and deserted. Some houses had lights in their windows but the quiet was intense and full, and the street was lit only by the pale moonlight.
I heard steps behind me and this time there was no mistaking it. Someone was following me, now, and I stopped and pivoted, tripping against a bare root and stumbling sideways.
Hands caught me. Large, strong, rough hands. I felt a blush of embarrassment heat my body beneath my sticky clothing and I looked up to see who had saved me further chagrin.
“You nearly fell,” my savior said, “but I have you now.”
His voice was deep, and oddly accented. It was hard to make out his features in the darkness, but as if on cue the clouds parted to reveal the full moon and blue light shone on his face.
I had the good sense not to gasp outright. He was handsome, and decidedly so. In fact, it felt almost as if someone had been reading my thoughts, for here was a man, not a boy, with a man’s face and a man’s strength and a man’s confidence. I could feel the strength of him through his grip, and he pulled me to my feet and we stood there looking at each other for a heartbeat.
He was taller than I, which was unexpected and unusual. I am a man over six-feet in height, and he was looking down at me. His hair, hanging full and long enough to rest along his wide shoulders, looked blue-black in the moonlight and he had a ruddy complexion, which spoke of time spent outdoors in undoubtedly physical pursuits, because he was also larger and more muscular than I was. He owned eyes of near blackness, that glittered like gems under a heavy brow, and beneath his noble, strong nose, framing a pair of full, soft lips, an impressive and masculine mustache grew full and wide, curling at the ends.
My heart was still beating quickly from my near-fall, and now my cock was joining its steady throb. “Thank you,” I said. “I’m afraid I’m a bit….”
He did not let me finish.
Without preamble, he pushed his body against mine like a challenge, though his face was lit by his friendly and handsome smile. He wore a white ribbed-cotton tanktop that clung to him as my own shirt clung to me. His skin shone like metal, licked with sweat and rain. I could discern the dark kisses of his nipples through the thin cloth, and they were pushing forward from the low sway of his mighty chest with the same urgency that he pushed against me.
My back found the tree trunk at the same time that his right hand found my crotch. I could feel the heat of his hand there before he grasped me fully in his grip and began to knead and rub my equipment.
He was a towering figure, obviously in control of the situation. I did not call out, nor did I stop him. I wanted this perhaps more than he did. I needed this. And my prick was easily swelling and lengthening as he played with me.
“You are feeling better, yes?” he asked, or growled, tilting his head. His face moved closer to mine and he pushed his mouth against my lips and kissed me soundly. I detected the familiar taste of whisky and smoke, though whether it originated from his tongue or my own, stirred up by his passionate force, I couldn’t tell. His mustaches rubbed roughly against my face, and I enjoyed the sensation of it more than I had imagined.
Both his hands were on my loins and he began to undo the button-fly of my jeans and peeled them open like a banana to get to the fruit. His palm was rough against the warm tenderness of my inflating cock and he stroked with the same forcefulness that his kiss evinced.
He wanted me badly, and he was going to have me. Right now. Here on the sweating street beneath the pale moon. I could not stop my own passion from climbing, and I wanted him, too.
He kissed me, twisting his warm lips against my mouth and then he dipped down suddenly, dropping before me and shrinking to his haunches like an animal. I grabbed the bark of the tree in my hands. He pulled my dick forcibly downward from its erect trajectory, I could feel every callous on his palm, and he swallowed me with a wet sucking noise I was sure every person in every home could hear.
My eyes rolled up into their sockets and my toes curled in my shiny leather loafers. Almost immediately I could feel a load of hot cream thrusting upwards when he grasped my ball sack and tugged it hard, pulling me back to earth. He groaned like a tiger and I moved my hands onto his shoulders, feeling the flex and bulge of his mighty muscles as he twisted his neck to slather me in his spit. Then his mouth surrounded my hardness again, and he pushed his nose into the dampness of my pubic bush, inhaling deeply and making delighted wet slurping noises as he took every inch inside himself.
He fell onto his knees before me as a priest in worshipful subjugation and, never missing a beat of his expert blow-job, he opened up his own pants and his magnificent length of prick spilled out and was swelling to full power with speed.
He stoked as he sucked, then, pausing only to drool a thick drizzle of spit onto his grip, and then he pleasured himself and me in unison, sucking my cock with the same evident efficiency and talent that his own hand was slowly, luxuriously stroking his thick meat.
