Go-go

Go-go 2

by Emile

Copyright 2008

It had been an hour long show, and finally the hot spotlight swung over to the next stripper, leaving him to shake off the last few guys that were feeling up his exposed flesh.  As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, a guy was gesturing for him to come over to the far end of the stage.  His heart sank.  Sometimes it was a good thing - an excuse to prise himself off whichever john was groping his taut flesh as he swayed to the music, and get a few dollars tucked under his waistband - his main income since Mitch paid so little.  But his show was almost over, and the last bus before daylight broke was leaving soon.  He sauntering over as Mitch had shown him to do, his whole slick body on display.  He knew the guy.  He was a young but sadistic suit, would shove the money deep inside, knowing Mitch would allow him to fingerfuck Carlos and plough his digits deep, so long as there was a couple of dollars in it.  Carlos went over, squatting on his bulging calves, hands on the ground, just below his hovering arse, ready to defend himself.  Too late, he noticed the bills were rolled tightly to form a paper tube, like a cigarette, and realised the guy's free hand was grabbing at his fat and leaky helmet, popping the meaty head out of the thin material, and spearing his pisslips with the crisp rolled notes.  He yelped, as the guy plunged down with his thumb, driving the wad of notes deep into his burning urethra.  Almost as quick as he had begun, the roll was almost down to the dicklips, and he popped the skewered head back under the material, before Carlos had an excuse to end he show.  The burning was excruciating, and the tube wickedly sapped his cockslop from deep within his pisser, making him leak more and soak the front of the G-string.  As he slid up to do his last dance on the main stage, the guy winked, saying there was enough there to pay for an hour, and that he'd be waiting in his change room after the show.

When Carlos came off the stage, sweaty and sore, Mitch was waiting for him, running a hand down his sweaty lats and slipping the strap down so his shaved tackle flopped out.  It was all business for him, and he pulled out the roll of cash from his dicklips brutally while Carlos just stood there, puffing, his hands by his sides as he'd been taught.   He counted out his share - 40%, shoving the other precum soaked notes into Carlos' hands, and telling him he'd been rostered to do the 4am show.  Carlos hadn't slept in hours, he was a wreck, but Mitch just shrugged, either he wanted the money or he didn't.  "Now don't keep your client waiting" he chuckled, pushing him towards his "change room".  He didn't have a private room to retreat to like the others, all his worldly possessions were in a rucksack by the stage, for anyone to rifle though (and they frequently did).  His 'change room' was a small fuckroom at the back of the stage, which was only ever unlocked when he had clients.   Mitch would toss his bag in when they booked him, so he had his clothes after (he said), but also to force him to do whatever gig Mitch arranged.  When he walked in, the suit who had shoved in the bankroll was rifling through the bag, unapologetic, just holding up a picture of a young guy.  "Who's this" he asked, and Carlos mumbled it was his son, the guy just nodding and pocketing the photo. Carlos cried out, it was his only photo of the teen, and had his address on the back.  But the guy was already distracted, concentrating on Carlos's hot and tight body.  "Come here, spic, and let me see you up close..."

Half an hour later, and both of the guys were sweating heavily, the suit from in post-fuck exertion, since he'd punched his 12 inch boner into Carlos' arse until it scraped it raw, and Carlos from the pain of the fuck, and now the post-fuck 'entertainment'.  Both guys had stripped down - the guy, "Sir", had stripped the tailored shirt off his rugged body, and his meaty cock hung slack out of his pinstripe suit fly, while Carlos had surrendered his micro thong and now squatted buck naked on the table, his well fucked hole at eye level as he crouched legs apart and balls dangling, as commanded.  His legs were cramping, but that was the least of his worries.  Not only was his aching hole stretched in that position, already swollen and bruised from constant abuse, but his low hangers and own veiny stalk were fully exposed, and while the hole vainly tried to recover, winking as it burped fucksauce, the suit was working his package over good.  He held another safety pin up to Carlos' wide eyes.  "And this big fella is for your pretty little cockhead!"  His supple olive skin had already been ribbed with pins, from his perenium up his ballsac and along the underside of the shaft - big fucking steel rods that tugged at the sensitive flesh.  Gritting his teeth against the pain, he muttered a "Thank you Sir", gripping the table tightly in his beg hands to stop him involuntarily closing his knees against the inevitable savaging.  Mitch insisted he take it "like a man", or, at least, "like a mule" - made for whipping.

