THE MOVIES? NO, THANKS!
By Pete Brown petebrownuk @ yahoo.com
Read all of Pete's stories at groups.yahoo.com/group/petebrownseroticstories
Note to readers: This is NOT one my normal "slave" stories, set in Arabia or a future USA. It's a short story, set in my home city, London, in the present day. Only the coercion and humiliation will be familiar to my normal audience (oh, and, of course, the hero is Steve!).
Part One - THE MOVIES? NO, THANKS!
I like to get to the gym around 16:00, and get in and get done before all those office workers start to flood in. It saves having to wait to use all the machines - I can't stand that, as when I really begin a work out, I need to work really hard, consistently, and if I have to stop I don't think it's such good exercise. And, of course, it saves those pathetic wankers giving me pitying looks when they see me changing out of my dirty work clothes, covered in mud and stuff. You may think that a bloke like me who works in construction shouldn't need the gym - but although the hard manual labout is good for some things, it doesn't really work out everything, I find. So I like to work out to keep "match fit", otherwise my Saturday matches with the club are a real trial: not that I'm in a top-class team, but, honestly, some of the matches you have in the lower divisions of our amateur Rugby league are a hell of a lot harder, and a hell of a lot tougher, I
can tell you - we seem to attract blokes like me who have fit, hard bodies, and who want to take out some of the aggression they can't release in everyday life.
It's lucky, actually, that I've managed to get a job on a site in Central London so I can get to the gym by bus - since those bastards took away my licence, a lot of the jobs out in the suburbs are closed to me as you need to drive to them. Those fucking magistrates just don't seem to care that they took away my living when they took my licence - and, after all, everyone speeds, don't they? Still, as I say, I was lucky to get the job I have, and it's only those pathetic office workers in the gym who really annoy me - I reckon it's them that need pitying, actually: they probably don't earn nearly as much as I do, and they certainly don't have the hard muscle I do! In fact, life is pretty good on the whole, as I don't have a lot of that crap like mortgages and stuff to worry about, and no bosses breathing down my neck and giving me all that stress. Provided I just turn up on the site and get stuck in, they mostly leave me alone as they reckon I'm a
good worker - I really keep at it to give myself a proper workout, though, as I've told you. Just about the only real problem is my girl friend - she keeps on about getting married and "settling down" and having kids; I reckon there's lots of time for that still as I'm only twenty seven and I like to use the spare cash for holidays - I reckon you can't beat Thailand for the beaches and the swimming, and you come back with a really good tan. I might ditch her if she keeps on about it, especially as she's started to say that I'm "too demanding" - well, if fucking every night is "too demanding", then it's time I moved on, I reckon, as a bloke needs to keep his cock exercised as well as the rest of him, doesn't he? And I find that if I don't have sex absolutely regularly, I start to get that dull ache in my balls. And a tough, virile bloke like me shouldn't have to wank, should he? I gave that up when I was about sixteen and the women started to see
that a fit bloke who knows how to use his cock is worth knowing.
Still, that evening was much like any other. It was cold enough to freeze your balls off as we had a very unusual for London cold snap, and as soon as the light began to fade I was glad when the foreman said we could all go. It was a real relief to strip off my work jeans, T, shirt and hoodie in the warmth of the gym, and I stood there for a moment rubbing my naked skin (which actually felt cold) before I pulled on a jockstrap and my exercise shorts and T. Yes, call me old-fashioned if you like, but I use a proper jockstrap when I'm working out or playing rugger, unlike a lot of the other blokes who have gone for those long, elesticated boxer things. For one thing, I think it looks silly when they poke down below your rugger shorts - I reckon they're made for soccer players who have those longer shorts, unlike us who still have "proper" short shorts that really show you off; and, anyway, I sweat a lot, and I reckon a jockstrap lets you "breathe"
better as your bum's bare under the shorts and the air can get up your arse crack properly.
