Straighthell-stories

SIR’S bitch

Part Two

As I sat in the car next to Sir, I tried to remain calm.  But that was hard, considering what had just happened to me on a public street where I had literally been exposed naked, with my diclit caged, my boy nubs clamped, my cunt stuffed with a massive butt-plug and my cunt-holder a flaming red from its recent thrashing.  Being forced to stand naked on a public street like that, to say nothing of being fondled and molested by a total stranger as I stood there, had been incredibly humiliating and I knew it would take me a long time to get over the embarrassment I still felt.  And the thing was, I had absolutely no idea what was going to happen next or even where we were headed.

Asking Sir was, of course, out of the question.  I was already slated to be punished for speaking out of turn when we left the house, and I most definitely did not want to aggravate Sir even more by repeating that mistake.  So I just tried to sit there quietly, legs far apart as Sir expected, trying to modulate my breathing and calm myself down, though admittedly I wasn’t having great success doing that.

We drove for about fifteen minutes, but it wasn’t until we pulled into a seedy little shopping area that my heart started pounding in my chest.  I knew this mall and I knew where we were going.  We were going to Max’s, a gay strip club.  And, dressed as I was, it was obvious I wasn’t going there as a customer.  Sir was about to make me dance in a gay strip club, a club notorious for making its boys dance not only completely naked but fully erect, too.  I had been toying with the idea of outing myself to my friends as a faggot-bitch, but never in my wildest nightmare had I considered doing it buck-naked on top of a stage with my hard diclit bouncing around for anyone to see.

“Well, we’re here, bitch,” Sir said as He put the car in park.  “Get your ass out of the car.”

I unbuckled the seat belt, opened the car door, and stepped out.  I knew I was hyperventilating but I couldn’t control that.  But it was only when my bare feet hit the asphalt that I was reminded again exactly how I was dressed.  Collared, wearing only a skin-tight pair of leather briefs, my boy-tits clamped, my entire torso denuded of all hair, I was already attracting the attention of a number of people in close proximity.  And, unlike the sidewalk in front of Sir’s house, there were a lot of people out and about.  I could feel my entire body flushing in embarrassment, an embarrassment exacerbated when Sir walked up and grabbed the leash dangling from my collar and started leading me forward.

Once again, I had to hurry to catch up with Sir so I could stick my left hand down his back right pocket which, considering how I was dressed, would clearly mark me for all but the most clueless observers as Sir’s bitch.  And even as I did so, I tried to steel myself for the abject humiliation that I was sure to feel when I was fully exposed in a bar filled with other gay dudes.  But despite my best efforts, I knew I was close to a full-on panic attack as we approached the bar’s entrance.  And then, to my total surprise, we walked right past it.

It took me a few seconds to process what had just happened but, when I did, it wasn’t relief I felt, it was heightened anxiety.  If we weren’t headed to the strip club, where were we headed?  I didn’t have a clue.  But, just a few minutes later, I had my answer and all the terrors of a moment earlier blossomed again.  Because what Sir led me into was a small tattoo parlor.  I was about to get a tattoo, though what it would be of, or where it would be placed, I had no idea.

But if I was a total stranger to the parlor, it was clear Sir wasn’t, as the tattoo artist who was working on a burly dude’s chest, looked up and greeted Him.  “You’re just in time, bro,” he said, “I’m just finishing up here.  I’ll be getting to your bitch in just a few minutes.”   And that put any lingering hope that I wasn’t the one getting a tattoo to rest.

I didn’t have long to dwell on that, however, because no sooner had Sir sat down in a chair than He ordered, “Give me your shorts, bitch.”  I almost protested ‘but I’ll be naked,’ but I caught myself just in time.  Sir obviously knew I’d be naked if I removed the leather shorts when He ordered it, so that was clearly the reason why He ordered it.  Sir wanted me to be naked in the tattoo parlor and challenging a direct order would be the height of folly on my part.  Considering the punishment I’d already earned earlier, the last thing I needed to do was to break another rule.  So even though I was cringing inside, I did what Sir told me and took off the shorts, leaving myself completely naked and exposed.

Sir took the leather shorts and then placed them next to Him on the floor.  “Kneel on the shorts, bitch,” He immediately ordered.  “Display position.”

I quickly moved over the shorts and then knelt down.  Once settled, I moved my hands behind my neck and interlaced my fingers.  If I felt naked and exposed when I had removed the shorts, I felt even more so kneeling in the display position, knowing that my now hairless armpits would also be a full display along with my totally hairless torso.  Though I kept my eyes fixed on the floor as I’d been trained, I could feel the eyes of the two strangers scoping out my body and that made me blush all over again, particularly when one of them snorted in apparent contempt.

I don’t know how long I knelt naked in the display position on the floor of the tattoo shop.  It felt like hours, but then again time always seems to elongate when you’re doing something you don’t want to do.  In reality, it probably was no more than ten to fifteen minutes.  I heard the dude who’d been getting a tattoo stand up and move around, obviously looking at his new tat and admiring it.  A minute or two later, I could hear him walking towards me on his way out the door.  And then his feet stopped right in front of me.

