Three on a Date

"We could do that . . . unless you wanted to earn $400 for some more of the same and something even more tonight."

"You don't have to pay me, you know," I said. "The paperwork I signed said the date could go to dawn."

"We wouldn't be paying you. There's another club. They'll pay if you'll go on stage—let men use you in the act. It would be similar acts to the sex acts we've done. But on stage, with a select clientele watching."

"Ah, the exhibition part."

"That part and others. Something you haven't done yet. Perhaps even something you've never thought of doing. Not life threatening, of course. If this is a one-time shot for you to experience it all, as you've told us was your interest in this date, you haven't experienced it all yet."

"$400 did you say?" That would cover my subscription to the dating site, my end of the bid on Grant and Nash, and another couple of bids if I decided to do this again before the subscription ran out. But what were the chances I'd do it again? It had been far more taxing and degrading than I had imagined it would be. I thought back to the sexual rut I'd been in before, how much pleasure and spilling of seed I had experienced already in acts I'd never considered doing before. "Just to dawn?" I asked.

"Just to dawn. The other club's about a thirty-minute drive from here. You'd be driven home."

The other club was a bit more than a thirty-minute drive, back to the Beltway around Washington, to the Maryland side, and then in toward D.C. again, from the north, on Wisconsin Avenue. Several blocks in from the Beltway, the Mustang turned right into what seemed to be an alley in a residential community of large mansions and then turned left into an underground garage. The garage was cavernous. As we'd entered, I looked at what was above it: extensive grounds, now cloaked in darkness, and an imposing Tudor-style mansion. The garage seemed to take up all of the ground under the entire property. The garage wasn't filled, by any means, but there were quite a few expensive cars parked there, most gathered around an elevator shaft.

When the elevator stopped rising and the doors opened, I realized, with a shock, that Grant didn't remind me of a fox after all. Grant was a form of satyr. The realization hit me because we were greeted in a marble foyer—floor, walls, and ceiling, all deeply veined ochre marble—by a pair of satyrs.

They were more like satyrs than Grant was, but he was close. All that he lacked were the small horns they had peeking out of their hair at the temples, goatees, horse tails, and the semblance of cloven feet. Grant shared with them the sensual, sneery smile, the pointed ears, the curved-up perpetual hard on, and the body hair, most notably the hairy legs, natural in Grant's case, a form of chaps in the case of the welcoming satyrs. The chaps were held up by a waistband which also provided the base for their horse tails. Their cloven feet were largely an illusion. They were wearing wedge heels, with the wedge being made out of clear acrylic. This forced them to walk on their toes in shoes fashioned like hooves.

"This is Ty, who has agreed to perform tonight. Please take him to Xavier." This was spoken by Grant.

Standing next to him, Nash put a hand on my arm and slid it down to take my hand. There was a calling card palmed in his hand, which I palmed, slid into a pocket of my leather pants, and later found to have a telephone number written on it. Our eyes met, and he said, "Good-bye, Ty. I really enjoyed you."

The two stepped back in the elevator, the doors closed, and they were out of my life for that evening.

"Please come with me, Mr. Ty," one of the satyr's said. He minced off toward a door on a side wall of the foyer, rather than the double doors that were directly across from the elevator, and I followed him.

I was taken to a dressing room. There were several dressing tables at one end of the room, with strong lights shining in bulbs all around the edge of a mirror covering nearly the entire wall. Clothes racks were spread around at haphazard angles with costumes on some of them—mostly satyr gear and hangers with skimpy shorts and vests in forest colors. Some of the racks had a variety of street clothes hanging from them, no doubt the clothes of the performers. In the middle of the space was a brown-leather divan. Like the cubes in the other club, there were restraints attached along the sides of the divan and there was a wedge at the end facing the dressing tables and mirror walls that rose to near the bottom edge of the divan. In the space before the end of the divan were circular depressions. It didn't need much imagination to know that knees went in there.

"Xavier will be with you shortly," the satyr said. As he withdrew from the room, he added, "Strip all of our clothes off, please. Receive Xavier naked, standing up, full frontal to the door. You are being judged." I could hear the sound of an audience cheering and clapping somewhere in the not-too-far distance, as he exited and closed the door behind him.