Anyway, I had a good solid workout, not as long, perhaps, as I usually do, but my girlfriend's away on some training course at the moment and so I reckoned to drop in at the local pub on my way back to the flat to see if there was anyone I could pull - as I've said, I don't like having to wank, and there's usually a chance of finding some slag or other who could serve, if I played my cards right and bought her a couple of drinks. I stripped off my (very) sweaty gear and the changing room was starting to fill with the office workers as I made my way towards the showers - the place is really going downhill since I joined, as I'm one of the few "real workers" left after most of the big construction projects moved on, and it's getting so that there's only these feeble desk jockeys filling the place up - and I could see a lot of them looking at me as I strode down the room towards the showers, my cock bobbing up and down in front of me. They've recently
put up some poncey notice suggesting that "gentlemen might prefer to cover themselves with a towel on their way to and from the showers" as a lot of them seem ashamed to show themselves - I don't know why they join a gym if they're like that, as why else would you be working on your body if you didn't want to show it off? But that sort of language is typical, and I heard a couple of snide remarks about "yobs who couldn't read" as I went along - they were lucky I didn't thump them, contenting myself with the more civilised "It says 'prefer' - and I prefer to go naked". I reckon they were a bit surprised to hear that, as although I might look like a bit of a rough worker when I come in from the site, I actually did go to uni and got a degree - some people just don't seem to understand that for blokes like me it's more satisfying to have a proper hard job with no responsibilities, so I can spend the rest of my time doing the enjoyable things, like
sex, without a lot of stress and worry.
There was no-one else in the showers so I was able to stand there for a good long time really enjoying it, and I could get myself properly clean - I reckon you need to soap your crack properly, for example. And, of course, it's good to be able to 'skin back and really get all the smeg out from under our hood without other blokes looking at you (or without having to turn and face into the corner, or something). Actually, if I think about it, I know I'm being a bit stupid here - I'm not only not embarrassed about my body, I'm quite proud of it. So why should I worry about other blokes seeing my cock head when I 'skin back? My cock's properly in proportion to the rest of me, and as I'm a tall, muscular bloke, my cock's long and thick so I've got nothing at all to be ashamed of. I suppose I'm like a lot of men with a 'skin and I like to keep my head decently covered until it's out, ready for action. I've never minded any of the women I fuck seeing it,
after all, so why should some of the men in the gym matter? But, there you are, people are funny, aren't they?
I felt really good after the shower, and it doesn't take me long to dry off - I keep my hair short, so there's no need to stand there in front of the hair dryers like some of the ponces you see (and some of them are even rubbing in "skin cream" and stuff like that - I reckon a man should be rugged, and his skin should be tough, and I often don't shave for a day or two so I get a good rash of stubble on my face). I pulled on clean briefs - yes, I know it's not fashionable and most men my age wear boxers, but I like the support they give, and I reckon it's more sexy when you strip off and there's only a little bit of fabric covering your arse and the woman can see your thighs properly - they're going to be driving your cock into her, aren't they, so she should see what to expect!) - and then freshly-laundered jeans, a clean T, and a sweat shirt. Then I stuffed everything else back into my gym bag, making a note to myself that I really did have to do
some laundry as my jock, shorts and towel were getting a bit rank), pulled on my donkey jacket, and went out.
It was still fucking freezing and my breath made big clouds of steam as I hurried along towards the bus stop - it's not like this in London normally, and even though I was hot from my exercise and the shower, I did begin to feel a bit chill and was looking forward to a nice warm pub. Just as I was getting near the stop, as I passed a parked van, a guy stepped out from a doorway and said "Got a light, mate?"
At first I thought he was going to be one of those pathetic beggars you see all the time asking you for spare change, or trying to sell you some useless magazine about the homeless, so it took me a moment before I could say "Sorry, I don't smoke" (mentally adding "of course, you pathetic addict, do you think a bloke like me would ruin his lungs?). But then I had a second thought - this time of night, when most of the city folk had gone home, any bloke lingering like that and not hurrying to the stations or bus stops had something else in mind - he was probably attempting to pick me up! I took a second glance at him and saw he wasn't like those pathetic older men who sometimes tried this if I was in a pub by myself, and I did wonder why he needed to try something like that here as he didn't look to be in bad shape - early twenties, not fat, looked in pretty good shape. He oughtn't to have had any problem in finding someone for sex.