“I see you brought your bitch in to be properly tatted,” the stranger observed to Sir.

“Yeah,” Sir affably replied, “seeing how the little whore’s going to be hairless from now on, I thought his body could use some nice adornment.”

“I understand,” the man replied.  “Manly hair on a bitch can’t help but given the faggot delusions of adequacy.  It’s always best to keep them totally hairless so they never mistake themselves for a Real Man.  Your bitch is a cute little thing, though.  Do you mind if I play with his body a little.”

“Go right ahead,” Sir replied, obviously enjoying letting another stranger make free of my body.  “Help yourself.”

The next thing I knew I saw two meaty hands descending and then grabbing on to the metal clips attached to my boy-tits and twisting them, hard.  It was all I could do to stifle a moan as pain radiated outward from my already sore nubs.  The stranger gave them another vicious twist before running his hands down my abs and then taking my caged diclit in one of his hands and start pulling on it, while the other hand began slapping my balls.

“Your bitch’s clit looks really scrunched up inside its cage,” the stranger observed.  “How large is it when it isn’t caged?”

“About six and a half inches,” Sir replied.

“And is the cage permanent?” the stranger inquired.

“That depends,” Sir answered, and it was all I could do to keep from turning my head to look at Sir.  “That depends on how well the bitch learns to follow orders, even when he doesn’t like them.  And how diligent he is in letting everyone know what a lowly, pathetic, obedient bitch he really is.”

It was a good thing Sir had plugged my cunt, because when I heard that last statement I would have shit a brick if He hadn’t.  I hadn’t even considered the possibility that the cock-cage on my diclit might be permanent.  If the choice was between having my diclit permanently caged or outing myself out as a totally subservient faggot bitch to my friends, what choice did I really have.  Having a permanently caged diclit was pretty much the last thing in the world I wanted.   Hell, if they saw my diclit in its tight little cage they’d figure it out for themselves anyway.  Sir had obviously decided that it was time for me to take the plunge and let everyone know I was nothing more than an obedient little bitch, and He was going to make sure that I did just that.

And even as my mind was still reeling from Sir’s last declaration, the stranger spoke again.  “You know, bro, you might want to keep the bitch’s clit caged for at least a year or two regardless of how he acts.  Six and a half inches is just too much meat for a bitch to be flashing around.  Keeping his clit in a little cage like it’s in now for a year or two will shrink it down nicely.  After two years, the bitch would have himself a little two-inch nub that nobody would mistake for a Real Man’s cock.”

Hearing the stranger’s comment was bad enough, but when Sir replied, “Well, that’s definitely something to think about,” it was like someone had taken an icepick to my heart.  I know pride of any kind is unseemly in a faggot bitch, but the truth was I’d always had been proud of my diclit.  It wasn’t massive like some dudes, but it was of a good usable size and more than adequate in the past to make any dude I was coring-out squeal and moan as I pounded it to him.  My topping days might be in the past, now, but that sure as hell didn’t mean that I wanted my diclit shrunk down to a pitiful two inches.  I just had to pray that Sir was playing with my mind like He often did and wasn’t really seriously considering shrinking my diclit down to a little nub.

Just then the tattoo artist called over to Sir, “I’m ready for your bitch now.”  Sir thanked the stranger for his advice and the stranger, in turn, thanked Sir for letting him play with me and opened the door and walked out as Sir ordered, “On your feet, bitch.  It’s showtime.”  I couldn’t help feeling a little relieved.  I might not know what type of tattoo I’d be getting or where it would be, but at least the stranger wouldn’t be around making suggestions that I would hate.

Sir picked up my leash and started leading me forward.  I took maybe half a dozen steps before we came to a stop.  “Before we get started,” the tattooist told Sir, “we need to get your boy to sign the release.”

There was a rustling of paper and then Sir handed me a sheet.  “Sign this, bitch,” he ordered, “and then we can get started.”

I looked at the paper.  It was headlined as ‘Permanent Tattoo Release.”  On the top of the page where the was a blank space for ‘Name of the Customer,’ my name was already written in.  But the succeeding sections that described the tattoo being applied and its location were blank.  At the bottom was a disclaimer section which basically said that the tattoo artist would not be responsible for adverse reactions or any unhappiness with the design or the tattoo artist’s work.  Underneath that disclaimer was a place for me to sign.  I had hoped that the document might give me some clue as to the nature of the tattoo I was about to get and where it was going but that clearly was not the case.  But knowing I really had no choice in the matter, I just picked up the pen and signed ‘Colt Evans.’  I knew I’d be getting the answer to my questions soon enough.