"Shortly" was almost immediately. The satyr who entered nearly filled the room by his presence. This was an impossibly tall—surely almost seven feet tall—big-boned, and muscular satyr. Thus far all of the satyrs I'd seen had been small or regular-sized men and more willowy of figure than muscular. This one stood out as a symbol of power and strength, and, from the size of his erect, upturned cock, imposing equipment. Xavier.

"You look good. Let us see how well you will perform," he said, as he strode to me and manipulated me, despite my shocked and ineffectual attempt at struggling or at least slowing down the inevitable. He pushed me down onto the divan, bound my wrists to the sides and my ankles as well. My buttocks was rising toward the end of the divan.

There was no ceremony or preliminary, and I soon was too busy crying out and grunting and groaning to try to reason with him. He came up on the divan, his knees going into the circular depressions, his hands pressing down on the hollows where my arms met my trunk, and his cock thrust inside my ass, lifting me up off the surface of the divan as far as the restraints would allow, and with a cry to the ceiling, he began pumping me immediately in long, strong strokes. I could feel on my knees and see in the mirror that his long horse's tail was swishing back and forth to the rhythm of his stroking.

He took me swiftly, brutally, never decreasing the pistoning of his stroke, occasionally lowered his face to mine for a brutal kiss on the mouth and then down to chew my nipples, as I strained against the restraints and moaned. But after that first shocked scream of the mammoth cock striking deep inside me, I steeled myself against begging for mercy or letting him hear me cry out.

He stroked me off expertly and quickly with a fist while he fucked me and muttered, "Good, a strong arc," when I came for him.

He barebacked me, and when he came, with a jerk and a lurch and a little cry of his own, his tail went wild in its swishing. He blasted me six times—a rear back, a thrust inside, a blast of cum, a frantic swish of the tail, a rear back, a thrust inside, a blast of cum, a frantic swish if the tail, and repeat, and repeat, and repeat, and again. By the fourth blast, I had collapsed, and just lay there, murmuring, "Oh, God yes. Give it to me," begging "Again. Again," with each creaming.

I didn't pretend that I didn't love what he'd done to me.

Immediately after the last blast, he gave me a big grin, rose off my body, slapped me on the belly, muttered, "Excellent," and went to the door. He turned to me and said, "You are one of the rare ones who takes it stoically. Bawling and cursing is entertaining, but our audiences like to see our forest boys react differently. Still, one tip: Be entertaining and it will go better for you. Giving into it gradually out there will create an illusion the audience will love."

He turned away from me and opened the door. "He will do fine," he said to whoever was on the other side. "Clean him up, dress him, and bring him to the stage."

The dressing room was a flurry of the smaller-sized satyrs then—releasing me from the restraints; helping me off the divan, with no apparent concern that Xavier's cum was flowing down my thighs when I stood; and taking me to a bathroom with a communal shower, instructing me to clean myself out well—and quickly. I was needed on stage.

It seemed that all of the staff members of the club were outfitted as satyrs. I half expected to be dressed that way too. But I wasn't. I was outfitted with not much of a costume at all—soft brown suede ankle boots with pointed toes; a Lederhosen-style pair of shorts in a flimsy material that I could see had breakaway seams and that I assumed—rightly, it transpired—wouldn't be on me for very long; a skimpy brown leather vest that didn't meet across my chest and was held in place with laces; brown leather bicep bands; a thin strap around my waist that sent a leather strip down each crease of my groin and attached to a harness at the base of my cock, holding the cock out, pressing tight enough to keep me hard, and squeezing my balls into a tight ball; and a Robin Hood-style forester cap.

This obviously was what Xavier had meant by forest boys, I thought.

Then I was led to the darkened wings of what looked to be a lit-up stage. Beyond the flying buttress curtains I could see brown columns toward the back of the stage. These were decorated as trees, with dense green foliage in the branches. Also in the branches, though, I could see figures. Not satyrs but man monkeys. Tails and monkey masks and not much else on. They were moving through the branches acrobatically and in slow motion to the sound of jungle music.

