Voyeurs Adult Club, Soho, London, England
Through a tightly-rolled £10 note, I sniff cocaine from a mirror. Squashing one nostril with a finger, I hoover up the white powder into the other. Pure and potent, my dealer has sold me a good quality wrap.
The line settles me immediately, yet I loathe it. Coke gives me the courage to perform, but is the reason I have to return here. The drug supresses my inhibitions, but in the come-down the truth hits me: Earning a living has become harder, and more dangerous.
My cocaine habit and my bills weigh me down. I'm a country boy, but every kid wanting to make it big is drawn to London, with its endless opportunities and crucifying cost of living. Released from parental oversight I've had a riotous time, and in occasional waves of optimism believe anything is possible. Then the landlord says he wants a twelve per cent rent increase for the shoebox apartment, and the tide drags me back out to sea: struggling desperately to stay afloat, like all the rest.
With a long-drawn inhalation I finish the coke line, and replace the unframed mirror in my wash bag.
On the dressing table is my work wear for tonight, in the form of a posing pouch with a camouflage design of greens, browns and black. Only the colours change with each performance at Voyeurs, for last week the pouch was pink. There is no attempt at variety by introducing Speedos or leather gear, because the shows are formulaic on the basis that what makes money, reliably, shouldn't be messed with. It's depressing really, for I could fashion and choreograph something really innovative - but it's not me who makes the decisions.
I step into the leg holes and pull up the waistband until the elasticated strip sits just above my hips. With some meticulous adjustment, I ensure my dick and balls are contained within the small pouch and that my bulge is prominent. Pouting, I thrust my groin back and forth in a trial run and think to myself: You are such a cheap whore, Sam Callahan.
Grabbing a bottle of body oil, I squeeze the liquid onto a palm then rub it over my chest, until my pectorals glisten. Small but pert, my tit nubs shine like diamonds. Applying the fluid liberally I continue to massage it into my tight abdomen, and down my thighs.
Without a prior knock the dressing room door opens, and Pete strides in. He turns off Rihanna, blasting from the iPod dock, and faces me at a distance of no more than a foot.
'You okay, kid?' Pete asks.
'Yeah... I'm okay.'
'Good, good. Let's do a hot show tonight then, hey? Get them cumming in their pants, yeah?'
'Yeah, sure,' I say, nodding.
Pete lingers, his thin smile disappearing.
'Have you got my money then, kid?' he asks.
'Umm... yeah,' I say, finding my jeans amongst the pile of shed clothing, and rooting through a front pocket.
Pre-counted, I pass the boss £100 in £20 notes. My venue fee must be handed-over prior to the performance, and buys me forty-five minutes of stage time.
That's right: I'm £100 down, before I set foot on the runway.
The silver-haired club owner folds the notes, his smile returning. Reaching out, his bronzed hand finds my left cheek, where it pinches gathered flesh.
'I'm expecting a hard fuck tonight, Sam,' Pete says, squeezing my face.
'Yeah, I know.'
'Much panting and squealing, I hope,' the boss suggests.
'Sure,' I say, softly.
'Good kid,' Pete says, slapping my bare ass as he moves away. 'Don't forget the boots,' he adds, motioning with his head towards the gleaming black lace-ups.
'No worries,' I say.
'You're on in ten,' Pete adds, shutting the dressing room door behind him.
Not much money has been invested in this place, and it is stuck in a time warp circa 1985. Or so people tell me, as that was nine years before I was born.
Pete is commercially savvy, though. Why would he plough cash into the club when it might be closed by the licensing authority at any time? His strategy is one of yield - creaming off as much money as possible whilst the good times last. Judging by the way he dresses and the Bentley he drives, the strategy appears to be working.
The basement auditorium smells stale, always. It's humid and windowless, and cleaning fluids fail to remove the ingrained stench of spilt beer and tobacco from the seats, upholstered in red velvet. See - I told you this place was stuck in the past, for where else can you smoke at the theatre?
Voyeurs is on Brewer Street, in the sleazy heart of Soho. Londoners and hipster tourists might remember the short pedestrianised passage running up to Berwick Street: each shop front hosting an adult store or straight strip club. Touts lingered by the club doors - exotic, scantily clad women, seeking to lure in old geezers with erotic shows promising so much more than they delivered. There were always heavies on site, ready to intimidate the poor old guy until he handed over his credit card and signed for a £200 'drink'. Humiliated, there was no way he would call his card issuer to explain the sordid circumstances and ask for a refund.
Soho has changed a bit over the last fifteen years, as the internet has killed-off adult book and video stores and the council have clamped down upon exploitative sleaze. Some of the Victorian-era shops, and the hooker's lairs above, have been converted into small apartments sold for £400,000 each, convenient for West End retail and cultural destinations.