Having signed the paperwork, I was then led to weird chair that reminded me more of a fuck-bench than anything else.  I was told to kneel down and rest my chest on a slanted board.  Once I was in that position, it became quickly apparent that whatever tattoo I was getting, it was going on my back or on my cuntholder.  Actually, though, as I discovered as the tattoo artist went to work, it was somewhat on both.

It started on the left side of the small of my back but then descended from there to just the top part of my left cheek.  The Man working on me let me know he was just doing the outline first, so this moved relatively quickly.  There was definitely some pain involved as the needles repeatedly penetrated the dermis of my skin, though honestly not as much as I feared, and certainly not as much as I would have felt if the tattoo had been intended for a more sensitive part of my body like my nads. 

It took maybe twenty minutes to finish the outline of the tattoo.  I tried to visualize it based on the track of the needle-pricks across my back, but I was essentially clueless as to what it was.  The area was sore after the outline was done, but with just a short break, the tattoo artist told me he was now filling the tattoo in.  That took maybe a full half hour, if not a little more.  I was definitely in some pain after it was completed, but it wasn’t something that I couldn’t handle.

I was getting ready to get up from the bench I’d been kneeling against when, to my total shock, the tattoo guy said, “Now, for the second tattoo.”  Two tattoos?  I was getting two tattoos?  Holy fuck!   Almost immediately, I felt the prick as the needles began penetrating the skin, this time just below the small of my back on my right side.  As the needles worked back and forth on my back it seemed to me that, somehow, this second tattoo was smaller than the first, but just as with the first, I was totally at sea as to what design was being placed on my body.

With the second tattoo, the dude didn’t even bother taking a break and, once the outline was done, he immediately began filling in the tattoo.  In all, it probably took less than thirty-five minutes to complete the second tattoo.  By the time the second tattoo was finished, I was really antsy and definitely felt the need to get up and just walk around for a little.  But my move to stand up was met by a hard slap across my cunt-holder.  “Stay where you are, bitch,” I heard the tattoo artist gruffly order.  “I need to put some salve on the ink to protect it.  After that, you can stand up.”

While the swat stung, at least I knew the tattoos were finished so I maintained my position.  A moment later I could feel a wet liquid being applied to the areas the tattoo artist had worked on.  The salve eased some of the soreness, though if I’m being completely honest, the pain even when the needles were penetrating the skin didn’t approach the levels of pain that a good cunt-spanking from Sir caused me.  Still, the pain forced me to concentrate on the reality that I now had two tattoos adorning my backside and I didn’t have the slightest idea of what they were or how they looked.

It was obvious, though, that Sir definitely approved of the tats.  “They look great,” He enthused.  “Just what I wanted.”  He admired them for a little bit longer and then ordered, “Okay, bitch, you can stand up.”

After the awkward position I’d been in for close to an hour and a half, I was a little bit unsteady as I got to my feet.  Once on my feet, I turned to face Sir, though, of course, I kept my eyes firmly on the floor.  But when I moved to put my arms behind my back and clasp my hands together, the position I normally maintained whenever I was in Sir’s presence, the tattoo artist stopped me. 

“Don’t do that,” he barked.  “You don’t want anything rubbing against the ink for the next six or seven hours, at least.”

I didn’t know what to do with my hands until Sir simply ordered, “Keep your hands at your side for now, bitch.”

“Yes, sir,” I quickly replied, doing as I was told.  “Thank you, sir.”

I was quiescently standing there, waiting further instructions, when Sir suddenly said, “Well, bitch, would you like to see your new tattoos?”

Immediately, I raised my eyes to respond.  “Yes, sir,” I answered.  “Very much so, sir.”

“Well, bitch,” Sir said with a broad smile, “there’s a full-length mirror against the wall.  Go check it out.”

I was nervous as I walked over to the mirror and Sir’s obvious amusement did nothing to allay my worst fears as to what I was about to see.  I stopped right in front of it and then slowly turned my body around though I kept my eyes glued to the reflection.  As the tattoos came into view, it took me a moment to understand them because of the reversal effect of mirrors, but finally I did.  And I could feel my entire body flushing.

I had been afraid Sir had picked out something gross, like a dripping cock, but Sir hadn’t done that.  But He hadn’t chosen some anodyne tattoo, like a rose or a butterfly, either.  No, what Sir had chosen was simply two letters, roughly three inches high, in bright purple.  The first, a capital S on my left cheek just on the edge of my cunt-cleft, the second a small b on my right cheek just across from the S.  And I immediately understood that, henceforth, anyone looking at my naked ass would see 

S b

emblazoned right above my cunt.  SIR’s bitch.  I was forever marked as such no matter what happened after today.  And suddenly the area of my back where the tattoo had been placed burned as if I’d been branded there.  Which is exactly how I felt, like I was an animal who’d been branded by its owner.  Anytime I stripped in a locker room, the brand would be apparent to all those around me.  Indeed, the way it was placed, anytime I took my shirt off, the upper half would be visible above my jeans or my underwear.  There was no escaping it.  And there was no going back.  I would be SIR’s bitch for the rest of my life.

