The tuxedo clung to my muscular frame like a second skin, the bow tie tight around my neck, making every swallow feel like a reminder of how fucked I was. I was Ben, nineteen, blonde and built from years of gym grind, but tonight at this gay charity auction, I felt like prey. Azhar, the twenty-five-year-old with that swimmer's lean muscle and dark hair, moved beside me, his face set in the same grim line. We were straight guys blackmailed into waitering, five tables each through a six-course meal and endless drink refills.
The host had us by the balls—threaten to leak our secrets if we bailed and I already hated the way eyes raked over us as we started serving appetizers, trays balanced, tension coiling in my gut.
Customers leered, hands brushing my ass as I poured wine. 'Looking good, boy,' one growled, fingers grazing my thigh. I jerked away, heart pounding, grimacing in disgust, but kept serving, my jaw clenched tight. Azhar got it worse at his table—a burly guy slapped his ass hard, making him flinch and curse under his breath, batting the hand away with a visible scowl.
Salads came next, and the bidding kicked off with our jackets. At my table, bids climbed quick—$150, $200—until a grinning bidder at $250 won. 'Strip it off on the table, stud,' he demanded. The host nodded from the side, whispering threats under his breath. I climbed up, shrugging the jacket from my shoulders slow, the fabric sliding down my arms to reveal the crisp white shirt hugging my broad chest and biceps. Tossed to the winner, I felt exposed already, the cool air hitting my shirt sleeves as I hopped down, serving greens while hands roamed my now-jacketless torso, squeezing my pecs through the fabric. I shoved one away, face twisting in revulsion.
Azhar's jacket went for $275 at his table; he peeled it off reluctantly on the wood surface, his lean swimmer's arms flexing as the jacket dropped, exposing his shirt clinging to his tapered waist. He grimaced the whole time, swatting groping fingers that pinched his sides, his dark eyes flashing hate as he served, a hand already dipping low to cup his crotch.
The bow ties auctioned next during salads. A slick guy at my table bid $300, yanking mine loose with a grin. 'Up on the table—dance for it.' I climbed back on, heart slamming, and shuffled awkwardly, hips swaying as the crowd whooped, my face burning with shame. Off went the bow tie, tossed away, my neck bare and vulnerable.
Azhar lost his for $320, forced to grind against a chair edge at his table, cursing loud as hands slapped his thighs and one slid up his inner leg, making him jerk back with a snarled 'Fuck off!' His neck exposed too, he served with a rigid posture, visibly seething. Entrees hit the tables, plates heavy with steak and sides, and the stripping escalated.
Shoes went first—bids flew to $400 for mine, and I had to bend over at my table, hands shaking as I untied the laces of my right shoe first, the polished leather slipping off to expose my navy blue formal socks, the fabric hugging my foot and ankle. A customer reached out, groping my ass cheeks through my pants as I bent low, fingers digging in hard while I unlaced the left shoe next, pulling it free and revealing the matching navy blue sock, my toes flexing against the cool air—I grimaced, shoving his hand away roughly. 'Now perform,' the bidder demanded, so I hopped back on the table, flexing my calves and toes, the cool wood under my soles making my skin crawl, multiple hands now grabbing at my socked feet and thighs.
Azhar's shoes auctioned for $450; he bent over too, untying one lace at a time, but as he yanked the first shoe free, exposing his blue-brown striped sock, he lost balance and stumbled, falling onto the table edge with a grunt. Customers pounced immediately, hands gripping his arms and waist, yanking at his shirt and forcing fingers down his trousers to grope his bulge and ass crack roughly. 'Get the fuck off me!' Azhar snarled, thrashing, but they pinned him briefly, palming his soft cock through his briefs. I rushed over to help, shoving one guy away, only for the table to turn on me—hands ripping at my pants, unzipping my fly halfway and dipping in to squeeze my balls, another pulling me into a forced kiss, his tongue shoving into my mouth as I gagged and pushed back hard.
The host barked from the side, 'Enough—release them!' and the gropers backed off laughing, leaving us both panting and disheveled but still clothed, Azhar cursing wildly as he pulled his fly shut, his face flushed with rage. He balanced on one foot to strip the second shoe, guys still feeling up his thighs and crotch as it came off, then twirled—still in shirt—on his table, the men cheering his socked legs while he batted away more gropes, muttering curses. Groping intensified everywhere; a hand slipped through my fly, palming my bulge. 'Nice outline in those briefs,' he chuckled, squeezing my soft cock through the fabric. I batted his hand away hard, cheeks burning, spitting 'Get your fucking hands off!' but another pulled me close, mashing his lips to mine. I shoved back, tasting whiskey on his breath, sputtering in rage, only for a second guy to grab my face and force another sloppy kiss, tongue probing deep as I retched. Azhar shoved a kisser away too, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, his expression pure loathing as another guy fondled his ass and yanked him into a rough lip-lock, Azhar's muffled protests turning to a growl.
