I was standing in the small room, in front of a curtained window. Paul's hot breath on the back of my neck was doing little to dispel the tension that was tying me in knots, even though that's exactly what we were here for. The room was pretty dreary really; just this curtained window and a padded massage table behind us against the wall. Tired paint on the walls, scruffed tiled floor and ceiling, as if men before us had been walking the ceiling and dragged across the floor, which, for all I knew, was exactly what had caused the scruffing. A set of loudspeakers above and at the corner of the curtained window. Paul's arms came around me, and he started to unbutton my shirt and pull the tail out of my jeans even before he pulled on the curtain cord.
I didn't want to lose Paul, and this might be my last chance to keep him. We'd met at a book event. He was the author, and I was the fascinated reader. We'd talked while he autographed my copy—and I'm afraid I'd gushed about his book. He had taken that in stride and had invited me for coffee after the signing. I was a young, impressionable college student, and he was a good twenty years older than I was—but very distinguished and handsome. Gray at his temples and dancing green eyes that held mine. Thick, sensuous lips, a cleft chin that made him look very urbane, and a well-toned bod. We weren't finished discussing the exotic sub story line in his book when the café was closing, so he invited me to his place for a nightcap. His apartment matched my suppositions in sophistication; we kissed on his deeply upholstered couch, and he had my fly open and had sucked me off, with me shooting off quickly, before I managed to escape in embarrassment and confusion.
Two days later, he saw me loitering on the sidewalk in front of his apartment building, and, without words, he came down, took me by the hand, and led me back inside his door. We 69ed on his bed for hours, with him trying to take it farther, and me breaking it off in fear. I'd given and gotten both hand and blow jobs over the past year, but it had never gone beyond that.
Paul wanted to fuck me. He had no interest in me topping him. I wasn't adverse in theory, but I'd tighten right up whenever we got to the brink. He was big and thick and long—and I was terrified of the pain. After our fourth meeting, he was positioned and entered me, but as soon he had, the pain was just too much for me. I tightened right up and screamed for him to stop. His frustration was palpable, and I declared I wanted it but just couldn't do it—that perhaps we needed just to give up on the effort and any idea of a relationship in the fullest sense. I could tell that he was conflicted, though. He said he was smitten with me, but I knew he couldn't be satisfied with just hand and blow jobs. I cried, and he gently massaged my body and then tried again, but I just couldn't take him; it was just too painful. He then said he had an idea that might help, and so here we were, two days later, in a back room of a men's club, standing in front of a curtained window.
Paul had my shirt open and he was stroking one of my nipples with his hand. He reached over with the other hand and pulled the curtains open, and I let out a shocked gasp.
We were looking through a wide, full-length two-way mirror into another small room, almost identical to the one we were in. Hung by his wrists from straps only about two and half feet away and facing us on the other side of the window was a young man of only nineteen or twenty, with a thin, twinkish, boyish build. He had a mop of curly red hair that almost came down into his eyes as his head hung down, and, as he was stark naked, I could see a patch of red pubic hair surrounding a smallish, pert cock hanging down between his legs. Despite his thinness, he had good muscle tone and was a handsome lad. He looked like a lad, but I vaguely remembered him from one of my college classes, so I'd say he couldn't be much younger than I was. The pads of his feet barely touched the tiled floor.
I started to say something to Paul, but he told me to hush and just to closely observe what was happening in the other room. One of his hands was still massaging my chest, and the other had moved to undoing my belt buckle.
I heard a hollow sound and looked toward its origin, which was the speakers at the top edge of the window on our side. These were conveying the sound from the other side of the glass. A door had opened in the other room—behind where the young man was hanging—and I let out another gasp when I saw the men who had entered the room. He was massive, but not in any way fat. He was heavily muscled, and sharply defined in every respect. He seemed about the same age as Paul, but he obviously was a fanatical bodybuilder. He was dark to the point of swarthy, with salt and pepper-colored hair that covered his body in short ringlets that kept him from being defined as more than borderline bear. He had a short-cropped beard and mustache and a buzz cut hairstyle. Gold rings gleamed at his left ear and in both of his nipples, and there were barbed-wire tattoos encircling both of his arms across the biceps. The only thing he was wearing was a black leather, studded harness across his chest and leather over-the-ankle boots. What had made me gasp, however, was the horse-hung cock and tennis-ball-sized balls swaying back and forth between his legs as he approached the bound young redhead from the rear.
I felt my pants and briefs hit the floor. Paul had freed them as the dark monster had entered the other room.
The monster stopped and stood very close behind the young redhead. He nuzzled the young man's neck with thick lips in a lingering caress, as his big, thick-fingered hands ran up the sides of the youth from the hips to his elbows. The redhead lifted his head, showing me a frightened expression, and murmured in low tones I could barely hear, but I thought they sounded something like, "No, no, please don't," repeated over and over.
I flinched as I realized that Paul was naked now, his cock running up my back. He pulled my shirt off and nuzzled his lips into my neck and mirrored the hand movements of the monster on the other side of the window.
"Paul?" I asked, a shiver of fear in my voice.
"Hush, hush," we whispered to me. "Just concentrate on the young man on the other side of the window. Watch him carefully, and keep constantly in your mind that he is slighter than you are and that the man behind him is much longer and thicker than I am."
I watched in mixed horror and fascination as the older man on the other side of the window ran his hands all over the body of the redheaded youth, paying particular attention to his nipples and his cock and balls. Paul was doing the same with me, and I found myself moaning in just a slightly lower tone than the youth facing me. His pert little cock was standing straight out from his red bush, as my longer and thicker one was doing out of my blond bush. Paul turned my face to his, and we lingered in a long, juicy kiss. I was willing myself to loosen up for Paul—but this concerted effort, of course, only kept me tight and fidgety.
When I was able to look back around, the bigger man appeared to have disappeared, but as I focused more closely on what was going on, I could see that the redhead's chest was arched forward and his hips pulled back, and he was standing on his very tiptoes. His tormentor was crouched behind him, his face firmly wedged between the youth's butt cheeks, and his hands wrapped around to the front of the youth's thighs. The redhead was grunting and giving out little yip yip sounds and writhing his hips back and forth as much as his precarious position would allow.
Paul's lips and tongue were at my asshole as well now. He was forcing my butt cheeks open with the palms of his hands, and I almost lost my balance as my chest arched forward. My hands involuntarily pushed out in front of me to keep myself from falling, and my arms were now widely spread, palms against the window. I pressed my forehead against the glass, my eyes glued on the eyes of the redhead, and groaned and grunted at having my ass wetted and eaten out by the man I idolized.
The redhead couldn't see me—or so I assumed—but by watching his eyes, I could see his fear and resistance melting and his eyes hooding with desire. And I was going with him on this, moaning and groaning and sighing at Paul's tongue work inside my hole, on my tender inner thighs, and up through my legs on the underside of my cock.
While our asses were being worked, the redhead's cock and balls were getting attention from big, swarthy hands, and so were mine from Paul's long, elegant fingers. I began to move my pelvis in rhythm with Paul's ministrations—and the redhead was moving his as well.
The monster and Paul rose up on their feet behind their objects of desire almost simultaneously, and both produced gobs of lubricant and started to lather up holes and cocks.
The redhead was back to begging for mercy in a low, hoarse voice, and I felt myself getting more tense as well.