Voyeurs was one of those straight strip joints, until busted by the council for multiple breach of licence. But in those days it hosted a walk-in public bar, whereas in Pete's ownership it has become a private members club: albeit one that is cheap and easy to join. The shaven-headed heavies from the old days remain as gatekeepers, checking cards at the anonymous entrance. From there, up to one hundred members per evening descend a steep flight of stairs to the den.
There is something else you should know: Voyeurs is not a strip club, but a sex club. I start my session in pouch, boots and nothing more, and will be naked before long, taking a really hard ass fuck.
In my dressing room, the tinkling of a bell tells me I must be on stage in two minutes.
I can hear the buzz in the theatre although the voices, expectant, have subsided as performance time draws close. I sense there is a full house, promising to make the evening more lucrative. It should also be more daunting but, you know, I'm getting beyond stage fright.
One last time, I check myself in the dressing room mirror lit with a string of bare bulbs, and pretend I'm a big star. My skin glows and painstaking grooming this afternoon has tidied my pit and pubic bushes, leaving just a hint of fluff on my chest.
'You'll do, Sam,' I tell myself. 'Now, get out there and make some money.'
I run out to a roar from the crowd, my 10-hole boots crashing over the stage. Faking a huge grin, I clap the air above my head and encourage a participatory response by way of warm-up. The sound system plays a generic dance track with a throbbing bass line, and the basement vibrates.
Then, the familiar sensation of two hundred eyes leering at me. It would be nice if a few of them were pondering whether Sam might be a good friend, or what he does for a day job, but no: those eyes are fixed upon my boy flesh, checking out my ass mounds and guessing the length of shaft my pouch conceals. I am meat, doing a semi-regular turn whilst my gyrating torso keeps the cash flowing.
The stage is only twenty inches in height, and forms a T-shape around which the audience press. I have two runways on which to strut in my boots and pouch, ensuring everyone gets a good look. I thrust my pectorals forward and push my shapely yet compact butt back, exhibiting every curve in the best possible light.
I place a palm behind my neck and raise the folded elbow, allowing a clear pit view. From the tightly manicured lawn run two trails of perspiration, for it is always hot in Voyeurs: Hot, and sexually charged.
Thrusting from my waist, I bite my bottom lip and let my eyelids fall in a suggestive pose. I hear a few early calls from the regulars, confident there are no restrictions on language at Voyeurs.
'Pump that ass, bitch!'
Reacting, I confect a broader grin and fuck the air using my hips as an axis.
The soundtrack increases in tempo and I stomp the stage at greater speed, fingering the waistband of my pouch as I churn the muscle in my ass cheeks.
'Get that fucking pouch off, mate!'
'Get naked, boy!'
The crowd conforms to the usual demographic, with a majority of 40-plus guys. Scattered amongst them are younger, sharply dressed professional men. The outliers are more noticeable as I scan the room, from the pale, reed-thin students; through huddles of beefy 'straights' who cling together, to the small female contingent who hunt in pairs and are the lewdest in their calls.
At the edge of the stage I crouch, and immediately the hands are upon me. I think I could do these shows for another five years and remain appalled by elderly men pawing at my flesh, their fingers bony and clammy as their dirty nails scratch my thighs. With their touch comes filth from their mouths:
'Let's see you raped, kid.'
'Pretty little whore boy.'
Still my smile remains fixed and though I want to say 'fuck off' I hold back, because there are other lads Pete could employ here, as he often reminds me. Anyway, with the abuse comes cash, and I have noticed a correlation between the offensiveness of the language and the generosity of the donation.
Once he has squeezed my leg and reminded himself of the texture and smell of boy flesh, I offer the guy a personal wink and he slips a note underneath the grippy waistband of my pouch. I don't get many fives, either: it's mostly £10 and £20 bills, and sometimes in pairs.
I stride the stage, punching the air to the beat of the dance track whilst looking for the largest collection of raised hands waving cash. Again I drop to a squat, lick my lips and fondle my dick through the pouch, moaning. Multiple palms skate over my thighs, aiming for the sexual package I keep just out of reach, for positioning is everything.
Let me be honest: The clientele of Voyeurs are too old, weird, geeky or repressed to get teen flesh through a regular encounter. There are those who have tried lurking in Ku Bar, just down the road, in the hope of picking-up some naïve young thing, but no city kid is that devoid of choice. Far from attracting boys, they look what they are: pathetic older men with money, but no hope.
Ashamed but desperate for action, these men come to Voyeurs. Here, whilst sipping an over-priced beer from Pete's bar, they may watch and feel boys who, in a different way, are also desperate. As the guys enjoy the sight of me getting groped, I sense they know the truth: I am here voluntarily, but only because I have found no alternative.