But nearer to that, positioned at the edge of the stage, stood Xavier. He turned, and one of the satyrs handed me over to him with the comment, "As you have tested, the substitute for the third performer, Xavier."

Xavier held a hand out to me and said, "Come."

I couldn't help but notice that he had a flogger whip in his other hand, with many long, thin leather strands.

I let him take my hand and lead me out onto the stage of a small auditorium. The artificial grove of trees with the man monkeys swinging in the branches lined the back of the stage. At the front of the stage, a platform jutted out into the audience area, which was a semicircle of raised rows of banquettes behind small, circular-top tables. Most of the seating was occupied. I couldn't make out much in the audience because of the dim light there and the blinding light turned toward the stage, but it gave the impression of a teeming mass of men, in various stages of attention to what was going on on the stage, stages of dress, and stages of cock sucking and copulation. Satyr waiters moved among the levels with trays of drinks. The bar appeared to be at the back of the auditorium, at the top-most level.

The projecting platform was a square. Set in the middle of it, though, was a circular revolving stage. In the middle of this was a flat, leather-covered Roman-style divan, probably a later model than the one in the dressing room. This was unoccupied—for the moment.

Satyrs were roaming over the stage—big men, although not as big as Xavier. By quick count I located six of them. When picking them out I also for the first time saw the two acrylic X frames set at either side of back stage at the edges next to the wings. Like the center, projecting stage, each of these was set on a revolving circle.

Hanging from these frames, by wrist and ankle restraints on the four arm extensions, the cross of the X being at the level of the shoulder blades, were two young men. Both were dressed just as I was, except that their shorts had already been pulled away. Each was being fucked in the ass by a satyr standing behind them and flogged on the chest and thighs by another satyr when they revolved around to full frontal.

Now that I knew they were there, I could separate the sounds they were making from the other sounds around me. The one on the right side of the stage was writhing to the extent his bonds permitted and was crying out and bawling like a baby. The one on the left side of the stage just hung forward on his X frame, head lowered toward the ground and whimpering.

Xavier led me out to the footlights of the platform projecting into the auditorium, where two tall, muscular satyrs were waiting for me between the footlights and the revolving inset. With a sneery smile at me, Xavier handed me over to the two satyrs. To a cheer from the portion of the audience that was paying attention, they whipped my shorts off, exposing my half hard cock, which the two, coming close to either side of me alternated working with a hand with kneading my buttocks and opening my hole with lubricated fingers. Both were sheathed with condoms—there was a profusion of both condom packets and used condoms littering the floor of the stage.

Remembering Xavier's advice, I struggled ineffectually with them, refused to turn as they wanted until they'd slapped my thighs, butt, and cock, and generally acted as if I wasn't there by my own free will.

There, after a period of preparing me—working my cock and ass, taking turns in kissing me and pushing me down on my knees to suck their cocks, before pulling me up for more work on my hole, they lifted me off the floor, sandwiched me between them, and fucked me together, one entering me from the front and the other from the rear as I writhed between them, my legs hooked on the hips of the satyr facing me.

I wasn't being stoic about this. I was screaming my bloody head off. A good part of that was ecstasy. The black bulls—even Grant and Nash—had been bigger inside me. The audience was noisy too, voicing its approval and egging the satyrs on.

When they were done, they guided me onto the revolving stage and then to the divan, where I was laid on my back and my wrists and ankles were bound by long leather leads to the sides of the couch. The two satyrs left me then, trading off with the pair of satyrs assaulting the young man on the X frame to the right of the couch.

Those two new satyrs came to the divan. One worked his way under my back, lifted my hips, and set my channel down on his up-curved cock. The other satyr moved in between my spread legs, thrust his cock inside me above that of the first satyr, and the approving audience was entertained with yet another form of double fuck.

I took this with a little less histrionics than the first double fuck. Some of that was put on. I kept thinking of Xavier's "Be entertaining" tip. As long as they thought they were taxing me to my edge of endurance maybe they wouldn't be prompted to come up with something more painful. And if I reacted with a bit less strain with each taking, maybe the audience would appreciate that. I was that much interested in the exhibitionist aspect of this experience now that I was wholly into it.