I'd stopped for a moment, and then, just as I was looking at him and formulating the crushing words I'd use to let him know exactly what I thought of homos, something went around my face. I just had enough time to notice that the bloke who had stopped me was clearly expecting this, when the smell of some sort of chemical went up my nose. There was another man behind me holding this cloth over me, and before I could react and hit out at him, the stuff on the cloth did its work and I felt my knees begin to sag, my eyes blurred, and there was a terrible ringing in my ears like I'd experienced once before when, as a kid, the dentist had put the gas mask over my face before the knockout injection had done its work fully. It's funny - they say "time stood still", and for me the next few seconds seemed to stretch out and out. As I slowly sagged and went down, I heard one of them shout "get him in the van, quick, as someone might come along", and I dimly
saw the typical "white van" with its back doors being pulled open.
It was the stinging on my face that brought me around. Someone was slapping me, and shouting "Wakey, wakey, fucker!". I opened my eyes and blinked as the light s were so strong - there seemed to be a lot of those kind of flood lights you use of sites somewhere way up above me, on the ceiling., Then gradually I realised I was lying there on my back, and I began to remember being stopped.... And the rag over my face....
"What the fuck....?", I tried to say, but I was cut off as I gave a great groan as a foot crashed into my guts and the voice said "Come on, wakey, wakey, get on your feet, fucker.... We haven't got all night....."
The foot crashed into my guts again and a second voice told the first "Easy, Chas, we don't want him damaged...."
"...so get on your feet, fucker!", the first voice said again, and it seemed to be a good strategy, at least for the time being, to comply. After all, lying on the ground I was not in a good position to fight, was I? Whereas a strong bloke like me, on my feet, would be more than a match for some street punks. So I struggled, but something seemed to be wrong as I couldn't leaver myself up somehow. As the fog from my brain cleared faster and faster, I realised that there was some a kind of bar across my shoulders, and my hands were fastened to each end of it, right out from my body. And as I wriggled, I realised that my arms were somehow lashed to it, too. It's not easy, even of you're in good shape, to get up from your back with your arms stretched out like that, so I had to struggle to somehow half turn over, then get to my knees, before I could finally force myself upright.
There were three fit-looking blokes standing in front of me - mid twenties to early thirties, I'd guess, and all looking as if they went to the gym regularly. Then somewhere hovering around, further out, were a couple of younger, slimmer guys, both holding those kind of semi-professional video cameras that are small enough to manoeuvre easily, but which take really professional-quality stuff: I'd seen someone photographing a wedding on my last holiday in Phuket, and my girl friend was really disappointed when she realised that I was only asking them about the cameras, and not about wedding arrangements!
"What the fuck....?"
"Shut up!", one of the three snapped. "...and listen. We can either do this the hard way, or the very hard way. You're not going to like the next few hours, and we don't need - no, we don't want - your co-operation. But if you try to do anything stupid, it will be REALLY hard on you. Now, what's your name?"
"Fuck you!", I snapped.
He took a step forward, and slapped me hard on the face. No, it wasn't a slap - it was a real blow, with his open palm, though hard enough to make me stagger. At once my reflexes cut in and I went to punch him, but nothing happened because the bar was holding my arms at right angles. So I tried to use it as a weapon, and swung around, hoping to catch him with it.
He ducked, calling out "Grab him!", and the two other blokes moved in and each grabbed hold of one end of the bar.
"You all try that.... So we're ready. You'll find we're ready for most of the things you men try to do.... Now, what's your name?"
"What the fuck's going on....? Let me out of this thing.....!"