Despite all my efforts, despite all my training, I couldn’t keep the tears from trickling down my face.  And when Sir saw them, He was clearly even more amused.  “So, bitch,” He asked with a self-satisfied smirk, “what do you think of your new tats?”

“They’re…they’re…” I started, but I was at a loss for words.  But finally I managed to squeak out, “they’re embarrassing, Sir.”

“Oh,” Sir responded with a noticeable edge to His voice, “you find it embarrassing to be my bitch, boy?”

“Nnno, sir,” I hastened to reply.  “I’m not…I’m not embarrassed that people will be finding out that I’m YOUR bitch, Sir.  I’m embarrassed that not only total strangers but close friends will be finding out that I AM a bitch.  I…I know what they’ll think of me when they find that out.  I know how they’ll look at me from now on.”

“And how will they look at you, boy?” Sir pressed.

“They’ll look at me like I’m a bitch,” I responded, knowing where this was going.

“But you are a bitch aren’t you, boy?” Sir continued.  “You’re my bitch, aren’t you boy?”

“Yes, Sir,” I admitted.

“So if you’re feeling embarrassed,” Sir went on relentlessly, “you should be embarrassed for lying to your friends, for presenting yourself as something you never really were – a Real Man.  You should be happy that your friends will now be learning the real truth about you, boy.  That all you are is a bitch.  Isn’t that right, BITCH?”

“Yes, Sir,” I conceded.  “You’re right.  I should be happy that they’re all finding out the truth about me, that I’m a bitch.”

The way Sir was smirking at me I could tell that He knew exactly what I was thinking.  Yeah, I should be happy that all my friends were going to be finding out that I was a lowly faggot bitch but, in truth, I was terrified at the prospect.  But between having to keep my entire body hairless and now this new tattoo on my ass, the choice of when and how to let my friends know about me was being taken out of my hands.  They would all be finding out sooner rather than later.  Just how soon even I didn’t yet understand.

“Okay, bitch,” Sir ordered, “we’re done here.  Go put on your shorts and we’ll be going.”

Before I could even take a single step to comply, the tattoo artist spoke up.  “I wouldn’t recommend putting those shorts back on,” he said.  “They’re real tight and the top of the shorts will cross right over both of the tattoos.”

Sir stopped for a moment to consider this and then, with a truly wicked grin on His face, He said, “Well, bitch, I guess you’ll have to leave here naked then.”

I looked at Sir, hoping He was joking, but He wasn’t.  Fortunately, it was the tattoo artist who came to the rescue.  Sort of.

“I’ve had this problem a number of times in the past,” he said, “so I keep a supply of these on hand.”  He walked over to a desk set against the wall, opened a drawer, a pulled out a small swatch of fabric.  As he brought it over to us, I could see there were some strings attached to it.  “This is a g-string specially designed to follow the curve of the rump.  It provides minimal covering but at least enough to avoid having your bitch arrested for indecent exposure.”

He handed it to me.  I stood there holding it for a moment, waiting for the okay from Sir to put it on.  Finally, Sir deigned to give me permission, “It’s okay, bitch,” He said.  “Put it on.”

I stepped into it and then pulled it up my legs.  As I carefully raised the g-string up my legs it was obvious that when the tattoo artist had said it provided ‘minimal coverage,’ he hadn’t been exaggerating.  It actually was a good thing that my diclit was caged, because if it hadn’t been there was no way it could have fit inside the small pouch.  As it was, it scarcely covered the cage and my nads and anyone looking at me could easily see that my pubes had been shaved off.  It might be better than nothing, but not by a lot.

Sir didn’t hide His amusement.  “You look great, bitch,” He chuckled.  “Perfect in fact.”  Then, a moment later, He ordered, “Thank the man for your g-string.”

“Thank you, sir,” I immediately offered.

“No, boy,” Sir interjected.  “I didn’t mean for you to offer the Man verbal thanks.  I wanted you to show him how appreciative you are the way a bitch always shows his appreciation to a Real Man – on your knees with your faggot mouth open.”

In just seconds, my entire body felt like it was on fire.  Only once before had Sir ordered me to suck off someone other than Himself and that had been a particularly humiliating experience.  Obviously, though, it was one I was about to repeat.  Slowly I dropped to my knees and then spread my lips far apart.  The tattoo artist fiddled with his fly and the next thing I knew he was jamming a good seven inches of hard cock into my cock-hole.

Almost simultaneously, I felt Sir’s hand on the back of my head, forcing it forward.  And as I gagged and choked on the big fuck-stick slowly forcing its way down my throat, I brought up what seemed like buckets of sputum, which began cascading down my chin onto the floor.  And, as always when that happened, I couldn’t help but feel totally humiliated.  For me, it was like pissing yourself, something you ought to be able to control but at times you just couldn’t.  And hearing Sir chuckling behind me, made my embarrassment that much more acute.