The air buzzed with low chatter and clinking glasses, the stage lights hot overhead. Halfway through the entrees, the host's voice boomed over the mic. 'Time for a special show, gentlemen! Our waiters, Ben and Azhar, up on stage!' My stomach dropped. Azhar shot me a wide-eyed look as we were herded up, both of us scowling. The crowd of suited men hooted, chairs scraping. The host, that smug bastard with his authoritative smirk, leaned in close, whispering, 'Kiss, or your lives go public. Make it good.' I froze, fists clenched, but his eyes bored into mine—threat clear. Azhar's face twisted in disgust, but he grabbed my shoulders. Our lips crashed together, rough and unwilling, his stubble scraping mine. I tasted salt from his sweat, my mouth forced open as he shoved his tongue in, the crowd erupting in cheers and whistles. 'Yeah, suck face!' someone yelled. It lasted forever, my cock twitching involuntarily against my will, before the host shoved us offstage. 'Back to work, sluts,' he hissed.
We pushed through the rest of the entrees, batting away groping hands as we cleared plates, shirts still buttoned tight over our chests, pants zipped despite the constant tugs at my fly—men everywhere pinching my ass, stroking my thighs, making me grimace and curse with every touch, pulling me into more forced kisses that left my lips bruised. Azhar looked ready to snap, shoving hands from his crotch and chest, his lean body tense, spitting after yet another customer mashed his mouth against his. Sweat beaded on my skin from the unwanted touches, my cock stirring traitorously in my briefs.
As the next course arrived, the bidding turned to our shirt buttons, one agonizing reveal at a time. At my table, bids flew for the top button—collar level—hitting $500 for the silver-haired winner. 'Up on the table, boy, undo it yourself.' Heart racing, I climbed up, fingers fumbling with the stiff fabric, popping the first button to reveal the smooth, tanned skin at the base of my neck, a hint of my collarbone peeking out. The crowd whistled as I stepped down, tray in hand, serving the mains with my neck exposed, a hand already brushing the bare skin, twisting my nipple through the shirt—I yanked it away, face sour. Next bid won the second button for $550; back on the table, I undid it, exposing the upper swell of my chiseled pecs, the muscle flexing under the lights as I twisted for their view. 'Fuck, look at that chest starting to show,' a guy muttered, his hand groping my partial bare skin. I hopped off, pouring drinks, nipples hardening from the cool air on the partial reveal, another customer pinching the visible edge of my pec hard, drawing a hiss of hate from me, then yanking me close for a deep, unwanted kiss. Third button: up again at $600, undoing it to bare the full top of my pecs, the deep cleft between them on display, sweat trickling down. Bids climbed higher for the fourth at $650, revealing my hard nipples fully as I popped it open on the table, the pink buds stiff and begging for touches I hated—hands tweaked them rough immediately after while I served, making me flinch and bat wildly. The final button bid stripped the shirt wide at $700, my ripped abs contracting as I undid it center-stage on the table, the whole V of my torso naked now, obliques rippling, but I left the shirt hanging open, still tucked into my pants, flapping against my skin as I moved.
Azhar endured the same at his tables, climbing up button by button—first his neck for $520, then upper chest revealing his lean swimmer's pecs at $570, nipples exposed next with a gasp at $620 as hands pinched them, making him grimace and curse, and finally his tight abs bared at $680, shirt gaping open but tucked in, a hand down his pants outlining his dick as he served between reveals, his face a mask of revulsion, enduring extra forced kisses that made him shove and wipe his mouth repeatedly. 'Bet it's thick,' the guy said, squeezing—Azhar slapped the hand away, snarling.
We served the next course with shirts flapping open, exposing our bare chests and abs to constant grabs—fingers raking my nipples, palming my pecs, pinching Azhar's lean torso while he cursed and batted. Belts next: mine unbuckled with a clink for $750, yanked free, pants sagging a bit, and I had to strut on the table, belt whipping the air while gropers grabbed my loosening waistband and forced another kiss on me. Azhar's belt went for $800, pulled off as he posed, men tugging his pants already and mashing lips to his in rough makeouts he fought.