He stepped forward and another harsh blow struck the other side of my face. I couldn't stagger this time as the bar was holding me rigid, and in spite of my strength I was helpless - all that stuff in physics at school about levers and mechanical advantage, I realised: with a bloke on each end of this long bar, I was at a hopeless mechanical disadvantage.
"Now, I'll ask you once more. And I'll expect a proper answer this time. I can keep on hitting you until you do answer, you know..... So, as I said, it's going to be hard for you, or very hard.... And I wouldn't advise you to go for the 'very hard' option - at least not yet, this early in the game..... So what's your name?"
I could see he was right, so I muttered "Steve", noticing that as I did so, one of the cameras had moved close in to focus on my face, whereas the other camera man was holding back, presumably to shoot me standing there in-between the two men holding the ends of the bar.
"Good, Steve. And how old are you?"
"Twenty seven."
"And are you straight, or gay?"
"What the fuck.....?" I saw him moving towards me, hand raised, and spat out "Straight!"
"Not even a little bit gay? We saw you coming out of a gym, and you've got a honed body...."
"Listen, fucker, I'm straight! I fuck women. I'm not into men. Not even 'a little bit', as you say...."
"Oh come on, Steve... You must have thought about it.... We've looked in your wallet and found a membership card for a rugby club as well as the gym. All those naked men, all those male bodies in the scrum. You must have thought about it - a wank with a mate at school? One of those rugby club 'inaugurations' with lots of half-drunk men doing 'bonding' things? A mate giving you a 'helping hand' when you're between girl friends....? Come on, Steve, all men have thought about it...."
"Listen, fucker, I have thought about it. And it makes me feel sick! Now, cut all this crap, and let me go...."
"Now, Steve, we can't do that, can we?"
"Yes you can! If you stop right now, untie me from this bar, let me out, I'll just go home...."
"Sorry, Steve. But we can't do that. You see Jon, Dave and me are all horny. And Jamie and Ian have got their cameras out and have given up their evening....."
"Look, this is stupid! You can't just kidnap a bloke on the streets of London, you can't....."
"Shut the fuck up, Steve! You're talking a load of crap, and you know it. You say 'you can't kidnap a bloke on the street...', but we have: here you are! And, frankly, I don't care what else you think we can't do. The fact of the matter is, Steve, that you're here, we're here, and the fun is about to begin.... Well, the fun for us, that is - we particularly like it when we get a straight guy, as it's somehow so much more exciting.... Although not necessarily for him."
I could feel some sort of panic, or was it anger, rising in my. I threw myself at him, but the two men holding the bar I was tied to prevented any real motion. "You fuckers....", I shouted.
"Enough!", the guy in front of me snapped. "Now, Steve, let's get a proper look at you. It's a pretty exciting package as you are, but you can't really judge a man properly until he's naked, can you?"
He came towards me and bent over to reach towards the buckle on my belt. It was too good an opportunity to miss, and I kicked out at him. He was agile, though, and stepped back, so my foot didn't connect, and the action unbalanced me so I kind of stumbled and the rope holding my wrists and biceps to the bar cut in to me.
"Now that wasn't very friendly was it, Steve? But, as you can see, it was pretty stupid: we've done this before, you know, and you're pretty typical... But I warned you, didn't I, that things would be harder for you if you didn't behave?"
As he said this he aimed a punch at my belly, and even though I just had time to try to stiffen my muscles, it really knocked the air out of me and I slumped forward, giving a great gasp. This was one fit guy, I realised, and he knew how to throw a punch. He stood there in front of me, a faint smile on his face, rubbing his knuckles. "A nice hard belly, Steve! Do you want another one? I reckon a hard punch in the belly hurts the belly more than it hurts the fist.... What do you think?"
"Fuck you!".
He smiled again. "Words are cheap, Steve. But I'm going to try to undo your belt again now, and then I'm going to pull your jeans down and off. And if you try anything stupid, I'll punish you again. And they're pretty nice jeans - it would be a pity to have to damage them! Someone we had in here recently was so violent we just couldn't strip him, and we had to end up cutting his jeans off him - and unfortunately he struggled so much that the scalpel we use cut him a bit, too. The blood's a nice extra, I always think, but you don't really want that, do you?"