The tattoo artist plowed away at my cock-hole for a good ten minutes before finally discharging a massive load of his ball-scuzz.  Embarrassed as I was by the whole scene, I still managed to swallow every drop.  I couldn’t help feeling relieved that at least I hadn’t embarrassed myself by letting some of his Man-seed dribble out of my cock-hole.

It was a totally chastened little faggot fuck-bitch that got back to his feet after I’d serviced the tattooist.  Even though I knew I still had to run the gauntlet of the parking lot wearing only the tiny g-string, with my back and ass now festooned with the tattoo that proclaimed me to the world as Sir’s bitch, I was still anxious to get back to Sir’s house.  I didn’t know what awaited me there, but I was sure it couldn’t be any more degrading and mortifying than what I’d already endured.  So all I felt was relief when Sir clipped the leash back onto my collar and proceeded to lead me out of the tattoo parlor.

Stepping into the fading sunlight of late afternoon, though, once again brought back home how totally exposed I was.  I was barefoot, virtually naked, wearing a slave collar, my boy-tits clamped, my cunt plugged, being led by a leash like a dog.  And I not only had less covering than I had before, having swapped a pair of leather shorts for a flimsy g-string, but I now had a bright purple S b blazoned on my back that couldn’t help but attract even greater attention to me.  I could just imagine the spectacle I was making of myself.

Even though I kept my eyes cast down, I could feel the people around staring at me with that mixture of contempt and disgust they always reserved for faggot bitches on display.  But I told myself that every step I took got me closer to Sir’s car and home.  So I was completely shocked when we hadn’t gone more than 100-feet when Sir turned aside.  I knew I was breaking protocol, but I couldn’t help myself – I looked up and saw we were about to enter Max’s, and my heart skipped more than one beat.  Somehow, I knew for an absolute certainty that I was about to become a gay stripper.  And, as it turned out, for once I was right.

I didn’t know what time it was, but judging by the shadows cast I knew it couldn’t be much later than 5:00 p.m.  And when Sir and I entered Max’s the very first thing I heard was, “We don’t open until 8:00 p.m.”

But even as a sprig of hope sprang up within me, the voice said, “Oh, it’s you.   Come on in.”  Sir, who hadn’t even slowed His pace when He’d heard the first dismissive phrase, simply said, “I brought the bitch.”

“Fuck, dude,” the voice responded, stifling an audible laugh, “I can see that.  Hell, my dancers wear more clothes when they’re working the crowd than your bitch has on right now.  But bring him on over here so I can get a good look at him.”

Sir led me maybe twenty more feet and then stopped.  There was a lengthy pause and then the voice said, “You’re right.  He’s a good-looking little bitch.  How’s his dick?”

Sir didn’t answer at first.  Instead, He reached back and yanked my little g-string down to my ankles, totally exposing me.  “As you can see, his little diclit is all caged right now.  But he actually has a decent-sized diclit for a bitch when it’s uncaged.”

“Well, to be honest,” the voice said, “I want it uncaged if he’s gonna be dancing in Max’s.  After all, that’s one of the things my customers expect to see – the dancer’s cock flopping around as he puts on a show.”

“What I thought,” Sir responded, “was that the bitch would come out with his diclit caged and then, early on, it would be freed and then the crowd would be surprised at how big it was.”

“That might work,” the voice agreed.  “But let me see the bitch’s ass and pussy.”

“You heard the Man,” Sir directed towards me.  “Turn around and show him your cunt-holder and your cunt.”

“Yes, sir,” I dutifully replied, even though my stomach was in a knot.  I turned around, bent over, then reached back and spread my cheeks apart so the Man could get a good look.

The Man laughed out loud.  “Well, the plug’s a nice touch,” he eventually remarked, “but, to be honest, I think my customers enjoy seeing a bitch’s hole.  And definitely, when he’s working the floor or the backroom, they’re going to want to finger his hole, which is kind of hard to do with a butt-plug in it.”

But Sir wasn’t about to forego me appearing on stage with a big butt-plug jammed up my cunt.  “What I thought,” he explained, “was just like with the diclit cage, he’d show everyone the plug and then remove it.”

“Fuck, dude,” the Man responded, “you seem to have your bitch’s entire routine worked out.  I’ll tell you what.  We’ll put him on the bar and see how it works.  Okay?”

I pretty much wanted to find some place to hide when Sir replied, “That would be great.”

“Before you do that,” the Man said, “there’s one thing I want to clear up.  Boy, look at me.”

Automatically, my head snapped up and I finally got my first look at the Man.  He was in his forties or fifties and it was obvious that he’d been around a long time and was not someone to mess with.  “Boy,” he said, looking straight at me, “I understand that you’ve been trained to keep your eyes down whenever you’re around Real Men.  And that’s totally proper when you’re out with your Master.  You’re an owned bitch, after all.  But when you step on a stage, boy, then you’re a performer.  And, as a performer, my customers expect you to be looking straight at them while you perform.  So I want none of this submissive bitch attitude when you’re dancing at Max’s.  You look straight at the dudes you’re performing for and give them a good show.  Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir,” I quietly replied, seeing Sir nodding in agreement.  “I’ll do whatever’s expected of me.”

