1 Chapter 1
The Warehouse
August 29, 20—
My tight ass is being thumped and bumped by a few cover boys as Lady Gaga blasts out of the overhead speakers. A bald daddy with pierced nipples grabs onto my hips and begins to rub his crotch against mine. Some bogus ranch hand finds residence at my bottom and grinds his semi-swollen beef into it. A twink cuddles up to my side and rubs a palm over my bare chest, tweaking a nipple with straying fingers. I dance my balls off with the dudes, kiss a few, rub a denim-covered cock or two, and enjoy city life.
“Welcome to The Warehouse, Gage!” Corey yells into my right ear. “Does this place rock, or what?” He breaks up the dancing entourage around me and passes me a fruity drink with extra alcohol.
“Drugs. Sex. Alcohol. And rock-n-roll, baby. This is the life I always wanted. I feel like I’m on a different planet!” I yell, being escorted off the dance floor by him, weaving through the hot bodies and to the bar area.
Cages with delicious looking jocks in fluorescent G-strings decorate the floor. Hairless twinks with glittery chests do aerial gigs on maroon draperies that hang down from the ceiling. The bar is shaped like Marilyn Monroe’s lips and tended by bare-chested hunks in white bowties, matching briefs, and bootie socks. The place is filled with the New York City’s hottest muscle heads with summertime tans, blue-eyed cops, rough-faced mechanics, meaty football players, chiseled military men, and adorable Joe Averages.
In truth I don’t long for the club’s sexy-hot patrons. My stare concentrates on Corey Cassidy, a high school swimmate some ten years ago, a long lost friend who just happened to find me on the Internet and invited me to his city. Corey is every guy I’ve always wanted. He has a charcoal-colored crew cut, six-foot frame, Aruba-blue eyes, flat stomach, and tiny sprigs of dark hair between his firm pecs. Once a country mouse like me, now a city mouse—I can’t keep my eyes off him, into his skin, smile, and appreciate his hospitality during my weekend visit.
This weekend is all about catch-up for us. And tonight in The Warehouse is just the beginning to the two of us getting off with each other just like our high school days.
The fruity drink is everything it’s cracked up to be. The liquor provides a great kick. A stronger kick happens from Corey, though. He reaches over and touches my naked chest with his bare palm, strums a nipple, and says, “You’re getting drunk, Gage Wellton.”
“I’ve only had a few.”
“A few too many.”
“Screw you,” I challenge.
“That will come later. For now, I want you to meet my business partner.”
“Who?”
“Come on, I’ll show you.” Corey drags me through the crowd and into his office. 2: Ian Underwood
Some blond with hazel eyes, a cleft in his chin, and broad shoulders receives a blowjob by a bald rugby player. The blond sits behind Corey’s desk, and the rugby player is on his jock knees, bobbing his head up and down, slurping and sucking like a hustler.
Upon walking into the office, Corey says, “Oops,” and backs into me, pushing me out of the office. Once the door is closed, he says, “That was Ian Underwood at work.”
“Which one?”
“The one in the chair. My business partner for the past two years. Co-owner of this bar.”
“He’s not bad to look at.”
“Everyone says that. Ian’s a whore. It’s why he wanted to open The Warehouse in the first place. His motto is to have a different guy on his cock every night. The bastard will be single forever though, fearing commitment.”
“I can handle that,” I play, grinning.
“Yeah, right, Mr. Shy from the country.” He rolls his eyes and smiles at me.
“I’m not shy anymore. Look how many guys I had clinging to me on the dance floor.”
“Meth will do that to partygoers.”
I’m pushed against the office door with Corey’s two fists. He clings his mouth to mine, shoves his tongue down the back of my throat, pulls off and away, and says, “That’s so you shut the fuck up.”
“I’m an auctioneer on the weekends when I have time. Ranchers like me never shut up.”
“If I shove my cock in your face, you will.”
“Promise?” I inquire, feeling lightheaded from the fruity drink and grass contact buzz.
“Don’t beg for cock,” he says, “you don’t wear it well.”
“I’ve never begged for anything in my life,” I say, and mean it.
“Let me remind you of a sleepover we had in eleventh grade. You begged me to fuck you.”
“And you didn’t, which really pissed me off.”
“I was high and drunk. I couldn’t keep it up.”
“You jerked off and went to sleep. You ignored me. I wasn’t a part of your plan that night.”
“You still sound pissed about it,” he says, strumming fingertips against my cowboy chin.
