Not the Best Idea

When we came out of the back, Handsome left the bar, but Ugly—Boss—was still there, leaning into the bar, waiting for his turn. He looked a little thunderous that I hadn't taken him first, and I figured that his turn would be rough. I placated him by answering his "Did you have a good time?" with the suggestion that I figured I was just building up to the best time.

"I thought it best to size up," I said. That placated him.

He offered me a second drink, gave me a smile, and said the he thought he could give me a really good time. A couple of other sailors had come up to the bar. It was clear that they and Boss knew each other. It also was clear that they wanted what Boss wanted from me—and that they all knew I'd already given it to Chuck. Boss and a couple of others had actually come to the passage doorway and pushed aside the beaded curtain to watch Chuck fuck me.

I cooed a "maybe" to Boss on the "Will you take my cock now?" question. When it became, "Will you take our cocks now?" I indicated that I wasn't interested in a gangbang as big as the crowd we were gathering.

"Just a few of the guys. It wouldn't really be a gangbang. Look at the guys here. Most of them would just watch. You let them watch Chuck screw you. You'd really like what sailors could give you. What do you say? You could say no anytime it got too much."

"Well, maybe," I said. And taking a look at the sailors now surrounding me, I sort of lost track what I was about. I'd fantasized about taking a bunch of sailors. The few times I'd done it had been just fine. "Yes, I guess," I mumbled—but obviously loud enough for Boss to hear. He gave me a big grin.

"Let's drink on that."

The drink Boss bought me was what rang the bells. He didn't see me, but I saw him slip the powder into the drink. The fingernail test came up positive. I made like I took a couple of swallows, told Boss that I wanted him bad—now—and he went to check out the availability of rooms in back. While he was gone, I called the bartender over and told him the drink was spiked and, if he wanted to protect the bar, he'd keep the drink for analysis and call in the cops. I said I didn't want to make trouble for the bar, just the sailors who were doing this shit, and that he could bring the cops in discreetly, as he wished.

Then I went looking for Boss in the back. He'd found a room with a table in it. I acted like I was going woozy as we kissed and fondled each other. He had me on my back on the table, my ankles on his shoulders, and him sucking me off when I pretended to go into a coma. He turned me on my belly on the table, mounted the table, and then mounted my ass. Other sailors came in. A cop didn't arrive until the third sailor was fucking me. I didn't mind all that much, really.

The cop who showed up in the room was a real muscle-bound beauty—young and built, with chiseled features and a Marine crew cut. He hustled all of the sailors out the back, where he said other cops were waiting for them, and then he did what he could to revive me. He didn't lay a sexually searching hand on me, though. I pretended to come around, thanked him, and asked him what I needed to do in terms of paperwork on this sting.

"We can discuss that over a drink out in the barroom, if you like," he said.

He was easy on the eyes, so I said, "I like."

We were sitting at a table, talking over the paperwork procedures and sipping drinks he'd gotten at the bar, when I had the sensation of losing control over my muscles come over me. I slumped down in my chair, aware of my surroundings, but unable to move. Shit. I hadn't given the drink the fingernail test. He was a copy, for Christ sake.

The cop—Pete Somebody—looked concerned and put a hand on my forearm. "Are you all right, Andy?" he asked. "What's wrong there, buddy?"

I didn't answer. I couldn't form my words. He said, "Let's get you someplace where you can lay down."

He rose from his chair at the table, took me up in his arms—manipulating me like I weighed no more than a feather—slung me over his shoulder, and marched to the back of the barroom and through the doorway covered with the beaded curtain.

* * * *

This was the point where I realized that this whole personal sting operation hadn't been the best idea.

Rohypol. That's what the cop—Pete—must have used on me, I decided, as I lay there on my back on a massage table in a room I hadn't been in before. The ceiling was one big mirror, and I could see them all—the two sailors at either side of me, holding my legs raised and spread; Pete, the cop, below me, fucking my hole with his nightstick; the other sailors gathered around, naked or seminaked, pulling on their cocks—the same sailors Pete supposedly had sent out into the alley to be hauled off by other cops. There obviously hadn't been other cops. Pete obviously was the only cop the bartender had called in—if, of course, Pete was really a cop. The bartender was in the room too, pantless, his cock out, waiting his turn.

It had to be Rohypol, or I'd be unconscious. I was paralyzed to movement but not to sensation, seeing and feeling everything that was happening to me. I was a bit nauseous, but I was a lot aroused. I had dreamed of this before—of being aware but completely incapacitated and having guy after guy on me, inside me, fucking me. I'd had nonconsent gangbang fantasies before. I was living that fantasy now.

I could see my dick, being stroked by one of the sailors who was holding my leg up with his other hand. I was hard as a rock. If it was happening, I was just as glad I was aware of it. I wondered if I would remember the gangbang later—if they let me out of here alive. But then they'd done this to Aaron, and they'd let him go. He hadn't remembered much of it though—at least not until he'd come clean about what had happened to him.

Part of me wanted the drugged state to pass so that I could enjoy the assault more. I couldn't say I wasn't enjoying it as it was. I was randy enough. As long as they were all built well, I didn't mind the ganging. And they all were built well.

My arms were hanging off the side of the table, useless to me. Pete exchanged his nightstick for his dick. He was a hung son of a gun. Boss came up to the head of the table and detached the head piece from that end of the table where my head had been resting. My head flopped over the end, giving Boss a good angle to slide his cock into my throat and begin a slow pump. He held the sides of my head in his hands, and my view changed from the mirrored ceiling to Boss's unruly pubes. I opened wide and took him deep, and I squeezed his shaft and moved my rough tongue on his tender bulb to hear him moan, which he did, before I felt him tense and release, tense and release, making me gag on the release of his cum deep in my throat.

They fucked me for something like two hours, moving from face fucking me to the other end of the table and cock fucking me. Not all of them wanted to do more than watch and stroke themselves, but some of them took seconds. The floor of the room became covered and slick with used condoms. At least they did use condoms for the ass fuck, although I took plenty of cum in my throat. Aaron had come back negative for HIV, so they'd been careful.

Pete, the cop, was the heaviest hung of them all. I was coming out of the drug when he was fucking me the second time. With luck, I thought, I would remember him. I wanted to remember him.

Would I make a fuss, try to report them? Report them to who? How would I prove it? How would I know I wasn't just talking to another Pete, who would fuck me rather than reporting the incident? Well, if he was a good looking and as hung as Pete, he could do whatever he wanted with me.

The next I knew, I was sitting, propped up against a wall in an alley. Not at Clyde's, but nearby. I had a splitting headache and I'd thrown up and probably would do so again. I couldn't remember much of anything anymore that had happened in the room with the mirrored ceiling, but I remembered enough to know what had happened. I certainly remembered Pete's cock. And I knew I'd been effectively Mickey Finned in Clyde's bar.

I also knew that it hadn't been the best idea I'd had to seek exposure or revenge for Aaron. And, like Aaron, I was sore, which, since I regularly took big cock, meant I'd been worked over real well.

All told, I'd go with the "real well" of the experience and be careful not to come back to Clyde's again unless and until I wanted more of the same. I would tell Roy, though. I wouldn't be surprised if he had his own way of dealing with this bar.