Trousers now: unbuttoned slow for $900 on mine, the bidder climbing up to pop the button himself, fabric parting to show my waistband, then zipper dragged down tooth by tooth at $950, the blue stripes of my briefs peeking out inch by inch, cock outline clear and thickening against the fabric as cool air hit my skin—Azhar's followed at $920 unbuttoned, a hand lingering on his lean hip, and $970 zipped, his blue-red-brown stripes flashing fully, his soft dick's shape visible as he grimaced on the table.
We served like that, pants half-open, trays wobbling, shirts still tucked but gaping to bare our torsos. Men pulled the gaps wider, fingers dipping in to stroke my balls and cock shaft through briefs, commenting, 'Soft now, but it'll harden—nice fucking bulge.' I yanked the zipper up, only for another to unzip it again, tugging the waistband down my thighs to mid-thigh level, groping my ass crack and yanking me into a sloppy kiss while palming my growing erection—I grimaced, pulling back up with a growl, but hands kept exposing me, briefs tenting hard from the friction, ass cheeks flashing as I bent to pour, multiple guys now trying to yank my pants lower, batting and cursing ignored as they forced tongues into my mouth one after another.
Azhar grunted nearby, his pants shoved to his knees repeatedly for $1,000 bid, brown-red-blue stripes exposed, a customer palming his hardening cock while others felt his thighs and balls, pulling him into aggressive kisses that left him sputtering—he shoved them away hard, face twisted in fury, but they dragged his pants low again, fingers wrapping his shaft to stroke him stiff. 'Fight it, boys!' the host barked from the side, reminding us, 'Or everyone sees those videos.' We batted hands, pulled pants up, but they dragged them low again, my semi-hard dick throbbing against the briefs from unwanted touches, Azhar's lean cock stiffening against his will as gropers stroked him relentlessly.
The full trouser removal came next, bids soaring to $1,100 for mine—the winner grabbed the open waistband, yanking the pants down my muscular thighs slow and deliberate, fabric dragging over my skin, hooking briefly on my bulging briefs before sliding past my knees and calves, pooling at my navy-socked ankles. I stepped out awkwardly on the table, briefs now fully on display, my thick cock semi-erect and outlined clearly, ass cheeks flexing as I posed, hands immediately grabbing my bare thighs and crack.
Azhar's trousers fetched $1,150; a group of bidders hauled his down together, unresisting under threat, the material scraping his lean legs, revealing his blue-red-brown striped briefs clinging to his hardening dick and balls, pants kicked off his socked feet as he stood exposed, his swimmer's V-line drawing whistles while fingers probed his ass and stroked his shaft through the thin fabric. Now down to open shirts tucked loosely, briefs, and socks, we served the final courses, shirts half hanging off our shoulders from constant tugs, flapping to expose every inch of our torsos and hips.
The venue hummed with lust, men bolder now—hands everywhere, grabbing my bulge, pinching my ass, yanking my shirt fully off one shoulder to bare me more while forcing kisses that bruised my lips, tongues shoving deep as I gagged. One grabbed my waist, yanking my briefs down to mid-thigh, my full cock springing free—thick, veined, half-erect from the constant stroking, hand wrapping my shaft to pump rough and fast. I groaned, hating the sparks of pleasure, pushing weakly, my face contorted in disgust.
'No—fuck off.' Azhar got it worse in briefs, often exposed—his longer dick pulled free multiple times for $1,300 bids, stroked from soft to rigid repeatedly, pre-cum beading on his tip as multiple men groped his lean abs, balls, and shaft at once, yanking his briefs low to play with his asshole and force him into deep, sloppy kisses he fought with curses, his lean body twisting in visible hatred. They pulled us close, forcing more kisses, tongues invading as hands jerked us off publicly—Azhar wiped his mouth after one, spitting in hate, only for another to grab and expose him again.
The host interrupted again, dragging us onstage mid-service. 'Another kiss for the bidders!' Crowd roared. Azhar's lips met mine, desperate and sloppy, his hard cock brushing mine through thin fabric. We made out under the lights, hands forced to grope each other's asses, the touches turning my stomach even as my body betrayed me with a full erection—both of us grimacing between forced tongue thrusts. 'Deeper, boys,' the host commanded, whispering threats. Whistles drowned my internal scream—hating every second, but trapped. As we broke apart, panting, a customer below yelled, 'Now fuck on stage
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