Strutting in my pouch, the language I hear indicates impatience with foreplay. Their tongues loosened by alcohol, rough and rapey fantasies are revealed by these dirty men.
Pushing the boundaries, a corpulent suited guy - shirt unbuttoned to the bottom of his chest - flicks his cigarette just above my right thigh. Red hot ash causes me momentary but searing pain, and my grimace becomes an equally transient scowl. Then, remembering where I am, the scowl morphs back to a grin, and I wink as the businessman pushes a £50 note under my pouch elastic.
I pluck money from my waistband and place it in a top hat, which will remain centre-stage throughout my scene. It is a decent accumulation, given the night is still young.
At 5'7" my frame is short, but gym-toned. I prance the stage with a gait that is cocky yet, in its exaggerated way, also rather effeminate for a boy with such firm biceps and strong calves. Pete produces a potted biography of his 'dancers' for the pre-show flyer, and mine includes reference to my career aspirations (singer) and sexuality (straight).
That's the truth, by the way. I fuck girls, unlike the so-called 'straight' imposters in gay porn movies.
In the dressing room is my guitar, which passes the time if the show is running late. I perch on the table near-naked and practise some old Beatles riff, whilst thinking of my girlfriend Rosie who saw me leave with the instrument and believes I'm playing a pub gig.
I struggle to self-justify the betrayal, but the fact is I can earn £500, perhaps £600 here on a good night. Compare that to a short set in the local bar, where the reward might be £30 and a rise in my self-esteem, which neither pays the rent nor buys sweet Rosie the necklace she so wants for her birthday.
Cracklin' Rosie must never find out about the ass fucks I take, to keep her in a certain style.
I toy with the waistband, letting the elastic snap against my hips as I tease the audience.
'Get it off!'
'Get fuckin' naked, mate!'
Pulling the front of the skimpy garment forward, I delve with my other hand and play with my thick cock, throwing my head back and simulating sexual ecstasy. Legs planted wide, I sweep my stylish brown fringe back, away from my eyes of matching hue.
'When you gonna get fucked, dude?'
'Get that boy cunt stuffed, Sam!' says an anonymous female voice.
For just a moment longer, eyes shut tight, I pump my shaft to the thought of Rosie's breasts and grow a semi-hard. Then, with a flourish, I whip off the pouch and throw it into the crowd. Three guys jump for the saucy gear, like girls at a wedding going for the flung bouquet.
Butt naked I travel to all corners of the stage, keeping my thighs apart so as to let my juicers swing freely. Punching the air with a clenched fist, I seek to raise the heat in this small theatre. Working the muscle in my ass mounds, I churn the creamy globes until I'm certain the whole room has seen my rump writhe.
The stage lighting dims, but for a single spotlight trained on the wing. Behind the curtain, Vince awaits his cue.
My lips are stretched thin around dick, watched by a subdued crowd. Between Vince's trunk-like thighs my bobbing head is lost as, frantically, I give the giant pleasure.
The silky mop on my head looks girly amidst Vince's wiry black pubes, but provides him with something to hold, and to pull, in leveraging deep throat sex.
Vince is bisexual, but has dual standards. Girls are cut some slack, so long as they amuse him, but boys have to be ultra-proficient in both holes. I've worked with five tops at Voyeurs, and Vince is the one I'd choose to chill with and maybe share a post-show line. Off-stage his manner is disarming, but his sexual performances are those of a sadistic beast, and I hate it.
My airway stuffed with his eleven inch tube, I glance up. Vince's eyes have black cores, and look through me rather than at me as he pulls me onto his root, by my scalp. His bulging upper torso is a canvas, on which elaborate tattoos have been painted. Great care has been taken in selection of the artwork and there must be an explanation for each piece, but Vince is not the kind of guy you ask too many 'why?' questions.
Vince was Pete's cocaine runner, and remains a north London gang member. He is no stranger to guns, bitches and run-ins with 'the Fedz'. Somehow - and fuck knows how that conversation went - Pete persuaded the gym-rat dealer he might find it hot to fuck boy ass with an audience: Not to mention earn some extra cash to treat his dear old mum.
Well, Pete has this persuasive way with boys, as I can attest. It so happened that Vince was getting a load of cunt, but having to remain in the closet to his gangster mates was limiting his homo experiences, to the extent of becoming a psychological burden.
Yes, Vince agreed: so long as he could tick the 'no publicity' box, it would be satisfying to pound younger boys and take the praise from dirty faggot perverts.
I have got used to the taste of dick, but the gangster's shaft has stronger funky odours than the norm. Vince doesn't wash before his scenes because he thinks boys should respect him as they find him, and if that means tongue-scraping dried cum from his crown, so be it.