We came together. The timing could not have been more perfect. I came inside his mouth and he swallowed it all, moaning in bliss as he gushed thick, wet volleys of incandescent cream on my shoes with almost perfect aim.
I was shaking from pleasure, feeling that pent-up energy and need released all at once inside this beautiful and powerful man, taken so easily and without permission. It left me dizzy and hot, and then as his mouth came off my hard-on with obvious reluctance, I found my brain spinning inside my head again because I looked down at him, expecting to his his grinning face, but the man sank to all-fours before me on the cracked and broken sidewalk and began to lick my shoes clean of his own spunk, pulling it inside with a long, shiny tongue in slow strokes.
The sound of the stranger sucking his own seed from off the dark leather of my shoes did something to me I had never experienced. It was as if, somehow, he had managed in the last minutes to make me both master and slave, both aggressor and submissive. He did what he wanted, yes, he took me and made me come inside his mouth with ease and without permission. Now he cleaned me up and took the same obvious pleasure in this act as he had taken from simply forcing me inside his mouth.
I heard a deep rumble from his broad chest as he finished. And then he stood up, again, towering over me. His tanktop was wet with perspiration and almost invisible on his torso, now. It clung to his six-pack abs and mammoth pecs. His large, dark nipples looked swollen and meaty. He reached down and carefully—almost tenderly—pushed my dick back inside the crotch of my jeans and began to delicately button me back inside with his large, dexterous fingers. He managed, somehow, to rub his thumb against the mouth of my snake and he brought the last remnant of cream that gurgled from me to his mouth and sucked it off his skin with evident bliss.
“You are good,” he said in his odd, sexy voice. Then he was trying to re-cage his own mammoth meat, and I got a look at him more closely as he struggled to contain his thick inches. His dick was dark and cut, with a very large mushroom helmet and a thick stalk. He barely managed to push his meat inside his own jeans, struggling to zip it all inside.
As he finished putting us back together, he looked down at the card in my had. “Drink?” he said.
I looked at the card as well, and then back at his face. “Yes,” I acknowledged breathlessly.
“I go there now,” he reported. The odd accent seemed to shift about as I listened. Now Russian, now German, now French. Bits and pieces of different dialects that made it hard to discern a specific origin. “I may go with you?”
“I…suppose so,” I said, not thinking of any reason to deny the man anything more he might ask of me. I was left even more dazed than I had been, drunk now on pleasure as much as whisky. “I think it’s not far.”
“No,” he agreed, “is not far.” He gestured with a very thickly muscled arm, every large and bulging mass of power that swelled there looked like he had only now put down the weights that he had been using to pump them to grandeur. His shirt was again snugly tucked into a pair of jeans whose tightness made mine look like I had purchased them at Sears, rather than at the very expensive boutique of european labels back home.
I stepped forward and he steadied me again, holding my elbow before he said, “You take my hand.”
It was an odd offer and though I was taken aback, I accepted and we, like two chums, strode along the dark, wet sidewalk hand-in-hand up the street as if nothing had happened at all against that tree only moments ago.
His grip was firm and rough. I felt him interlock our fingers together as if he never would let go. His squeezes comforted me in an odd fashion, and I was taken aback at this sign of such tenderness from this huge, muscular beast. Only moments before, he was sucking my dick and fountaining his copious cream all over my shoes. Now he held my hand like a comforting lover, and I felt almost as if he was surrounding me in his arms to protect me like a child.
Shortly, a small building on one corner seemed to emerge from the trees like a dream. It was unadorned and without signage of any type to identify it, and there were no windows casting light from its interior either. “Drink,” he announced, and pulled me towards the place.
He stopped under a light near a single door and I could see him now clearly. Again, he made my cock throb and swell in my sweaty jeans. Large, certainly, but also incredibly handsome and well-tailored. Given, he only wore a tight athletic shirt and jeans, but his wardrobe complimented his muscular development with strange perfection, as if he had been sewn into the garments.
Now as he turned towards me with a smile, rapping at the door with his knuckles, I could see the rather prominent and wholly obvious bulge at his loins that showcased a prodigious and mouth-watering appendage right down to the swelling lip of the helmet. He did not seem to be losing an inch of his growth, even having come so prodigiously on my feet.