He was worried he couldn't have kids anymore, between the ballbashing and all the junk they shoved in his pisshole, he could barely piss without screaming from pain already, but Mitch just laughed. He said if that were true, it was a fucking service to society he was stopping him bring any more spic kids into the world, that one was bad enough, and he should be grateful his ugly helmet got any action at all.  Not anymore.  As the huge spike sunk into his pisshole, he grunted loudly, feeling the point dragging down, ready to pierce the fat head.  "Now what would be prettier" the suit asked "underneath and fully plunged, leaving just the shiny clip, or topside and shallow, nice and exposed?  I mean the first would hurt like fuck, and make pissing a mess, but you'd still be able to jerk off cleanly, while the second would look wicked, but might rip through when I put the weights on.  Yeah, heavy ones, cuntlips, just for you...  Tell you what" he said, pressing the spike down, so it began piercing the lower half of the shaft, "how about we do two!"  The pain was unbearable, and Carlos couldn't wait to prise them off his dork, before too much damage was done.  The suit must've read his mind, because he continued, saying "Oh, and your boss, Mitch, he said to leave these in for your next show, he wants to see how the audience likes em.  If you're lucky, you might get some permanent jewelry out of it.  So what's that, three hours time?"  He slid the pin down to the base, clipping it closed.  It was menacing, a 3 inch giant safety pin, and the head began throbbing against the 1/2 inch head.  Carlos was scared, 3 hours!  And who knows what would rip with these pins against his tight g-string, hands groping him mercilessly.  He lined up another pin, smaller this time, but to Carlos' horror, pierced across the head above the pisshole, like a fucking bar.  It must've touched a nerve, because it sent a jolt through him, like a punch to the nuts. Involuntarily, his knees quivered, and sweat slaked off his wide smooth thighs. "Jackpot" the guy sneered, flicking the clip until Carlos dropped to his knees, his hands automatically trying to cover his damaged flesh. The guy smacked his hands away.  "Big mistake buddy" he whispered, going around behind him, pulling his broad arms tight behind his back.

He stared down over his barrel chest to his pulsing aching dork, thinking it couldn't get much worse.  He was wrong.  The guy pulled his hands together, cinching them tightly in handcuffs, immobilising his beefy guns and forcing his chest out proudly.  That wasn't all, and he felt something large pushing against his exposed and pouty arse ring.  If he wasn't so well fucked, the blunt tool wouldn't have gone in, but the guy kept ramming, until the huge rubber plug was deep inside. As he pushed in the last inches, the base yanked at his handcuffs, and he realised he was tethered to his own buttstuffer.  Worse, he attached something and began pumping, driving air into the plug, making it expand in his already stuffed arse.  He grunted as the plug grew even larger, two squeezes making it uncomfortably thick.  "How's that feel" he asked, and Carlos hoarsely responded "Uh, it's really painful, Sir, it feels like it's gonna split my arselips..."  He grunted, and gave the pump another couple of squeezes.  Carlos screamed,and when he calmed down, he asked again.  "Please sir, no more, it's to big, worse than a fist, I'll rip me apart!"  He gave one more squeeze, making Carlos scream again, and a small tear appear on his tightly stretched hole. "Okay, that should do it" he said, disconnecting the pump, the valve holding the air in tight.  He whispered in Carlos' ear "Now the release valve is on the head of the dong, on slow release.  It'll take about 4 hours before it releases enough to pull out safely, bloating you the whole time, unless you want to rip it out earlier.  I should warn you though, it's thicker in the middle, so if you pull your hands up, it will split your hole in two.  It might be a little uncomfortable even then, though, the thing takes a whole night to go back to its original size.  But then, spic holes like yours were made to be stretched, weren't they.  Carlos held back tears, his body shaking with pain.  "Ugh, yes, yes sir."  "Yes what dickditch?"  He was playing with his bloated sac, now defenseless.  "Yes, my spic hole... was made to be stretched... sir"  He flicked the nads, making them jerk.  "Right you are."