By lthr_jock

When Jim arrived at Inferno, he used his key to let himself in and headed straight to the bar area. As part of his strategy of getting into Steve’s inner circle, Jim had let himself be convinced to work behind the bar a couple of nights a week. So far he hadn’t found out anything, but there was still time. As he arrived he nodded to the other two bar staff, who were dressed like himself and both also heavily muscled, making their Fred Perry shirts strain over their barrel chests. As he started to sort his section of the bar out, he chatted with the two others.

As they passed to and fro behind his position, their bodies rubbed against him and he could feel his cock swelling down the leg of his bleachers and he grinned. One guy stood behind Jim and pressed up close so he could feel the man’s bulge press hard against the arse-zip in Jim’s bleachers. Instead of moving away, he chuckled and pushed back. The man laughed and went back to his own section of the bar. Jim turned to call to him and realised he didn’t know the guys name – actually he didn’t know the name of any of the staff here. That was weird. Brow furrowed, he tried to remember. Try as he might he couldn’t think of a single name. Meditatively he took a long gulp of his orange juice and almost immediately realised that it didn’t matter and went back to his work.

Once Inferno opened, Jim was too busy to worry. The club was soon full of guys, most of whom were dressed similarly to Jim. His world reduced to taking orders, pouring drinks and handing them across the bar. The temperature in the club soared, and soon his shirt and bleachers were soaked with sweat. His only breaks were to gulp down orange juice from the supply Steve put behind the bar for the three bartenders. Jim soon had no idea of how much time had passed or how many drinks he had served. As he and the other guys worked, they were constantly rubbing up against each other and as a result, all three were permanently semi-erect.

Jim was interrupted by a hand landing on his shoulder. He turned to see Steve grinning at him, “Take a break, Ben. I’ll hold the fort for a while.” He handed Jim another orange juice and leant past him to take an order. Sweating and tired, Jim gulped down the juice as he worked his way out from behind the bar and into the main area of the club. He looked around for somewhere to sit down, but he couldn’t see anywhere so he moved further into the club, looking for anywhere he could relax for a few minutes. In a dark corner, he pushed between three guys as they snogged and groped each other to sit down on a metal bench.

Head bent down, he tried to ignore the pounding of the music and the muzziness in his head. He tried to collect his thoughts, decide what he should be doing but didn’t seem to be able to concentrate. He took another gulp of orange juice, but that didn’t seem to help.

As he sat there, head bowed and trying to clear his thoughts, a pair of highly glossed black Dr Martens boots came into his vision. He slowly raised his head, taking in the knee-high glossed boots, the blackness offset by the white laces, then the skin-tight bleachers showing off a musculature that was similar to his own. The bleachers were held in place by a thick leather belt and a pair of leather braces, which were secured over a very tight black t-shirt. The t-shirt left nothing to the imagination being made of some sheer material which clung to the chest and six-pack of the man stood in front of Jim. Jim’s gaze lingered over the chest and well packed crotch, until the man’s hand gripped him by the chin and pulled his head upright to stare at his face. The man’s grip tightened, and Jim stood up to avoid the pain – to his shock he was still looking up at the man and he realised that the skinhead must be at least six-foot-six in height. As he looked at the man’s face, Jim gasped – he seemed familiar. He had brief flashes that seemed like dreams:

– Being pushed against an alley wall

– Being punched in the gut

– A slave collar

– Being strapped to some kind of bench

Jim shook in the man’s grasp and realised he had been spoken to, but the combination of the pounding music and his reverie meant that he had missed what was said.

“Sorry – what did you say?”

The man sighed with annoyance and maintained his grip on Jim’s chin.

“I SAID are you deliberately sat here or what?”

“What? What do you mean?”

The man pointed at the bench Jim was sat on and twisted his head so that he could see. What he had thought of as a bench was the metal lid of a cage and Jim could see inside a metal dog bowl.

“Huh? No – no – I was just sat here, that’s all. Umm I should really get back to work.”