Nine inches? Ten? I nearly swooned at the sight of him, and my drunken brain tried to make sense of what I was seeing. “You’re…”
“Please,” he said, in his thickly accented tongue, and the door opened as his arm swung wide.
The interior was dark, but not foreboding. A heady scent of smoke, whisky, leather, and sweat emitted like a fog that surrounded my senses, and an unmistakable throb of masculine power spilled out like champagne from an uncorked bottle.
I stepped around his bulk and entered the establishment. If it had not been for the fact that I lived in New York and was quite well-travelled, I might have been shocked at what confronted me inside the nondescript building. Indeed, I had seen something of the tableau of men inside, but on those occasions I was visiting a private sex club or a party thrown by one of my more well-off friends, who spared no expense to procure the most beautiful men as decoration.
There were men—and only men—everywhere I looked. They were in various stages of undress, from shirtless to wearing only underwear to entirely naked. They were of every color, hue and ethnicity as far as I could tell—here a chocolate skinned man, there a coffee-colored Hispanic, there a pale as milk Swede with bright blond hair.
If there was a commonality to the patrons, it was of intense and overwhelming beauty. Each of these men, at least two or three dozen of them, showcased a similar incredible level of muscular development as my companion. Indeed, within the darkness of the place, it appeared that they all owned almost exact replicas of my partner’s incredibly perfect muscular development.
As my gaze lingered on the naked customers, it was quite evident that they also shared his other most prominent feature, to an amazing extent. And, yes, some of these men were quite actively engaged in acts of carnal pleasure both athletic and energetic, sucking each other’s tremendous cocks, or thrusting them inside another man’s eager and willing ass as he bent himself over a table, grasping the edges and biting his lip from sheer pleasure.
But this was neither sex club nor dungeon. There were no slings, no extravagant sets or leather harnesses, no chains, no whips, no rubber masks or latex shorts. It appeared as if these men had wandered into this bar—a bar like almost any other—and had simply decided en masse to start fucking each other.
And why not? If they were feeling only half of what I was feeling—and even after having had my balls so satisfyingly emptied outside by my strange, handsome new friend—as soon as I had walked inside the establishment I could feel my pulse quicken and my body heat with the draw of passion.
And why not? I was surrounded by beautiful men—and, again, I emphasize that these were not boys—all in various states of undress and sexual congress, who all possessed bodies of exceptional power and size.
Even the least of them, and I should hesitate to call the man the least of anything, owned a body of beautiful muscular development, looking like a fitness model who could grace the cover of your favorite men’s exercise magazine. Even he, standing in the background, with his prominent chest and absurdly detailed six-pack, his scalp shorn to whiskers as he surveyed the room with darkly smoldering eyes, and the delicious scrawls of curly fur that swam down his abs and bloomed into a full bush that no one would ever shave, even that man, alone, looking at me now, the new arrival, with evident hunger, was more man than I had seen in my entire week.
Yet there he stood, naked, stroking himself with utter confidence, calmly jerking off and occasionally lifting his fingers to his mouth to suck off the copious flow of precum his heightened sense of arousal was producing. He was a young god among gods, awaiting his turn and keeping his powerful motor revving.
I saw another man standing behind a long, dark bar wiping out a glass or a shaker, seemingly oblivious to the cavalcade of sex and masculine beauty all around him. It was nearly three in the morning, and the place was packed to the rafters with the most gorgeous array of men that I had ever beheld.
The bartender did not seem to take immediate notice of my entry until my helpful companion followed me inside, and the bartender then turned and smiled.
I had a sudden and strong sense of deja vu, because if one man matched my companion’s size and beauty to perfection, it was the bartender. It was as if the others were approaching that level of absolute perfection and power, and only these two owned it fully. He was every bit as large and imposing as the man who had lead me here. Indeed, except for the fact that the two men’s faces were entirely different, I would have called them twins because each man owned a similar set of overwhelming muscles bulging from every inch.