When the third set of satyrs came to me from the other X frame, I was unbound, Turned face down, my channel skewered on the cock of a satyr now lying on his back under me on the divan, rerestrained, and sixth satyr came in behind me, thrust his cock inside me above that of his comrade, and pumped me to an ejaculation.

This time, I moved my hips with them, throwing my head back and screaming "Yes. Fuck me. Fuck me! Drill that hole," joining in the spirit of the fuck. The audience went wild at seeing me become actively involved in the act.

After the three exhibitions of a double penetration fuck for a appreciative audience, I was half comatose; blubbering, but not necessarily in a bad way; and had come with each separate taking. Each time the satyrs had managed to turn me toward the audience so that it could see me spout, which was met with a cheer each time.

The three "taker" performers were rotated, with me, first, on the X frame to the right of the stage, and then to the left, as each of the other two young men were taken—a second time, I surmised—through the succession of double fucks. Throughout the performance, Xavier walked around the stage, swishing his flogger, and punishing any performer, forest "boy," satyr, man monkey who was within distance of the flick of his whip.

While the third forest "boy" was being taken on the divan, the four satyrs fucking and flogging the other forest "boy" and me withdrew and the men monkeys came down from the trees and tormented us, pinching our nipples; slapping our cocks; squeezing, distending, and crushing our balls; fingering our asses; and fucking us from behind.

I was the finale. The satyrs carried the forest "boys" off the stage and to the showers. The men monkeys swept off as well, leaving just Xavier and me on the divan, under a single strong spotlight, where he fucked me interminably in a variety of exotic positions that had the audience on its feet and clapping.

When I was dressed again in the party clothes I'd worn to the club, I was led, walking very gingerly to an office, where Xavier, now in a silk robe sat behind a desk.

"Please sit," he said, as I was led in. With some effort I lowered myself in a chair facing his desk.

"You did very well tonight . . . Ty, is it? The procurers selected and prepared you well."

The procurers. So, Grant and Nash weren't just a pair of randy and kinky men looking for a third on the dating service. They had set out to procure a performer for the show here at this club from the beginning. I tried to build up a resentment, but I couldn't. This had been the fulfillment of a fantasy. I was in pain now, but I had been aroused beyond my wildest dreams and couldn't separate the pain from the pleasure. I didn't want to separate the pain from the pleasure. I would relive this for some time to come. I might even seek it out again.

He was handing over five hundred-dollar bills. I'd only been promised four hundred, but I wasn't about to quibble over an overpayment. I don't know if I would have carried through with this added offer if Grant had told me all that it entailed.

"This show goes on every Saturday night," he said. "You did well enough to be a permanent performer—for as long as you like."

"I don't know . . . I don't think—"

"We pay $1,500 a night," he said.

$1,500, I thought. So those fuckers maybe kept $900 for themselves for tonight. But then there had been expenses in getting me here—and in finding me on the dating service.

"Just sign this contract, and I'll have someone drive you home. You live near Dupont Circle, don't you? And a car will pick you up there at 1:30 a.m. next Saturday."

When I entered my apartment, I went straight to my computer and brought up the dating service Web page. I was denied access to Grant and Nash's page. I wasn't surprised. I knew that capability came with membership. I knew they didn't have to recruit me a second time. But I had wondered if they might want to take me out on a date separate from the satyr club deal sometime. I can't believe that all we had done together was just a job to them.

The satyr club experience had been the icing on the cake—all of those acts I said I was curious about and I hadn't mentioned being fucked by satyrs. It was quite some experience, though.

And the date before that with Grant and Nash had been something too. But now I couldn't . . . but, yes, I could. I could contact Nash, at least. He had slipped me his telephone number. Maybe one of these days . . .

* * * *

Sunday night was missionary position night with Fraser. The obligatory fuck went as always, although I yearned for more than just the long cock deep inside me—especially now that I'd experienced so much more.

We stretched out on the bed, me cuddled into his front, his arm over me, his cock flaccid inside me, as always. And as always, after I heard his breath setting a regular pattern, I lifted his arm off me, slipped out from underneath him, and went into the kitchen for a cup of coffee.