The hoodlum chokes me with his thick cock, repeatedly and quite deliberately. Vince is wired for sound via a headset and microphone, and his sweet nothings are broadcast through the theatre speakers.
'Good boy - let me feel your lips around my root.'
'Work your fuckin' tongue, bitch!'
'Oh yeah... bathe my sweaty balls!'
And yeah, all this does for me is suffocate and appal in equal measure, but I'm broad-minded enough to understand how taking gangster dick to the hilt might be hot for a girl, or a gay. I'm being dominated - owned, even - and totally violated, but shit, does this criminal have some authority?!
When I force my eyeballs up I can see nothing but the rippled vastness of Vince's abdomen, overhung by pectorals capped with power nipples. The whole lot is scrawled with gangster rhymes and images serving to intimidate the nervous cock-sucker. Mostly - because it takes less effort - I look just a centimetre ahead into his trimmed pube bush, the tip of my nose getting scratched by that abrasive turf.
I let this guy force himself down my throat because I'm getting paid for it, but I don't need to be convinced that his (literally) overwhelming vigour and self-obsession could be a turn-on. Vince is a bad boy you wouldn't say 'no' to, but the inability to withhold consent is dangerously exciting, I guess.
Drool froths from the sides of my mouth as Vince plunges down my throat, withdraws, then fucks again. My face collides with his lower abdomen, accompanied by a series of fleshy smacks picked up by the microphones and appreciated by the audience.
'Get me hard, faggot! C'mon and lick those glans!'
'Let me feel you kiss my belly!'
I should be repelled, but when Vince abuses me I feel motivation to accommodate his cheesy cock deeper, and for longer. It may not be erotic, but his aura of total control is fucking impressive.
I'm let off the stalk occasionally, to retch dollops of drool onto the stage floor. Vince never lets go of my hair, however, and with my face still purple and viscous gob hanging from my lips, I'm forced back onto his hard-on for another session of adoration.
'Don't ignore my helmet, queer boy,' I'm reminded, and I make sure special attention is paid to his raspberry dome.
Vince's dickhead tingles as I lap it, and oozes pre-cum when I find his piss-slit and cleanse it with light jabs. I tolerate my first exposure to the gangster's sex juice, but he is way too professional to climax early in the show.
The full eleven inches are rammed back down my throat in a single lunge.
'Fuckin' whore, aint cha'?
Vince is narrowest at his hips, where I anchor my fingers as I rim the bad boy.
My face is lost - buried - between the butt mounds of my dominant.
It's odd: I tug those buns of steel gingerly prior to inserting myself, as though Vince might get annoyed and snap if I prise his cheeks too hard. But really, there is so much muscle in his rump I'm sure he barely feels my fingers spreading his crack.
'C'mon, Sam, start licking his shit hole!' I hear yelled from the auditorium.
The audience like this segment although they can see relatively little as, on my knees, I wash Vince's A-ring furiously. It is the concept that appeals: desperate little straight boy tongues the chute of cocky, powerhouse straight man.
I want to be home with girlfriend Rosie, curled on the sofa watching her choice of soppy rom-com, awaiting delivery of a piping-hot pepperoni pizza. Instead I'm in front of one hundred perverts, eating-out a cold, foul, sticky mess.
Vince does not douche and if I think about it - although I try not to - he uses my tongue as his toilet paper. Even when we chill together after the show, his arrogance does not allow for remorse. Just a few token words would be nice, you know?
'Hey, Sam, I feel bad about you having to ass-wipe me. Jesus, it must be gross.'
I don't think Vince sees my problem, though. If his bitches take him as he comes, why wouldn't this lad do the same? And, as Vince has never eaten ass and never will, he's disinterested to be told that cleansing prior to the show would be respectful to his co-worker.
Pete is to blame, I'm sure, for there is no profit in requiring Vince to show up with a pristine ass hole. Quite the opposite, in fact, and I suspect the club owner of issuing unwritten guidance to the Tops, behind the scenes.
So, deep in Vince's crack, I swipe back and forth with my tongue getting brown-tinged. I break off when I absolutely must, feverish beads of perspiration clinging to my forehead, and dry heave. Sometimes I puke a little, and the crowd show approval with a roar. Then I must dive back in, pushing into Vince's rectum with my curled tongue as my fingers claw at his hips for leverage.
'Get in there!' says my dominant, as I wash his perineum with long strokes.
I know Vince gets off on this, as his reliable semi-hard tells the story. It would be hot if a girl were doing the rimming, of course, but the task is that bit more humiliating for a straight boy who can take no possible thrill from the filthy work.