As he said this he stepped forward again, although warily, so I could see that there was no point in lashing out. His fingers undid my buckle and he pulled my leather belt right out from my jeans. Then he undid the top button, pushed down the zip, and began to push my jeans down over my thighs, then my knees. As he knelt to slip my trainers off, I saw my chance and in spite of the pain from my wrists and biceps, I kicked out at him again - it wasn't easy, though, with my jeans around my ankles, and it only succeeded in knocking him backwards and I knew I had not harmed the bastard.
I didn't like the smile that played across his face as he half sprawled there, and as he got to his feet, he muttered "Oh Steve, now that was foolish, wasn't it? You know what I said - if you don't behave, you have to be punished."
Out of the corners of my eyes I could see the two holding the pole nod and laugh, as Chas (I assumed that was him, as he'd told me the names of the others and I'd heard this name mentioned) picked up my belt, wrapped the buckle end around his hand once so there was a long length of leather hanging loose, moved slightly behind me, and the next moment I screamed as the belt hit my bum. And I screamed again, and again, and again, as three more strokes landed.
Chas came and stood in front of me again, and I saw the two camera men repositioning themselves to take in the scene. "So, Steve, you've never had a belt across that delicious arse of yours? Your dad never punished you? And I don't suppose you're the kind of man who would let his girlfriend tease him with a whip...."
I had to almost fight back the tears as I said "No!"
"Well, you see we can hurt you. I really ought to give you a few more strokes to drive the lesson home, but we don't want that lovely arse of yours too badly scarred - well, not at this stage. Perhaps when we have those underpants off I might have to discipline you again, but, believe me, if it hurts now, you probably don't want to feel the belt against the bare skin." He paused for a moment, and then went on "Now, I'm afraid we're going to have to cut that sweatshirt off you, as we certainly can't trust you enough to untie your hands. Still, that doesn't matter, I suppose - it's not a designer label. I don't suppose rough guys like you appreciate the finer things in life. "
He came towards me as he said this so he was almost touching me, then reached behind my neck to tug at the top of my sweatshirt. "Ah, Primark! You are a cheap skate, aren't you, Steve...."
"I save my money for holidays...."
"So there's no loss, then. We'll give you a couple of quid when you leave, to replace it. But remember what I said - I'm going to use a scalpel, as sharp scalpel, and I don't suppose you're going to want any cuts - and the subsequent scarring - on your body, are you?" He paused for a moment and went on "....but perhaps you do! Perhaps you're one of those men who likes a lot of tattoos all over him, and thinks a couple of scars would enhance things? That's part of the fun of doing this, you know - we never know what we're going to find on a man's body until we strip him! Personally, I think some small, discrete tattoos rather add to the excitement of the male form..... But you should see what we've had in here sometimes - utterly gross! Still, I reckon you're one of those men who likes to keep himself 'clean'. But you never know...."
He stopped for a moment, then looked at the two men still gripping the end s of my restraint bars. "Dave, Jon.... Want a bet? A tenner that Steve here isn't tattooed?"
The one on my left hand gave a little laugh "Naw.... It's not worth it. I reckon that even if he does, it will be something stupid like his girl friend's name. Not a proper man's tattoo. I tell you what, though, if I'm right, and there's any female name on him, I get to fuck him first!"
A cold chill went through me as I heard this. I suppose I knew something terrible was going to happen and had been trying to push it to the back of my mind. But hearing him say I was going to get fucked left me no way of fooling myself.
"What about you, Jon?", Chas asked. So now I knew which one was Dave and which Jon, at least.
"It's like Dave says, I reckon it will be some woman's name, too. Or that pathetic 'mom' - he could have been a soldier, judging from his body, and a lot of them seem to need to have that reminder of home inked on them. So if it's 'mom', I get to fuck him first."
