He certainly looked like a big brute when he had arrived in the hotel room, and with all that muscle, he provided me the hope that he could touch me where I needed to be touched, take care of my need, and give me relief. But it hadn't happened. Once again it hadn't happened. I was beginning to think there really was such a thing as wearing your hole out, as having become so used that you no longer could be touched where you were screaming for it and spouting off all that buildup, draining yourself in satisfaction.
I had ordered and paid for a guy who, they claimed, was not only the biggest they had but could keep it working all night—wouldn't finish without me.
I had lived for three years in that remote valley in the Himalayas, where the men were elephant built and could fuck all night. Through long practice, they had reamed me a wide one and had trained me to hold out for hours. And now my sex life was ruined. I had returned to the corporation offices in New York a year ago, and I hadn't had good sex—or what I had been trained to in the way of good sex—since I landed in Manhattan. It was making me irritable. It was getting in the way of my work.
I had tried the bar scene and the classifieds, being very explicit about my need, and then I had turned to the escort services. This was my third one, and although he had a good ten incher and seemed to have a lot of stamina, I was, once again, left unsatisfied, jittery, and with an ache in my balls that just wouldn't go away.
After the fifth fuck as deep and vigorous as he could manage, he just fell off of me and over onto his side on the bed and cried uncle.
But when he left, he said, "Here, man. Nice tail, but sorry I couldn't do it for you. I've never failed before, but I felt like I was swimming around in there. Maybe you need surgery or something. But Leo told me that if this didn't work, I should give you this card. No charge. Again, sorry. It isn't that you don't turn me on. You'd be a fine lay if you weren't stretched so wide."
With much regret I took the card, and after we'd kissed at the door and he left, I looked at it. It simply said "Club Pan" and had a telephone number and an address on the other side for a side street in the Village.
Two nights later I was standing at a dimly lit walk-down door under a iron porch giving access to the main level above of a nondescript brownstone on a dark Village street. A blinking sign saying "Club Pan" was beside the door. So I at least was in the right place. I had called the number on the card the night before, and, after I had very directly told the man on the other end of the line what the nature of my problem was, he told me he thought they could help me. He also told me not to wear any clothes I was fond of. The one-evening visit I had paid for was quite expensive. But I was willing to try anything now for relief.
After giving my name to the pair of dark flashing eyes that opened a window in the door, I was let into a small vestibule that was completely black—walls, floor, and ceiling. But what arrested my attention was the half man who ushered me through the door. He was costumed as some sort of nymph—horns on his head that were cleverly attached so there was no indication they weren't naturally his and the hairy legs and hooved feet of a goat. He was pretty cute, actually, very slender, with black curly hair, including his pubes, which were exposed. He had a long cock dangling out of pert little balls, and he had a little goatee that jerked up and down when he talked. He was giving me a very enticing look, and I wondered if he was the one who was to try to service me. If so, I didn't think this was going to work. He did have nice length to him, but I doubted his would hit my walls at all as it slid up me.
He led me past an entrance down into some sort of club room where a performance was going on. I could see as I passed that the room, which stepped down to a stage area, was dark except of the glitter of gold cylinder-type decorations hanging from the ceiling. I caught just a glimpse of the stage in passing, but there appeared to be small figures dancing on poles at the four corners of the stage, with other, more muscular nymphs then this one—satyrs really—embracing the pole dancers. And a young naked man was tied to an X-shaped contraption in the middle of the stage and seemed to be in the middle of being fucked by another satyr.
As the nymph guided me farther down the corridor, I rather regretted that I hadn't been taken into the club. I needed warm-up if there was any hope of bringing me to the orgasm I needed.
We entered a room that was all white and had a curtain at the far side with some sort of framework in front of it, sort of a large, sturdy window frame, also in white. The nymph told me to stand in the center of this, and I hardly had noticed the velvet restraints at the four corners of the frame before he had my arms spread and my wrists tied to the upper corners and then my legs spread and my ankles tied to the lower corners.
He left the room and the curtain in front of me slowly opened. A diminutive figure was perched on a low bench nearly against the far wall of the room that was revealed to me. He was dressed in what looked like a Roman toga. He couldn't have been more than four and a half feet tall, but he wasn't by any means either a dwarf or a child. He was a perfectly formed little man. Some creature of the mythical woods, I supposed, just as the nymph who had let me in and satyrs I had seen down on the stage were—or were pretending to be. It was all in keeping with the Club Pan motif, I figured. But I really had no idea what it meant as far as filling my hole to satisfaction and giving me a needed orgasm.
The little man, who had downy reddish-blond hair and a beatific expression on his handsome face was playing a haunting tune on some sort of piped instrument. I watched him for a couple of minutes and listened to his playing and wondered what possibly could happen out of this in the way of a solution to my problem.
I blinked my eye, and in the moment of that blink, another figure had entered the other room. He looked like one of the satyrs I'd seen down on the stage. He wasn't terribly bulky or tall, but beside the young man playing the pipes, he looked like a veritable monster. He was hung like a horse. And he was ready for action in that department. His rod curved up from his belly like a crescent moon, and it was capped with a big reddish, angry-looking bulb. He strutted around the room, giving an evil leer from under his bushy eyebrows. He was swaying to the music on cloven hoofs. His legs were as hairy as a goats, and he had massive pecs with patterns of hair circling his nipples and trailing down into his bushy pubes. He snorted and moved around the room to the music coming from the pipes, giving off an air that was many things at once: cruelty, sensuality, power, grace, danger, domination, and brutality.
I found myself both fascinated by him and shrinking from his visage as far as my bonds would allow, just as the small young pipe player seemed to be doing on his bench.
But then, as I watched in horror and absorption, the haunting piping stopped and the frightened squealing began. The satyr had drawn near the bench and just grabbed the little man by the front of his toga at chest level and lifted him up with the strength of one hand. The pipes went skittering off across the floor, as the little man howled his shock and surprise.
The satyr was ripping at the little man's toga, unwrapping him in ripping fashion like a child getting into a Christmas package. As I had surmised, this was neither a dwarf nor a child, but a fully—and very nicely—formed adult who just happened to be about half adult sized. Without further ceremony, the satyr, turning sideways to the window so that I got a full view of what he was doing, held the young man in front of him with strong hands encircling his waist and crouched a bit and brought the young man's hips over his hairy thighs. He positioned that bulbous mushroom cap at the young man's hole, and I thought there would at least be some preparation, although surely the young man couldn't take him with or without preparation. But I was wrong on at least the first count.
With guttural animalistic sounds of lust and expectation, the satyr was skewering the writhing young body down on his tool. The satyr pushed the torso of the young, howling man down toward the floor and turned then, full frontal toward me, so that I could see the head of the cap poise a brief moment at the rim of the hole and then slowly get stuffed inside as the satyr pulled the young man's hips up into his groin.