'C'mon: lick,' Vince encourages, stroking his shaft as he feels my face press against his near-impregnable ass mounds. And again, I find myself toiling that bit harder when the boss demands it.
You know the kind of boss? A taskmaster with a reputation for extracting results.
'Fuckin' eat me out, bitch!'
I am in there, and up there, doing Vince's bidding as he calls me names. When I need a scat-induced vomit, overwhelmed by the rank smells lingering in that ass crevice and the fetid aftertaste, I feel no sympathy in the room.
Sick-flecked drool dripping from my chin, I look amongst the faces and find Pete propping-up the bar, cigar in one hand and whisky in the other. He raises his glass to me and I burrow again, chiselling dried shit from gangster ass.
Vince's anal ring is as unyielding as his butt mounds, for the message to all queers is 'no entry', with no debate about that. Real men pound ass of either sex, but do not get shafted: Vince is quite certain of it. When, and only when, the gangster's tight bud is whistle-clean, I am done at his back door.
I may now walk the stage with the upturned top hat, soliciting further donations. It helps to poke my tongue like an eager dog, for sight of the stains tends to loosen the purse strings. If that doesn't work, I can pretend that what follows next is dependent upon additional contributions:
'Wanna see some yellow, guys?'
As I kneel before Vince the tattooed muscleman dick-whips my face, alternating between one cheek and the other. It hurts, because his shaft is long, thick and perpetually aroused. If you crossed Vince on the street you would feel a pistol in the same way, but at least there is something manly about succumbing to assault with a deadly weapon: fallen soldier, and all that. There is nothing to boost the street-credibility in kneeling in supplication to a rogue, getting your face slapped by cock.
'Thirsty, boy?' Vince asks, his words still amplified and broadcast.
'Yes, Sir!' I respond, as trained.
'Gonna drink it all, boy?'
'Gonna spill any, boy?'
'Good boy, Sam. Good little faggot.'
I close my eyes, open my jaws wide, and wait... and wait.
Vince likes to tease whereas for the audience, suspense is a love/hate thing.
'Fuckin' drown him in piss!' shouts an enthusiastic student, and that hurts because he could be a contemporary of mine.
'Oh yeah!' moans Vince, readying his prostate and aiming his hose.
The gangster has prepared for this segment by drinking all afternoon. It will have been boring stuff like mineral water from a bottle, though, and not alcohol. Self-respecting criminals cannot afford to be blotto, as the guard drops: It's hardly a paradox that the best drug pushers are not habitual users.
I know, before the jet hits my face, what to expect of being pissed in by Vince. The fluid will be clear and dilute, but will spray without end - or so it will seem, on the receiving end of the warm blast.
Watersports are very visual, and suited to stage production. The crowd will see how I struggle to gulp the torrent, and love this even more. I guess there are some married guys in the crowd, with kids my age or younger. They would be horrified if their darling children were reduced to piss drinking from hoodlum hose, but do they even think of me as human?
And what of the young professionals in their first jobs - all smart suits and shiny shoes. Where's the generational solidarity from those who've enjoyed greater privilege, as they leer at me naked and piss-drenched? What a fucking way to pay the rent!
Vince's flow hits the back of my mouth and I swallow like mad to keep up.
'Quaff the fuckin' champagne, kid!' the gangster laughs.
Through experience, I can deal with the pungency of man piss. The need to avoid leakage keeps the mind off the taste, anyway, and so accurate is Vince's aim that I feel able to open my eyes and watch for a moment. The face I see is contemptuous, as one chunky hand holds dick meat steady, with ease.
'Fuckin' drink!' Vince mouths, with a cheeky wink that feels misplaced.
I shut my eyes again, thinking only of clearing the bubbling pool that grows faster than I can clear it. My Adam's Apple rises and falls as I take panic-stricken gulps, but the battle is being lost as piss runs down my chin in streams and then hangs, ready to drip with a shake of my head.
'Don't you fuckin' dare to leak!' Vince warns.
The gangster holds out his spare palm and grits his teeth, as though ready to slap my cheek, and I force myself to swallow harder.
'Good lad,' Vince croons, withdrawing the threatening hand.
I gurgle and gargle, my stomach growling, but this guy is looking to inundate me. When I take another peek, my eyes are hit immediately by a stinging blast that tells me I shouldn't have looked.
As his flow abates, Vince draws close and rests his fat prick on my lower lip, letting the dribbles run between my teeth.
'That was a good wine, yeah? A great vintage?' Vince says, finding his words funny.
'Yes, Sir,' I say.
My dominant catches his final drops in his own hand, and ruffles the wet palm in my hair to re-style my cut. Vince hauls me up by the scalp and forces a kiss: his intrusive tongue penetrating my pissy lips. I think I know how to describe his taste: All Man. Vince the narcissist, though, just wants to taste himself in my mouth.