All three men laughed, and the camera men were smiling too. Chas was so close to me that I could feel his breath on my face, and I wondered whether I should knee him in the balls - until I saw the glint of the scalpel in the harsh lights. "OK, Steve, now just stand perfectly still, and you won't come to any harm...."
I stood there helplessly as the scalpel ran along my sweat shirt... There was a lot of fiddling around as he worked it carefully around the ropes on my biceps to avoid cutting them - and then the sweat, and my T shirt, dropped away.
Chas stood back and looked at me as I stood there now just in my briefs (and, perversely, I was really glad that I'd just come from showering at the gym and had changed into them after work: you know how it is, especially if you always wear white, as I do as I think it emphasises my tanned skin better and the women like it - just those tiny dribbles of piss you can't help leaving, even if you shake it off properly, leave disproportionately large yellow stains.
"Clean on the front....", he said, then walked behind me and added "...and on the back. It looks as if I'll get to fuck him first. Unless he's hiding something other than a pretty exciting looking set of tackle under those briefs.... I reckon we'd better find out, so that we settle the bet, anyway...."
Now smiling at me again he came and stood in front of me (and I could see the camera men repositioning themselves again), he added "Now, Steve, you need to be a good boy! We need those briefs off you, and I don't want to cut them off as you're clearly well hung, and it would be a pity if when you go home you didn't have any support...."
I suppose you listen very carefully to every word your captors say in situations like this, and all of a sudden the future looked a lot brighter as I heard the "when you go home". But I said nothing, and kind of resigned myself just to stand still as Chas knelt in front of me and started to "tease" the briefs off me. I say "tease", as instead of just pulling them down and stripping them off as you'd normally do, he almost played at pulling first one side, then the other, so that they inched down over my hip bones, and began to expose the top of my pubes. One of the camera men was right in close now, focussing down on my crotch, and Chas murmured "Ah, Steve, I see you don't trim your bush! I love the way that thick treasure trail comes down over your belly and is opening up into a real forest....."
The elastic waistband was now on top of my cock, I could feel, and Chas continued with his teasing, leaving it there at the front and moving behind me to pull my briefs down over my ass. The camera was following him, and Chas muttered again, rhetorically, I suppose, as he wasn't listening for a response from me "I suppose you're too old, Steve, to have really gone in for 'sagging' in the streets. Those jeans of yours are pretty low-cut, and these briefs are what you might call 'scanty', but I reckon you've never walked along really 'sagging' and letting men enjoy the top of your arse crack, or the tops of your hip bones.... No, I reckon you're a real conservative, and although your belly button and some of those bands of muscle might show a bit below, you've never really 'sagged', have you? So now is the first time a lot of other men will get to enjoy all of this...."
With an almost triumphal movement he pulled my briefs down to my thighs, then worked them over my knees, and down over my feet. Standing up again he added "There! As I thought! Our Steve is one of those men who is proud of their body, and there's not a tattoo mark on him. So I guess I get to fuck him first...."
"No one's going to fuck me....", I shouted, in a fit of bravado.
"Oh Steve, I didn't really have you down as an idiot! We've taken you off the street, and here you are, you know not where, standing there stark bollock naked in front of us, nicely trussed up. And there's me and Dave and Jon here who between us can do anything we want with you. And you reckon you're not going to get fucked? Who's going to stop us, Steve? This isn't the movies, you know - well, not the Hollywood movies, anyway. Rin Tin Tin, or Superman, or John Wayne's cavalry, or whoever, are not going to come charging in here and rescue you, you know! No, my friend, you are going to get fucked. But that's normally something men do together at the end of the evening, rather than when they first meet.... And there's a long way to go before then, and we're going to teach you quite a lot about what men can do together."
All my optimism about "going home" vanished. I just couldn't believe that I was going to be fucked. I wasn't gay, never even had any thoughts about it. They couldn't be serious. Or could they?
End Of Part One