“You can count on that,” Sir added.  “He’ll do whatever you want him to do.  I’ll make sure of that.”

“Okay, boy,” the Man said.  “I want to see you on the bar right now.  You’ve got the looks, but I need to make sure you’re able to connect with our customers.   Looks are important, but it’s the personal connection that really makes a successful stripper.  So get up there and show me what you’ve got.  Keith, here, is the dancers’ supervisor.  He’ll take you backstage and show you the ropes.”

I was about to follow the dude the bar manager had indicated when Sir interrupted.  “Before you take the bitch back there, could I have a couple minutes with him to make sure he understands what I expect?”

“Sure,” the manager said.  “Make sure the little bitch knows what’s expected of him.”

Sir pulled me aside and proceeded to tell me exactly what He wanted me to do.  And it was obvious He had thought the whole thing out.  Not content with having me strip naked in a bar in front of hundreds of strangers, Sir had mapped out a routine designed to absolutely humiliate me.  I cringed just listening to Him describe what I was expected to do.  But I also knew I had no choice but to do what Sir wanted me to.

When He’d finished His instructions, He led me back to Keith, who proceeded to take me backstage.  I was surprised to discover that there was actually a small, elevated anteroom that allowed the strippers to simply step onto the bar from behind a curtain.  We stood there for a few moments waiting, during which time Keith amused himself by groping my body.  But then music started playing and he said, “You’re on, boy.”  Swallowing hard, I pushed through the curtain and walked out on top of the bar, keenly aware that my life as a male stripper was about to begin.

Admittedly, male strip clubs weren’t my usual haunt, but I wasn’t a total stranger to them either.  In my pseudo-Alpha days, I dated a dude named Sysco who was a stripper.  He was a hot little number with a dynamite pussy between his legs that I loved pounding into mush.  He used to dance at a club called The Font, and I used to enjoy seeing him strut his stuff on the stage.  Of course, Sysco was never too thrilled when I did show up, but that was doubtless because I’d drag him into one of the backrooms and nail his pussy between every set.  By the end of the night his cunt-lips would be all swollen and bruised and he’d have trouble keeping my copious stud-cream from visibly leaking down his legs while he was prancing around naked, which happened more than once to his obvious chagrin and the entire crowd’s vocal amusement.  Like most of the bitches I was planking in those days, he didn’t last much more than a couple months before I tired of him and dumped his ass.  But my time with Sysco at least gave me enough experience to know how I was now expected to act.

I was surprised to see seven dudes, counting Sir, sitting at the bar when I came out from behind the curtain.  A moment later, it became eight when Keith joined them.  Apparently, all the bar-backs and the bartenders who were setting up for the night were going to watch my audition.  I slapped a sexy smile on my face, began undulating my body to the tempo of the music, and ran my hands up and down my torso, cupping my pecs and rubbing my abs.  And per the manager’s instructions, I made a point of looking straight at the ‘customers’ faces.

Sir was sitting at the corner of the bar, like He told me He would be, so I saw Him first.  I did a few moves in front of Him and then crouched down and tried to make some small talk. It was awkward, of course, since normally I would never presume to initiate a conversation with Sir and would just listen quietly as He instructed me.   Sir amused Himself by making a sarcastic reference to my caged diclit, asking me if the reason I kept it caged was that it was just an embarrassing little nub.  I didn’t know how to parry His banter and I know I was blushing by the time I stood back up and moved to the next ‘customer.’

Fortunately, I found it a lot easier to make small talk with everyone else and even cracked a few jokes with one of the bartenders.  Having made one round of the customers, I moved back in front of Sir and crouched down again.  Sir then, very dramatically, pulled out the key to my cage’s lock and opened and removed the lock and then the cage, though He left the ring behind my nads in place.  In just seconds, finally free of its confines, my diclit rose into a throbbing erection.

With my diclit now standing at attention, I made another trip down the bar, crouching in front of each ‘customer’ to give him a good look at my boner.  I was surprised when two of them – the bartender I had joked with previously and a young bar-back – took the opportunity to reach out and fondle my diclit, which, much to my embarrassment, caused it start leaking pre.

Once I’d made it to the other end of the bar, I returned back to the middle of it and, pursuant to Sir’s detailed instructions, proceeded to remove the two tit-clamps from my chest.  Immediately, as I knew it would, sharp, piercing pain radiated from my two tortured boy-tits as the blood rushed back into the compressed flesh.  Even so, I forced myself to vigorously rub both of my inflamed tits even though it made tears come to my eyes as I did so.  Then, as Sir had ordered, I turned around, bent over and spread my cunt-holder apart, making sure that everyone at the bar could see the base of the butt-plug that was jammed up my cunt.  After maybe half-a-minute of displaying the base, I reached behind myself and slowly pulled the plug out of my cunt.