'Ah yeah, that's good,' he concludes, with a swirl of the tongue.
Spontaneous clapping fills the theatre, with cries for more.
I'm not sure of Vince's ethnicity, although with a surname of Ramos and jet black hair, I'm guessing he has Latin American blood. But, with London being a melting pot like most world cities, the muscleman could have mixed parentage.
The other guess I'd make is that Vince didn't see much of his Daddy, instead being fathered by older boys on the street who gave him this distorted outlook on manhood. Nothing about Vince Ramos suggests careful parenting, but somewhere in his psyche there must be a moral code where 'brothers' are supported like blood relatives. It's just a shame I fall into neither category.
I allowed Pete's stagehands to cuff my wrists to a trapeze bar, suspended from the ceiling. My arms are stretched vertical, way above my head, but my legs are unrestrained and able to dance as Vince lashes my ass with a bull hide flogger.
'Fuckin' shriek for me!' Vince says, but those are rare words, for the gangster prefers to punish in silence.
Not that I've done anything wrong, but there is this enduring image in kinky gay circles of a mountainous man as whiphand, versus a slight, cowering boy. I've learnt that well enough in my scenes at Voyeurs, and am rewarded to be that boy whilst Vince cracks the whip.
Where Vince's mounds are vast, mine are firm but compact, and the flogger has only so much virgin canvas to cover. My dominant goes in hard because the audience scream at him to do so, but also because he genuinely enjoys wielding the hurt tool. Every strike is aimed carefully, but landed with great force undiminished by my cries for relief. Vince, I have decided, is not an opportunistic sadist but a cold, considered one: hot to watch, but not to suffer for at the ends of the flogger tails.
The hide wraps around my ass cheeks and licks my thighs, creating angry red from pale English cream, and my bare feet scramble over the stage. Overhead, I twist and turn the trapeze bar, trying instinctively to escape the lash.
I hear Vince grunt as he launches each assault, and know he is really going for it. The gangster must have so many foes he will never be able to hurt: but he can whip me, instead.
'Keep dancin', kid,' the tattooed hulk says, ignoring my sniffles.
'Harder!' shout a few paying guests.
Pete is directing this production, though, and to groans he calls a temporary halt.
The pensionable club owner is centre-stage with a microphone, auctioning the opportunity to deliver eight final lashes to my rump.
I would rather leave now, but as we are approaching the most lucrative part of the night, that would be self-defeating. So I wait in bondage, for someone to buy the 'right' to slash my flesh.
Within thirty seconds the bidding has gone beyond the means of the students and seniors, and the initial flurry of hands has subsided, with the majority of Pete's guests left disappointed and envious. This will be a cash-up-front treat: no credit terms for the flaky but over-sexed poor.
Pete commands the stage with an easy manner, eyes darting over the auditorium as he accepts bids in £50 increments. The raised hands still in the game all belong to City types: snappily dressed bankers and lawyers, thinking of a pleasurable way to spend a slice of the bonus.
At £650, a thirty-something guy with a blue twill shirt appears to be the last man standing, a grin spreading over his face as Pete's second call for 'any more bids' is unanswered.
'Two thousand if you'll let me give eight to both boys,' shouts an Afro-Caribbean voice from the back of the theatre, near the bar.
Every head turns, to identify the mystery bidder.
'That's clear, yeah? I get to whop both tushes for £2000. Decide amongst yourselves how it's split.'
Pete looks flustered, which I've not seen before. I'm eager to see how this plays out, because what do I care? I'm going to get eight lashes, whatever happens.
'Ah, I'm sorry, but Vince here does the dominant role only,' Pete stammers.
'What's his problem? I'm offering good cash for eight strokes. I'm not looking to ass fuck him - unless he wants it,' the top bidder says, and the crowd titters.
'What's your name, Sir?' Pete asks.
'Call me Marlon, yeah?'
'Okay Marlon, but the deal was six strokes of...'
'Yeah, yeah: I understand your deal, but I'm offering everyone better terms. Get it?'
'Well, I think we need to go back to the previous bidder - the gentleman in the blue,' Pete says, trying to identify the respectable City gent in the crowd.
'No - you should take my money. What do your paying guests think? Let's ask them, hey?' Marlon shouts.
The sex theatre dissolves into a rabble where words cannot be attributed to their owners, but the consensus is clear: it would be hot to see the dominant whipped alongside his submissive.
'But, that's not on the programme...' Pete says into the microphone. Suddenly, he has been made to look quite small.
The crowd roars impatient displeasure. If this is to become a riot, I want my fucking money first!