The bartender wore he same tight ribbed cotton tanktop and dark denim jeans. But where my companion had pale skin and thick waves of inky black hair, the barman had a tremendous and altogether impressive set of mustaches that crowned a smile of aching beauty. His eyes sparkled like glass, and his scalp was covered in a collection of tight, dark curls very like an Italian or Greek might own. Even from the door and across the busy, darkened room, I could tell that his eyes were startlingly blue, almost turquoise in fact. He paused in his labors as my companion closed the door behind us and once again offered his arm without a hint of irony or shame.
I took it more easily now, for some reason, and we approached the mahogany bar together through the rough throng of sex and sweat and whispered entreaties. “Fuck me,” someone said, as if imploring me to replace his current partner. Others offered to suck on my cock, or fuck my ass, and several of the men kissed me and tugged at my clothing, but my companions insistence pushed me towards the bar, heedless of these mighty advances.
He pulled out a barstool for me and then stood behind me, towering above me like a bodyguard. “Evening,” he said to the bartender, separating it into distinct syllables. Eve En Ning.
“Welcome back,” the man responded, and I detected the same odd and unplaceable accent in his deep tones. “The usual?”
“Please,” my companion answered. The bartender began immediately to assemble a cocktail of some usual and unusual ingredients, which he placed into the shaker he had been wiping before topping it with ice cubes and shaking it briskly.
This presented the opportunity to observe the man in motion, and again I nearly swooned from an intense reaction to his raw physicality, sexuality and overwhelming masculinity. He smiled at me as he prepared the drink, and I watched the muscles along his arms, shoulders, chest and neck flex and bulge as he forcefully shook the drink.
He then set a frosted cocktail coupe on the bar, produced a fine mesh sieve from beneath the wood and poured a thick, white, oddly scented drink into the glass. Without another word, he pushed the drink across the bar towards my raven-haired companion, wiping away the resulting perspiration with a bar cloth.
The pause gave me an opportunity to compare the two men. Again, they could have been brothers. I could not detect an inch of difference either in their heights, which were remarkable, nor their bodies and muscular development, which were equally remarkable. It was evident that beneath their clothing, each man owned a body that could easily be put on display at a bodybuilding competition—except that neither man exhibited any of the less attractive features, to my eyes, that industrial-strength bodybuilders often had.
No stretch marks. No sunken cheeks. No bitch tits. And certainly, judging by the man on my side of the bar, no sign that their sexual equipment had undergone any signs of significant shrinkage.
In fact, it appeared that just the opposite had taken place, judging by the still-prominent and highly-detailed bulge that the man behind me seemed almost insistent on showcasing for my benefit. Indeed, I believe he nudged me with it once or twice as he downed the beverage in one long gulp, sighing contentedly at the end.
The bartender said, “What can I do for you, sir?”
I told him my name, which was my usual habit with bartenders, and most certainly with bartenders who looked like he did. Those turquoise eyes nearly glowed, and his smile was bright and honest. I could easily see every muscle that lined his huge arms flex and twist as he wiped the shaker. “What was that?” I asked.
He nodded and offered his hand. “My name is Ivan. The large man behind you is Jon.”
I looked backwards and nodded a greeting, realizing with a bit of a shock that Jon had stripped off his tanktop and now stood shirtless. He was magnificent, of course, as that tanktop had done almost nothing to hide his tremendously developed body.
Jon placed his hand on my shoulder and squeezed in a familiar and friendly manner. Then I watched his hand crawl south along his body until it rested against that huge bulge, which he began to knead and rub with obvious discomfort—but no shame at all—as his handsome face smiled at me.
Perhaps it was the activity all around us, or perhaps it was the memory of what Jon and I had done on the street only moments ago, but my brain felt nothing but arousal as I watched the huge dark god begin to pleasure himself so openly.
I turned back, though I thought to offer assistance to Jon’s problem at first. I wanted to simply sit on that stool and stare at his physical beauty, but I was also suddenly parched, again. Perhaps because I had only recently lost so many of my fluids so forcefully. I looked behind the bar and noticed for the first time that the glowing shelves were empty. “What do you have?”
“We serve only one drink, sir.”
“Only one?” Now that was entirely odd.
Jon’s powerful voice rumbled from behind me, and I felt his looming presence like the heat of a small sun. “Is good,” he volunteered, and he squeezed my shoulder again.
“What is it?”
“We call it The Drink,” Ivan explained.
“That’s rather straight-forward,” I observed. Ivan simply nodded and smiled. “What’s in it?”
