T-Room Trouble

Sight Unseen

He could not see over the heads of the few men hugging the doorway of that booth but as they arrived a few men stepped away allowing him to pass, likely in the hopes of some new action.

The insistent steady slapping of flesh, those low moans in various states of desire, the growled demands for satisfaction were the soundtrack reverberating off those tile walls and it took Jay a moment to understand the reasons he had not heard any of this was the heavy beating of his heart, his quick desperate breaths and the high anxiety that kept him enveloped in this daze, his senses dulled by those beers sucked down while waiting fruitlessly for Tony.

This gaggle was working in unison, moving to a steady rhythm he could not understand but just watched, arms akimbo or wrapped around a nearby partner, hanging loosely over shoulders or lost in exploration among folds of clothing slightly undone, pants held up by legs splayed wide, hips rhythmically pumping at an unseen face, hands plastered to walls and adjacent booths keeping them all upright.

Jay hadn't noticed that his own pants had quickly been undone, his dick slipped past that zipper and suddenly he felt lips nuzzling his foreskin, running a tongue underneath his spongy head, a fist squeezing his thick tube as if an inflatable toy.

Staring down in wonder he stepped back, backed into that man who didn't move but simply spread open his arms, quickly wrapping Jay in a bear hug and pinning his arms, leaning down and breathing heavily into Jay’s ear while pumping his own hips and force feeding that unseen face even more of Jay’s thick Irish meat.

"We've been waiting for you”, he announced.

It was a welcome that Jay didn't understand, but knew he couldn't change this situation squeezed so tightly between these two men, a puppet to their insistent manipulations.

In the dark of this T-room his slab of meat jammed across those lips, his eyes tearing up from that new sensation of having his dick so effortlessly worked, each thrust sliding more of his meat over that tongue, punching past those tonsils as he felt those lips puckering at the root, his juicy hang slipping halfway down that throat.

That was when he stopped fighting and surrendered to his capture, breathing in time while plunging his thick dick down that throat in long slow strokes, bouncing that head off the side wall of the toilet stall, gurgling around the root as Jay planted his meat all the way down that throat.

The burly man had him wrapped in his arms as if afraid he might try to run but Jay wouldn’t dare even if he could escape.

Suddenly those arms pulled tighter around his chest, lifting Jay and swinging him in an arc, placing him in front of another face wrapped in a tee shirt, that short torso with legs splayed wide straddling that porcelain throne.

“Come here and feed your boy”, he demanded.

That beefalo was standing so close behind him he could have sworn it was a whispered challenge but it was flatly a command, Jay reaching down to his crotch and grabbed at his stiff meat as if it were a club to be swung, a tool that had been oiled and now ready to be put to work.

Jay needed to cum, needed to get free of this scene and he closed his eyes, leaning back onto the man behind him, laying his head on that broad shoulder as if his own pillow back in bed, relaxing onto that thick chest coated in coiled hair.

That faint smell of cigarettes and scotch reminded him of his father coming into the bedroom to kiss him goodnight.

Jay had always turned away and closed his eyes pretending to be asleep and now, here in the dark, he was doing just that, leaning back and feeling protected in these spread arms of this stranger holding him upright as he swiftly slipped his fist up and down that shaft, just like he would do just after his Dad had left the room.
Tony sat there, his eyes closed under the veil of that tee shirt, pushing his face into that next crotch, licking across that groin to get every inch clean.

He pulled back and sat there, his mouth open as this next trainer held the head of yet another dick just a fraction away from his lips, listening to that wet slapping, jerking it with that sloppy spit shine some other cock hungry slut had just applied.

He listened as that fist flew up and down the shaft of that dick, then suddenly stopping and holding it rigid, laying it directly over his bottom lip.

Tony had lost all count on the number of dicks he had been fed, submitting to those insistent hands tweaking every part of his body, teasing and tasting his own thick Italian man meat until his new master would suddenly rearrange that lineup.

He had been carried in to this T-room, deposited into this stall and had been the main solo attraction though out this night’s entertainment.

That tee shirt wrapping across his head and shielding his eyes was his only chance to keep his identity secret and this costume worked for everyone’s benefit.

Jay was now staring down at his raging dick and in the half light of that toilet stall the pale shaft shone like marble, veins snaking down that column, the shiny head seeming to plump up as blood coursed up the shaft. His cock head suddenly began to pulse, that deep cleft creasing the end splitting open, that first salvo of pearly juice shooting directly into that gaping hole.

He had been holding his breath, had stood stiffly straddling that thick bar of steel that had been planted between his legs nudging the back of his balls. As Jay started to come he was pumping his hips, using his hand like a tight sleeve, riding on that stiff rail, gasping out his release.

Jay’s held that firm grip aiming those repeating rifle bursts deep into that black craw, that tongue suddenly snaking out under the head of his dick not wanting to miss a shot.

His newly adopted protector who Jay assumed was the stage manager of this evening's performance quickly lifted his deflated body, spinning him away from the interior of that toilet stall, and he was immediately replaced by some rangy trucker with a ball cap stuck backward on this head, hobbled by those jeans wrapped around his knees as he stumbled into position.

That pony-tailed Daddy grunted, grabbing that seated torso by the armpits and spun him around, thrusting his hips forward and impaling that ass in one move, slowly pulling back, his hat beak holding that swag of hair swinging like a metronome, his beer belly resting over this pair of buns that never moved, held in position by hairy hands wrapping small hipbones as if just another pair of handles, a steering wheel held tightly.

That wiry torso straddled the toilet, wrists wrapped in a belt with that buckle bouncing off that tiled wall clinking to that steady tattoo, hands splayed against the far wall with arms and shoulders stiffly resisting any movement, tee shirt up and over this head and tucked under that nose, tossing in time to this slow gallop with hind legs spread wide, rocking up on tip-toe with each deep thrust mimicking the exertions of this blacktop cowboy reveling in his command of this stud pony.

To Be Continued