Pete and Vince enter heated debate, out of earshot, where the club owner seeks to impose his diminished authority. The gangster's slicing hand movements and scowl, meanwhile, suggest he wants no part of this. I cannot hear, but I would bet that threats are being made in both directions: subtle and financial on the one hand; explicit and violent on the other. In all this, I am just a naked and welted bystander.
Mid-negotiation Vince turns to face me and, finger jabbing towards the bar, mouths something which I receive as:
'I know him.'
Vince's cuffed wrists share my trapeze bar as we face each other, full frontal and too close for mutual comfort.
Marlon the Jamaican deals with me first, and I feel his contempt for faggots in the strength of his lashes, although I'm not one. I suspect the gay-for-pay angle is lost on him, however: He would regard it as inconceivable a straight boy could consentingly do this, however desperate.
Each of Marlon's assaults pushes me into the immovable object that is Vince, who remains rooted to the spot, and our unevenly-sized torsos collide. On his last strike, Marlon catches my balls with one tail of the flogger and I squeal as I shoot forward, my face mashing Vince's huge chest.
I'm just the warm-up, though. Marlon, in a white T-shirt, black jogging pants and sneakers, is here to humiliate a rival with whom he has been feuding for years. I got the gist of the story from Vince as we waited - ages - for the dark-skinned 28 year-old to saunter to the stage he had 'hired' for £2000.
Marlon had warned Vince on too many occasions: don't deal on my turf, or you'll have an accident. Being bigger and fitter, and with the gang behind him, Vince shrugged-off the threats. Now, he finds bulk is no substitute for wit.
The Jamaican dealer takes his time because he is clothed whilst his nemesis, the 'dominant' Vince, is naked and cuffed in front of one hundred salivating queers.
'Anyone want a photo, before we start?' Marlon says, beckoning towards his strung-up foe.
'Sorry, Marlon: we don't allow cameras in the theatre,' Pete interjects quickly.
'Aww shucks,' Marlon says. 'Though I see a few phones held in the air, for some reason,' he laughs.
With ill-disguised irritation, Pete suggests Marlon get on with it.
The savagery of the flogging belies Marlon's relatively small stature, lashing - as he does - a dominant new to corporal punishment on the flip side.
Hushed, the audience draw breath as Vince's curvaceous butt cheeks are whipped until raw. My partner keeps stoic, refusing to howl anguish, but as I know from experience, bottling-up the pain only works as a tactic for a finite period.
Vince patters forward under the sustained flogging, unable to remain still despite toenails clawing at the stage. I find my face nestled in his pectorals, and feel each blow reverberate through his muscular torso.
'Aww... fuck!' Vince gasps, unable to contain the agony any longer.
'Ahh... hurts!' the big man says, and it must be bad for him to make that humiliating admission, which I'm sure he regrets immediately.
'Enjoying this, Vincent?' Marlon laughs.
'Thought I wouldn't find you here, hey faggot?'
'Shut the fuck up, man!' Vince rages.
'We should have a chat, later. Unless you want all the gang to know about your sexy sideline, baby?'
'Aww... don't, please Marlon!'
'Pipe down Vince, and let these boys and girls hear me crack leather over your cowardly flesh.'
I'm not sure anyone is counting the lashes. Certainly, Marlon is working on a 'two for one' basis, at least. Pete knows this has gone beyond the agreement, but absorbed in the intense encounter like the rest of the room, lets it run.
I hear Vince sniff as the bull hide slams his butt cheeks and thighs, and when I look him in the eye I see tears welling. He's a strong man, so this will be an emotional reaction as much as physical.
As my dominant writhes I bob my head, open my mouth and latch onto the nearest of his pecs. Feeling his pain quite profoundly, and seeing him distraught, I close my jaws and compress his rubbery teat flesh between my teeth.
'What da fuck?!' Vince cries, as I chew his nub.
And the thing is, I cannot answer that question or explain my actions.
Underneath spotlights at the centre of the stage, Vince Ramos fucks me hard in the ass.
We are on a mattress covered with a white sheet, mounted on a sprung frame with wheels - to make life easy for the prop department.
The violence of Vince's fuck makes the springs squeak incessantly, and the 'bed' inches over the stage floor.
The gangster is angry, and as a (minor) cause of that anger, I am bearing the brunt.
Doggie style, Vince rams my rectum with his eleven inches, lubricated by the contents of a small sachet and a handful of spit on his shift. Foreplay was as scant as usual: two of Vince's chubby fingers held together like a pistol barrel, forced past my ring, thrusting left and right to open me up for the main event.
Condoms were banned at Voyeurs last year, because Pete reckoned they were bad for business. Performers were notified by email, with 'reassurance' that the club would pay for periodic HIV tests. There was uproar, and a delegation marched on Pete's office, where he reminded us we would benefit financially from the bareback policy and, if we didn't like it, there were loads of Russian and Bulgarian kids, new to London, ready to take our places.