At this point another figure stepped past the man, and Jim saw to his relief that it was Steve.

“Hi Steve – glad you’re here. This guy has got some idea…”

“..that you like the cage and what it represents? Well, you do, don’t you?” Steve grinned, and turned to the larger skinhead. “Have fun.” With that, he disappeared back towards the bar.

“Playing games, eh? You’ll pay for that, boi.” He pushed Jim back against the wall, his free hand rummaging in the bottom of the cage. After a few seconds he found what he wanted and picked it up with a grin. “Open wide.” The skinhead tightened his grip on Jim’s jaw, pushing his fingers into the sides to force it open. As it opened he slid in a thick cock gag. The gag was mounted on a leather faceplate that was moulded to fit under the chin. Straps and buckles hanging off the faceplate were quickly strapped around Jim’s head and he realised he was now wearing a muzzle. The last strap to be fastened was that on the thick collar attached to the muzzle, and Jim once again had the sense that this man had done something like this to him before. His swelling cock betrayed his mounting excitement. The skinhead roughly rubbed at Jim’s bulge and chuckled crudely.

“Yeah, Steve said you were a horny little sod, and he was right.”

Jim tried to say something but could do nothing but grunt into the gag. The skinhead grinned.

“No talking for you, boi. Not now, not later.”

Reaching into the cage again, he pulled out a pair of thick, padded leather fist-mitts. Almost before Jim could realise what was happening, he had slipped them over Jim’s hands and buckled them shut. His hands were now helpless, even before the skinhead padlocked each one in place. Placing one hand in the middle of Jim’s chest, the skinhead shoved him hard against the wall, with the other he roughly groped Jim’s bulge where a stain was now showing on the bleachers.

“Good, I like my bois to be horny.”

Still holding Jim against the wall with one hand, he tucked the other hand under Jim’s shirt collar and with one sharp downward motion ripped his shirt in two. Jim’s sweaty bulging pecs and flat stomach were exposed to view. He nodded appreciatively and ran his hands over Jim’s muscles, tweaking his nipples.

“Nice, much better.”

Jim groaned into the gag as he shuddered under the man’s rough touch.

“On all fours.”

Horny and mitted, Jim obeyed instantly. A heavy chain was clipped to his collar, and the skinhead dragged him out into the club. Jim crawled after him, debased and humiliated, but horny and aroused at the predicament he found himself in. The skinhead seemed to know everyone in the room and stopped to talk to them all. Each time, Jim found himself being groped, stroked and fondled until he thought he would explode as he became more and more aroused. After more than an hour, the skinhead sat down on a stool at the bar, with Jim crouched on the floor beside him. He leant down and adjusted something on the faceplate of the muzzle, which allowed him to remove the gag. Before Jim could speak he pushed Jim’s head down onto the tow of his boot and uttered a single word.

“Lick.”

Jim baulked for a few seconds, then tentatively licked at the gleaming black leather. Something clicked in his mind, and he soon found himself eagerly licking and roughly tonguing the boots, enjoying the way his tongue rasped over the leather. Minutes passed as he licked and slurped over the boots, his cock finally releasing its load into his bleachers. The skinhead chuckled and Jim looked up.

“Good boi – we’ll make a proper bootlicker of you yet.”

Jim grinned and returned to licking the boots, uncaring of the guys stood back watching his humiliation.

The End

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If you liked this story, click for another one from the same author — Busman’s Holiday

 

NOTE: “Undercover” originally appeared on Eckie’s bondage website. It is being re-posted here with the original author’s permission.

 

 

Copyright © 2008 and 2015 by lthr_jock.

 

All rights reserved. This story may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author.

 

This story is erotic gay fiction and is for mature audiences only. It may contain supernatural themes, sex scenes, violence, coarse language, drug use and other adult themes.

 

Metal would like to thank lthr_jock for granting permission for this story, which has previously appeared on other websites, to be re-posted here.