“I’m afraid the recipe is secret, sir,” he answered. “But the base is gin with some rare botanicals that we create here.”
“Is it sweet?”
“It has a tart sweetness that our clients find very invigorating.” From the sounds of sex echoing along the walls and the deep groans of satisfaction, I could hardly argue with him.
“Is good,” Jon agreed behind me. Then his warm breath was on my neck as he kneaded my traps and he whispered in my ear, “Have Drink.” His broad and powerful chest pushed against me in a familiar fashion, as if he intended to press me against the bar and have his way with me again.
Not that I would have objected. The sound of so many men fucking and sucking, even so soon after pumping a thick load into the man’s mouth, was causing my dick to start throbbing eagerly.
“All right,” I said, “you’ve convinced me.”
Ivan smiled then and pulled the same set of familiar and unfamiliar ingredients onto the bar. Nothing was labeled, and I had the impression that everything was made here. The juniper tang of the gin was clear as he poured a good dose into the shaker. He squeezed the juice of a lemon over that, and added some other colored bitters or tinctures before adding a strong dose of what I could only assume was egg white, a thick, viscous fluid that seemed to drool into the shaker.
It smelled, I must admit, rather raw and pungent. It reminded me not so much of a cocktail’s alcoholic scent, but something more redolent and funky, like a locker room or garage.
He capped the shaker tightly and performed his dance again, mixing the drink with the ice to chill it before straining it into another coupe and sliding it towards me.
As I lifted it to my lips, a strong smoky scent rose from the glass, accompanied by something else that savored strongly of…well, all I could think of at that moment was balls. The sweet, tangy sweat that accumulates on a man’s balls and teases your tongue with salty urgency when you place your tongue against his taint.
It was not unfamiliar to me, and at the moment I found a strong desire for that exact taste, so I lifted the rim to my lips to sip it.
But as soon as it hit my tongue, I found a thirst developing for its odd, distinct flavor and milky texture, and like my companion I found myself gulping the entire concoction down, licking my lips of its residue.
Jon’s hands were squeezing my shoulders again. “Is good, yes?”
“Yes,” I agreed. “Very good.”
“Two more, then?” the bartender asked.
“Yes,” Jon said immediately. “He wants more.”
I certainly did, and who was I to argue with this beautiful, sexual man? “Interesting night,” I observed.
“Not really,” Ivan answered. “We serve a rather exclusive clientele.”
“Oh?” I looked around at the display of so much naked beauty, and so much athletic sex taking place. A private club, then.
“Jon brought you in, so you’re okay,” he said, anticipating my next question. “Jon works here. He knows when someone will fit in.”
I felt the man in question squeeze my shoulder again, and felt him looming behind me like a wall made of muscle. “Jon seems like a…very handy man to have around.”
“Oh, quite,” Ivan answered, using the word in the British fashion. It made me wonder again about their accents. “Jon has several skills and gifts, and is an excellent judge of talent and character.”
“Here you are,” Ivan said, offering two more of his patented milky cocktails. They looked something like Ramos Gin Fizzes, which one could get at most any decent New Orleans bar, but with a more bitter and interesting flavor. They carried quite a kick as well, though my drunken buzz was softening into a much more pleasant sort of dreamy quality.
I turned, meaning to toast with my companion but instead watched him drink his down in a long, thick gulp. Then he closed his eyes and shuddered slightly, opening his mouth to bare his teeth and suck a breath inside his lungs. It made his impressive chest rise and spread and it felt almost as if his nipples were reaching towards me to be sucked and tortured. They were fat, dominating things with large smooth areola sitting at the edge of each heavy muscular globe.
I would almost say that after his inhalation, his chest did not diminish in size. Rather, it seemed determine to continue swelling outward, increasing the depth of the crevasse between his hard globes of muscle.
He leaned towards me and placed two fingers under my chin, lifting my face slightly so that he could press his lips to mine again. I tasted the thick drink on his tongue and then he was passing me a gulp of it inside my mouth, warmed by his own. I swallowed it with surprise and delight, discovering that its interesting flavor had altered slightly inside Jon’s mouth, and as I swallowed it I felt a quicksilver cascade of warmth that swam through my body and limbs, tingling through my blood until it reached my dick, where it succeeded in inflating my manhood before it rushed up its length and pushed urgently at the tip like a load of my own cream wanting escape.