To say that extracting the big plug Sir had jammed up my cunt hurt would be a gross understatement.  Sir had told me to take my time pulling the plug out of my cunt, but that just served to increase the pain I felt as my poor cunt-lips were stretched to the limit over the biggest part of the plug.  Finally, though, with an audible plop, the butt-plug was free of my cunt-hole.  I bent down and placed the plug on the bar and wiggled my ass to the obvious amusement of the Men watching me.  I was, of course, fully aware that my cunt-hole was still gaping open in an obscene homage to just how big the plug was, and that knowledge served to increase the humiliation I already felt in making such a disgusting public spectacle of myself.

Finally, I straightened up and proceeded to make another circuit of the bar, squatting down in front of everyone, turning around and showing them my gaping fuck-hole when they requested me to do just that.  Three of them actually finger-fucked me when I did it, which merely added both to my humiliation and my arousal.  Even so, I knew my humiliation wasn’t over yet.

After I finished making the circuit of the Men at the bar, I returned to the center and picked up the butt-plug.  Then, as I saw Sir smugly smiling out of the corner of my eye, I opened my mouth and began sucking on the plug, fresh from my rectal entryway.  Even from a group as jaded as the employees of Max’s that maneuver elicited hoots and derisive cat-calls.  Which only got worse when I turned around and slowly stuck the butt-plug back up my cunt.  And, if anything, it was more painful going back in than it had been coming out.

Once again fully plugged, I stood up and slowly made my way back to Sir and crouched down in front of Him, my humiliating performance finally completed.  Or so I thought.  Sir, however, had one last surprise in store for me.  As I knelt in front of Him, my diclit fully engorged, He grabbed my dangling nads in one hand and began slapping them with the other.  Hard.  Painfully hard.  Hard enough that I was soon audibly squealing on every slap, even as the sound of multiple Men laughing uproariously echoed through the relatively empty bar.

Sir, of course, knew exactly what He was doing.  All it took was a couple of minutes of Sir pummeling my boy-nads for my diclit to lose all of its rigidity.  Once that was accomplished, Sir stopped swatting my nads, forced my diclit back into its cage and locked it in place.  Then, He took the two tit-clamps I’d been holding and refixed them to my swollen and inflamed boy-tits, causing me to screech like a banshee as He did so.  “Okay, bitch,” He told me, “you’re good to go.  So come back on down.”

“Yes, sir,” I managed to reply through gritted teeth, as my entire chest seemed to throb in agony.  I stood back up, went back through the curtain and left the bar behind, though I was all too well aware that I’d likely be back again soon enough.

When I got back to the bar level, I discovered that Sir was now sitting at a table with the manager and Keith.  I walked up to them and stood there, standing silently behind Sir, my eyes cast down on the floor.  “Boy,” the manager said, clearly addressing me, “I need you to look at me when I’m talking to you.  Like I told you earlier, I understand you’re your Master’s fully subservient bitch, but when you’re in this bar, working for me, I expect you to look me, or Keith, or anyone else who’s talking to you, directly in the eye.  Do you understand, boy?”

“Yes, sir,” I responded, looking directly at the Man.

“Okay,” the manager continued, “I was just telling your Master that I was willing to take you on as one of the bar’s dancers, but there’s a number of things you have to understand first.  First of all, while you can dance barefoot on the stage if you wish, when you’re on the bar you must be wearing socks.  That’s a health code requirement so you have to observe it.  And, practically speaking, you’ll also find that the socks provide an easy place to stick your tips while you’re working on the bar.”

“Second,” he went on, staring hard at me, “and this is most important, while you can – though I don’t recommend it – have your cock caged when you start your set, if you decide to remove the cage during your set, you can take the key from someone else but you must removed the cage yourself.  You can allow no one – I repeat, no one – to touch your balls or your cock or finger your pussy while you’re dancing either on the bar or on the stage.  That’s an iron-clad rule.”

Considering how I’d been manhandled by the bartender and the bar-back, too, during my audition, I was surprised by this and actually started to say “But the bartender…” before I caught myself.  Sir glared at me for so obviously forgetting my place, but the manager was actually amused.

“Yeah,” he laughed, “Ron and Mickey had some fun with you during your audition.  But,” he continued, getting serious again, “when the bar’s open for business that is strictly prohibited.  If I let customers fondle my dancers like that the Liquor Control Board could revoke my liquor license which would basically put us out of business.  So if any customer makes a grab at your junk or your pussy while you’re on stage, you bat their hand away and tell them it’s not allowed.  If they persist, you need to move away from them.  Understand?”

“Yes, sir,” I responded, actually relieved to hear that I wouldn’t have to face a nightly grope-fest.  My relief, however, was short-lived.