So, I'm screwed without protection by a man who keeps multiple 'bitches' in tow. Great, hey?
With a clump of my hair in his clenched palm Vince jerks my head so the audience, wherever they stand in relation to the bed, can see from my closed eyes and gritted teeth that this is an anal pounding without consideration of my welfare.
Ushered off the stage by Pete, but still with a front row vantage point, Marlon taunts his rival:
'Work through that frustration, baby. It's gonna be you on the end of my pole, later!'
'Meet me in the alley at midnight, bitch: pants down and bent for me.'
Vince takes my boy hole to the hilt, retreats fully and plunges back in. My ass lips stretch thin and sore around his fuck sword, and I can hear from his grunting and puffing there is little left to give.
I could be in bed with Rosie now, having a cuddle and moving in subtly for more as she tries to finish a novel under lamplight. Hopefully, Rosie will never know I ended my teens getting brutally ass plowed for a few hundred quid, gangster cum backflushing from my hole that started tight, but now fits outsize dick like a glove.
Vince throws me onto my back and folds my knees alongside my head. Now we can watch each other as we fuck: he glistening with sweat, his face a contorted show of hurt pride, to be avenged; me panting and pleading not for this to stop, but for a little less vigour in the assault. You can't stop fucks at Voyeurs.
In the audience I can see trouser bulges and, in some cases, blatant wanking. Vince is bombarded with suggestions as to where he might shoot his cum, but prefers to listen to my faggoty squealing as his fingernails imbed in my hips.
The bed frame twists with the torque my gangster dominant deploys, and the sheet beneath me is soaked with my perspiration. This is animalistic, and raw in every sense. My hands drape over Vince's monster thighs and I am aware I have surrendered, again, to a total plundering.
I don't get hard at this abuse by a sexual machine, but I have to acknowledge the power of the exchange. For girls wanting to be treated as rag dolls, Vince is their man.
The gangster's cum floods my ass, and the pleasant warmth of his swimmers eases the over-stretching he has inflicted. Bred by a street fighter, my head slumps back on the pillow.
Vince extracts himself with a pop: the tap still dispensing rich cream. Shuffling up to my face - his bulky thighs either side of me inducing claustrophobia - the 'money shot' continues with cum sprayed over my lips and onto my pretty fringe. I've never done it to Rosie, but I reckon Vince loves giving his girls a good facial.
The spewing crown is pressed between my lips, and I am encouraged to accept the shaft that follows. To avoid the need for Vince to shower I wash his cock thoroughly, running my tongue up and down his long central vein, and slurping the last drops of cum from his sensitive dick head. My cheeks bulge with his fuck rod and I close my eyes as I taste myself upon his sex.
Pete and an imposing heavy guard the stage steps, accepting monetary tributes (minimum £10) for the opportunity to touch Vince and I as we recover on the mattress, coiled.
A succession of hands are laid, feeling the sexual heat my dominant has created and rubbing his drying cum into my torso.
Finally, words of appreciation are murmured as the perverts slide their palms over my slick flesh:
'Well done, kid.'
'Great show, lad.'
Marlon pays-up to deliver his own tribute to Vince:
'Good boy,' he says, hands roaming between Vince's thighs and brushing his genitalia.
'Fuck you!' Vince spits, but the ass spank he receives by return overlays the raw stripes left by Marlon's flogging.
Vince perches on the table in my dressing room, still naked, with his legs spread and his balls cascading over the edge. Christ, those gonads look full again, already.
In the office along the corridor, Pete counts the cash takings and splits the proceeds three ways. You can be sure that whatever happens, the club owner does well from each show. Even so, thanks to Marlon's intervention I should clear £1000 tonight, and will treat Rosie to dinner. There won't be any sex for a week or so, though, until my welts fade.
Vince drags on a cigarette, but I declined his offer to take one from the pack. He looks me up and down, and I feel under examination despite the show being over.
'Wanna give Daddy a kiss?' Vince asks.
'Nah, it's okay,' I say.
'C'mon, Sam. Show Daddy you love him, and are thankful for what he's done.'
'Please, Vince. Don't.'
'C'mon,' he insists.
With Rosie's texts unanswered on my phone, I move between Vince's provocatively spread legs and catch the smoke signals he blows.
I want Vince to reach behind my neck, pull me in and make me kiss him, but he remains still.
Uncompelled, I push my face forward. Staring at me all the while, Vince drops his fag to the floor and prepares to receive me.
'C'mon,' he says, for the last time.
I place my hands on his broad shoulders, close the remaining gap between our lips, and we mash together in sensual, head-twisting homo love.