I gasped and swooned as the sexual rush overcame me without warning, and then his hand was there, again, to knead and grope my cock and balls in a most pleasant manner. “Is good,” he growled, and I had to agree.
I looked at my own glass and heard Jon implore, “Drink.” I did so, feeling the cold brew coat my tongue and travel along the same routes as the small gulp that Jon had given me from his own mouth. The Drink had a strangely gratifying effect on me, not like alcohol but more like a drug designed to heighten my enjoyment of sensual adventures.
Again, it pushed its way directly towards my loins, where it heated up and tingled until it found its way up the thickening inches of the cock that Jon was still groping, and this time I gasped audibly and my jaw clenched as a very orgasmic sensation was delivered everywhere, as if I had just come.
I opened my eyes and sighed with happiness. “Is good,” Jon said again.
“Yes, but what is that feeling?”
“Feeling sir?” Ivan asked gently. He took the empty glasses away and was already refilling them again. “Perhaps you refer to the slight aphrodisiacal quality of one of the ingredients. Some feel it more strongly than others. Do you find it unpleasant?”
“Excellent, sir,” he answered, already offering a third drink.
One of Jon’s heavily muscled arm was resting against the front of my body as his strong, large hand groped and stroked my now insistent and deeply aroused prick. His other hand was undoing the buttons of my jeans and reaching inside my sodden shorts. My balls were buzzing as if a current was connected to them, and my cock was rock hard. He was pressing his wide, strong chest against my back, and I swear I could feel those large, hard nipples rubbing against me like pencil erasers. “How much are the…?”
“Don’t worry sir, we’ll settle your bill when you’re quite finished. I shouldn’t worry about that.”
Jon’s hands moved to begin unbuttoning my shirt. I let him, of course. I heard a sudden, deep groan to my left and I looked towards the sound to see a man in the throes of the deepest passion arching his head back on his powerful neck as he evidently released a fat volley of cream inside the ample, muscular buttocks of his companion, who turned to observe the effect that his tight ass was having and smiled in the most satisfying manner. He was stroking his own mammoth erection as he was being so ably fucked, and like the young god in the corner, drawing forth his honeyed flow and sucking it off his fingers.
“Drink,” Jon said. Requested. Ordered.
I watched the two men fucking, gazing with lust at the insane details of the top’s back muscles, how every single one of them was so finely detailed, how they seemed to swell outward beneath his sweaty flesh, how they bulged and flexed with power, and the look on his companion’s face when he caught my gaze and smiled. A veneer of precum lacquered his lips and he licked it slowly off with obvious relish.
The Drink worked its magic again. Jon was pulling my sweat-soaked shirt from my body and the heat in the room seemed to increased as my skin was exposed to the sex-soaked fog of masculine musk that permeated everything. I closed my eyes to better focus on the sexual sensation of the bittersweet concoction, little realizing that I was being stripped utterly bare by Jon’s strong, talented hands. His touch moved lovingly across my skin, and as I swallowed the last drops and felt The Drink zeroing in unerringly on my cock, filling it up with bliss and pushing a gallon of cream into my balls, Jon moved his hand onto my neck and drew our mouths together again, feeding me another warm, delicious sample of what happened when he allowed me to drink directly from him, to feel the hot sex of his body infused within The Drink as I guzzled it with insane hunger.
His other hand stroked me, pleasured me, rubbed me. The pad of his thumb against the drooling tip of my cock made my toes curl and the hair on the back of my head stand on end. I swallowed his warm, wet gift and it rocketed into my prick with the speed of a jet fighter, and with just as much armament and power.
I gasped and swooned and his tongue took advantage, pushing inside my mouth as if to taste himself inside me.
“Good,” he moaned. “You are good.”
I could not speak. My body was buzzing hard. My cock throbbed with every beat of my heart. My body was coated in sweat and sex and I could smell Jon’s funky, masculine musk as he rubbed the insane meaty hardness of his chest against my back.
“Drink,” he said.
He spun me on my stool and I looked at him. He was smiling and then he directed my gaze southward and I moved my eyes down his beauty. His chest—his nipples—swelled toward me. He breathed in and out, making his six-pack abs swell and recede. Then, before my eyes, the mushroom of his familiar but mind-bending prick rose into view.