“Now when you’re working the floor or you’re in the backroom, things are different,” the manager continued.  “When you’re out on the floor of the bar, as long as you’re discreet, you can let someone grope you or even finger your hole.  Though, I have to tell you, boy, the outfit you’re wearing now will not cut it during working hours.  You need to be wearing at least a thong when you mingle with the customers, something that covers up not only your junk but your pussy-hole, too.  You can’t walk around in just a g-string.  And you also can’t go barefoot in the bar either.  You need to be wearing shoes or, at a minimum, sandals.  That’s another health code requirement.”

“Of course,” the manager went on, “once you get into a cubicle in the backroom, you can go buck naked if you want.  You can suck dick, take it up your pussy, whatever you and the customer decide to do.  No dancer is required to go into the backroom, but if you do, take my advice and get the agreed upon money first, before you do anything.  That can obviate a lot of subsequent problems.”

“That won’t be a problem for the bitch,” Sir broke in.  “His cunt is off limits, but he’ll suck anyone’s cock who wants it – for free.”

The manager looked over at Sir for a long minute and then, quietly but firmly, he said, “I’m sorry, but I can’t allow that.”

I have to admit, I was floored hearing someone contradict Sir so directly.  It was something I would never dream of doing.  And I could tell that Sir was surprised Himself.  But the manager quickly explained his reasoning.  “Most of my dancers spend a good amount of time in the backroom and, while I don’t make it my practice to inquire as to what they’re doing there, I do know that it provides a significant amount of their income.  I have no doubts that, on occasion, either because a dancer is enamored with a customer or is in pursuit of a longer, more lucrative type of arrangement, a dancer will give a customer a ‘freebee.’  That’s the individual dancer’s choice.  But what I can’t allow is for a dancer who doesn’t need the money to offer every customer a free go at either his pussy or his mouth.  Once word got around – and in a place like this it would get around very quickly – that you could get a free blowjob from one dancer, all the customers would be lined up to take advantage of that.  And all the other dancers would take a significant hit to their income, and it might cause a number of them to look elsewhere for work.  Your boy is free to offer his services in the backroom to anyone who wants to use him but, as a general matter, he has to charge for each use.”

It was obvious watching Sir’s face that as he listened to the manager he was calming down as he came to understand the other Man’s concern.  “What’s the going rate for a blowjob in the backroom?” He asked.

The manager looked over at Keith.  “From what I hear,” the dancer’s supervisor responded, “it’s $50 for a blowjob, $100 for a fuck.”

“Okay.  Hear me out then,” Sir said.  “I’ll have my bitch charge every dude $30 for a blowjob.  But at the end of the night, he’ll give all the money he made in the backroom and all of his tips to Keith to distribute among the other dancers.  That way, the bitch won’t be cutting into the other dancers’ take, he’ll be augmenting it.”

The manager looked over at Keith and they both smiled.  “I think that’ll work out fine,” the manager agreed.  Then he added, “Why don’t you fill them in on the scheduling, Keith.”

“Okay,” Keith said, looking down at the schedule.  “I have your boy scheduled for the bar tomorrow night at 10:00 p.m., which means he should be planning on arriving no later than 9:30 p.m.  Each set is a half-hour, which seems long, but with two other dancers on the bar, it will pass pretty quickly.  After the set is done, the boy can take up to 5 minutes to get ready.  Then, he’s expected to spend the next half hour or so on the floor of the bar, chatting up the customers.  At 11:00 p.m., he’s free to go into the backroom and more intimately ‘entertain’ interested customers.  His next set will begin at midnight on the stage, and he should be there, ready to go, no later than 11:55.  Same rules apply after that set.  The boy’s final set will be at 2:00 a.m., back on the bar.  Seeing how the bar closes at 3:00 a.m. on weekend nights, that leaves only a half hour left, but, if he’s quick, he could probably handle a couple customers in the backroom.  After closing, the boy will then help in the clean-up, which actually moves pretty fast, and when that’s finished, he’s free to leave.  Any questions?”

While that last inquiry was directed towards me, I have to admit that by that time I was trying to calculate just how many loads of ball-slime I’d be ingesting by the time the night was over.  I realized it would likely be close to a dozen, which would certainly be enough to certify me as a total whore, which was obviously something Sir was fully intending to turn me into.  And knowing the way people talked, I knew it wouldn’t take long before everyone I knew found out what a total cum-slut I’d become.  It would be embarrassing enough having all my former running buddies finding out I was now a stripper but being exposed as a willing cum-hole for total strangers would take my humiliation to a whole different level.  And there wasn’t anything I could do about it.  Not a thing.

My reverie was interrupted by Sir.  “Bitch,” He said, with that wicked smile that always accompanied some new humiliation, “why don’t you show the manager how appreciative you are of all he’s doing for you,” and then He added, in case I had missed His meaning, “the way bitches always show a Real Man their gratitude.”

Blushing furiously, I dropped to my knees and opened my cock-hole.  A few moments later I was giving my first blowjob at Max’s.  And I knew all too well that it was merely the first of many more to come.

                                          [to be continued]