"No, not what you're wearing. Wear these."
"God, I can't wear those, Brian. I'd be a walking advert for 'Just bend me over and fuck me,' if I wore those downtown this evening."
Brian just gave me a hard stare. And of course he was right. After three hard double-shift days of work, that was exactly what I was going down to Key West's Duval Street gay strip to do—to get fucked. I took the mesh bikini briefs, the fishnet muscle shirt, and the tight low-rise jeans from him and struggled out of my preppy clothes and into my "fuck me" clothes. Brian, of course was already decked out in his silver chain-mail mesh pullover shirt over gauzy white cotton pants. We were both wearing thin leather-strip sandals, happy to let our toes breathe after weeks of snowboots in Washington, D.C. I thought feet were very sensual, and I liked to show mine off.
We started the evening at Saloon 1 on Petronia Street, which I thought was a bit too leather and rough for the beginning of the evening. But Brian was three days ahead of me in checking out the extensive local gay club scene, so I just followed his lead. The stud who had fucked us both the night before in our hotel room, who turned out to be named Flash, was there and was looking mighty fine. He wanted the three of us to go right back to our room for an encore, but the evening's adventure was just starting for me, and I said, "thanks but no thanks—at least not this early in the evening."
Brian was the forward, friendly type, and I could tell that he was ultra horny this evening, so I wasn't surprised that he let any of the guys buzzing around us feel him up. I didn't want the evening to end so fast with a rough gang banging, though, so I managed to extract him from Saloon 1 and get him moving toward the next club on his list.
We were back on Duval Street, and Brian pulled me into the Bourbon Street Pub. There were soft-core porn movies flashing on screens within sight of every nook and cranny in the dimly lit main room, the music was loud enough that my ears throbbed to the heavy beat, and heavenly barely legal young men in thong bikinis were playing poles at intervals along the top of the long bar. Brian was immediately surrounded by virile studs who he obviously had met and been very friendly with in earlier visits to the establishment, and he was quickly busy doing a lap dance on the crotch of a beefy Jamaican dude in baggy shorts and nipple rings who was perched on a bar stool.
I moved on down the bar and bantered briefly with a succession of muscle men on the make, all of whom seemed interested in what I might be interested in. I was still shopping, however. And I was enjoying the scenery working the poles on the bar top as well. One lithe young flaming redhead with good muscle tone and even better flexibility on the pole caught my eye, and I sat on a stool right under him and drank him in for two beer's worth of time.
After a while, I felt two muscled arms coming around on either side of me and nice big hands clamp down on the edge of the bar, encasing me but not too close. A rich baritone of a voice spoke into my ear, cutting through the noise of the music.
"Like him?"
I assumed he was talking about the dancing youth on the bar in front of me.
"Uh huh," I answered—because I did, indeed, like him very much. I usually wasn't in to barely legal guys, but this one had such a nice smile and clean-cut appearance. There was an air of vulnerability about him that made me want to just hug him and kiss away any of his fears—and then give him a few new fears to think about.
"He's mine," the voice answered. "But I might be willing to share."
I looked around at the source of the voice then. He was a handsome devil. Appeared to be in his early forties, but he was in great shape. Like the Jamaican, he was only wearing baggy shorts, which I was beginning to realize was the uniform of choice in the Keys, but no nipple rings here. He looked like a sleek CEO of a corporation, all blond, tending now to gray, and smooth and well-conditioned hard bodied. And if he owned the guy undulating around the pole, I guess he could have been a CEO of a corporation.
The guy was talking to me, and I had to make him repeat what he was saying because of the noise in the room. "Let's the three of us go downstairs and watch the pile for a while. It's time for Jamie to come off the pole, anyway, and it's getting a little crowded and noisy for me up here."
"The pile?" I asked. "And, pray tell, what's the pile?"
"You sort of have to see it to understand it," he answered with a rich little laugh. "And you can't see it if you don't go downstairs to where it's at." And then he raised his face and voice to the youth on the pole. "Come on down, Jamie. Time's up, and there's someone here who wants to meet you."
While Jamie came off the bar and, flashing a shy smile at me, was included with me in the zone that the older guy was creating with his encasing arms, I looked around for Brian, not knowing if it was wise for us to be splitting up. I wondered if he'd be willing to go check out this pile thing. But he obviously hadn't been similarly worried about me, because both he and the Jamaican were gone. This ticked me off a bit and probably was why I just threw caution to the wind.
"Sure," I said. "Let's go see the pile."
With Jamie leading the way through the crowd and the CEO-type's hand on my elbow, we moved to the back of the room and down a long flight of stairs. En route, my guide established that his name was Kurt and that he thought I was really hot. Both of those seemed to be good things to know.
We were going down a hallway, and the sounds I was hearing from beyond the doors we were passing tipped me off quickly that we were in a meet and greet (and beyond) area of the facility. One loud string of profanity cut me to the quick. I couldn't resist stopping in my tracks outside the door that was producing this sound and looking into the large window in the door. Neither Kurt nor Jamie seemed to mind the stop, and both of them took in the view as well. Kurt moved in close behind me, and, as we watched what was happening in the room, he got his hands under the hem of my fishnet muscle shirt, and they eventually moved up to cover my chest and rub and tweak my nipples.
The room on the other side of the door was completely white and it wasn't very big. There was only one piece of furniture in the room, a small blue padded cube bed of some sort in the shape of a rectangle, with wedge-like risers at either end. The platform was in the center of the room. A naked man was reclined on the platform, belly down, with both his head and his butt elevated at head and foot. His wrists were cuffed to the lower sides near the head of the rectangle and his ankles were cuffed to the lower sides at the foot of the rectangle. He was positioned parallel to the window, so that what we were looking at was his right side. The naked man was Brian, and he was yelling his head off. That's what had made me stop. I recognized Brian's voice.
I could easily understand why Brian was screaming, because the Jamaican, sans his baggy shorts now and his magnificent torso glistening with sweat, was hunched down at the butt end of the rectangle with a manrammer in his fist, an over-nine-inch long and over-two-inch thick flesh-colored cock replica on a five-inch straight handle, and he was ramming the cock end of it in and out of Brian's asshole. With each thrust, Brian's body was lurching against the restraints at his wrists and ankles and he thrusting his head back and was screaming to the ceiling.
I tensed up, ready to storm the room and save my significant other, when Kurt tightened his grip on my chest and whispered in my ear in that soothing baritone voice of his, "Wait. Listen. Listen to what your friend is screaming."
And, sure enough, when I allowed myself to zone in on Brian's voice, he was screaming, "Yes, yes! Harder. Deeper!"