He was huge. Undeniably and deliciously huge. A thick drool of precum was leaking from the mouth of his thick snake, draining down its neck like honey. It was throbbing and pulsing with its power. “Drink,” he repeated, and I bent my lips toward the fount of his masculine essence and licked the warm, salty fluid into my mouth.
An instant desire to devour him entered my brain. The taste of him—the smell and sensation of him—married to the memory of The Drink and its delicious power to travel directly to my dick and fill me up with orgasmic delight erupted. I took him inside my mouth, practically falling from the bar stool, grabbing onto the shank of his sex with both hands as I sucked and stroked and kissed and licked him with the hunger of a babe.
I heard him groan. “Is good,” he said, in his odd dialect. He stroked my head like a loving parent and I sucked his dick. “Is good,” he repeated, and then he moaned a shuddering sound of evident delight and I felt his cock swell in my hands and the head ballooned inside my mouth and I knew what was coming.
A blast of wet heat splashed inside my mouth, coating my tongue and teeth and the insides of my cheeks and everywhere, everywhere with the delicious bittersweet tang of his load. I swallowed quickly, eagerly, because I felt him enlarge again with dramatic size and a second, larger explosion pushed down my throat almost before I could swallow it.
He groaned and continued to stroke my head like his favorite pet or his child as I sucked and swallowed the copious, warm, rich, delicious loads of cream he was pushing inside me from his heavy balls.
And like The Drink, his seed—his power—traveled unerringly inside me towards the root of my own masculine juices and I could feel my own eruption at the edge of delivery.
I heard him say, “Drink,” again, and thinking it was an unneeded admonition to me, I nodded and sucked and guzzled, but then the sensation of a mouth surrounded my own erection, ready for delivery, and I saw the young man'the one of the smoldering eyes and shaven scalp and impressive, rounded pecs, going down on my prick.
As soon as his warm, soft lips surrounded the spongey helmet of my hard-on, I exploded inside him. His moan of hunger and delight echoed through my body.
Now, eyes opened, I looked down at myself and watched as my own chest swelled forward. My eyes went wide but I could not remove my mouth from Jon’s still-gushing dick as I observed by body swelling larger with evident muscle.
I could not process what was happening. I was drunk or high. I was hallucinating, I was dreaming. I watched my chest rise and the twin muscular plates swell forward and my nipples grow larger and larger on the ever-expanding globes. Cleavage formed and deepened between the hemispheres, and then my peripheral vision was drawn to something else, and I saw my upper arms experiencing similar evolution.
Even as the realization hit me of what appeared to be happening, my hunger and desire for Jon’s unending flood of rich, warm cream increased. I sucked and stroked with renewed gusto and hunger, wanting to draw it all inside me and quicken the pace of my developing muscles.
I felt and heard another deep and satisfying moan that traveled the length of my cock and I looked down, locking my gaze again with the young dark god, and watched his neck swell and his shoulders broaden and his pecs—the gorgeous and powerful twin globes of his chest—were swelling larger and larger.
I could feel my cock reaching farther inside the beautiful man’s mouth.
I shuddered and shook. My nipples tingled with shocks of ecstasy. Sweat trickled along my widening back and crept into the crack of my ass. I could feel it kissing my hole, my hungry, insatiable hole.
I clenched my fists and swallowed and guzzled and drank from Jon’s fount of pure power. The young dark god closed his eyes and a gush of my own cream appeared at the corner of his mouth, but he would not deny himself even a drop and his tongue darted out to capture my essence and swallow it inside. He reached up and tortured his fat nippled and groaned in utter delight.
I needed a cock in my ass. I needed this cock in my mouth. I needed cock.
I was growing. Growing in size. Growing in power. Growing in strength. My muscles were swelling. My cock was swelling. I sucked his syrup inside me and felt myself expanding.
He groaned. He gasped. He pumped me full of his white hot seed and I felt it spreading through me, extending into my arms and chest and belly and ass and legs and cock. I grew larger, my muscled soaking in his power and feeding on his strength.
I shoved thick loads of my own hot spunk inside the young god, and felt him groan with bliss as his chest swelled forward and his cock extended by the inch, swelling up and out, growing thick and hard and strong.