I remember the day I left the farm like it was yesterday. The sun was beating down on the cornfields, and my old man's truck rumbled as he dropped me off at the bus station. 'Don't forget where you come from, boy,' he grunted, his calloused hand clapping my shoulder a little too hard. I was twenty-two, built like a brick shithouse from years of baling hay and wrestling steers—broad shoulders, thick thighs, a jaw that could cut glass. But inside, I was screaming for something more. Music. Lights. The city pulse that I'd only dreamed about while strumming my beat-up guitar under the stars. I hugged my mom quick, grabbed my duffel bag stuffed with clothes and that guitar, and boarded the bus to the big lights of the city. Freedom tasted like dust and possibility.
The city hit me like a freight train. Skyscrapers clawed at the sky, horns blared, and people moved like they owned the chaos. I crashed in a dingy motel, pounding the pavement with demos in hand. Auditions, open mics—everywhere I went, they smiled politely and said, 'Kid, you've got heart, but the scene's tough.' Weeks turned to months. Rent piled up. My savings from farm work dried up. I busked on street corners, guitar case open for coins, but the crowds just hurried past. Hunger gnawed at me, and desperation crept in like fog.
That's when I met Rico, the manager at this underground club called Pulse. He was slick, mid-forties, with a gold chain and eyes that stripped you bare. I slipped him a demo after a set where I belted out a raw cover of some country-rock anthem. The crowd was thin, but a few drunks clapped. 'You got pipes, farm boy,' he said, leaning close, his breath smelling of whiskey. 'But talent don't pay bills here. You willing to... entertain in other ways?' His hand brushed my arm, lingering. I froze, heart pounding. I'd fooled around back home—quick fumbles with buddies after football games—but this? His gaze dropped to my crotch, and something twisted in my gut. Shame? Curiosity? Need?
I nodded. That night, after closing, he led me to the back office. The door clicked shut, and he pushed me against the desk. 'On your knees, singer boy.' My jeans hit the floor, and there I was, this big jock reduced to sucking his thick cock. He gripped my hair, thrusting deep, grunting as I gagged and slurped. Saliva dripped down my chin, mixing with pre-cum. 'That's it, take it like the whore you are.' When he came, hot spurts flooded my throat, and I swallowed, choking on the bitterness. He tossed me a wad of cash—enough for a week's rent. 'Sing tomorrow. Impress me, and maybe more.' I stumbled out, wiping my mouth, the taste lingering. Disgust burned in my chest, but so did a dark thrill. My cock was half-hard. What the fuck was wrong with me?
It snowballed from there. Rico let me on stage a couple songs a night—belt out my originals about lost dreams and open roads. The crowd loved the 'farm boy' gimmick, cheering as I poured my soul into the mic. But afterward, it was payment time. Solo at first: Rico bending me over the bar after hours, slamming into my ass raw, his balls slapping against mine as he called me his 'tight little cum dump.' I'd clench around him, moaning despite myself, the burn turning to fire that spread through my veins. He'd pull out and shoot ropes across my back, leaving me sticky and spent on the sticky floor.
Word spread. Other managers caught wind. Tony from Neon Abyss, a burly guy with tattoos snaking up his arms, booked me for a Friday. I sang three songs, voice cracking with the emotion of it all—lyrics about chasing stars only to fall into the mud. The applause felt hollow. Backstage, Tony and his bouncer buddy waited. 'Time to earn your spot, bottom boy.' They stripped me, my muscular frame exposed under the dim lights. Tony shoved me to my knees, his fat cock forcing past my lips while the bouncer fingered my hole, spitting lube from his mouth. 'Look at this jock ass, begging for it.' They took turns, flipping me onto all fours. Tony rammed in first, stretching me wide, pounding relentlessly as I gripped the couch, tears pricking my eyes from the mix of pain and unwanted pleasure. The bouncer face-fucked me, his pubes grinding against my nose. 'Swallow it all, whore.' Cum filled my mouth, then my ass—Tony unloading deep, the warmth flooding me as I shuddered, my own dick leaking untouched.
But it was the group nights that broke something in me. Like the time at Vortex, where the owner, Marco, and his three investor pals cornered me after my set. I'd just finished a haunting ballad about home, the words tasting like lies now. They dragged me to the VIP lounge, the bass thumping through the walls. 'Strip, musician. Show us what a farm slut can do.' Clothes off, I stood there, cock twitching despite the humiliation churning in my stomach. They circled me like wolves. Marco went first, bending me over the table and eating my ass, tongue probing deep, making me gasp and push back involuntarily. 'Filthy boy, you love this.' Then the cocks came— one in my mouth, two hands jerking me off roughly, and Marco sliding into my hole, lubed with spit.
They rotated, using me like a ragdoll. One guy hoisted my legs up, pile-driving into me while another sucked my nipples, biting hard enough to bruise. Cum dripped from my lips as I blew the third, his load salty and thick. Emotions crashed over me—rage at my failed dreams, shame at how my body betrayed me, arching into their thrusts. 'Fuck, he's tight,' they laughed, slapping my ass red. Marco finished by pulling out and painting my chest, the hot jets mixing with sweat. I lay there, used, ass gaping and leaking, chest heaving. They tossed bills like confetti. 'Good show, whore. Sing again next week.' I curled up, silent sobs racking me. This wasn't the life I wanted. But the cash kept the lights on, and the stage... god, the stage was the only place I felt alive.
Music became my lifeline, twisted as it was. I'd scribble lyrics in the dim motel light, pouring out the ache—the exploitation, the identity fracturing. 'From fields to filth, I chase the sound, but end up on my knees, bound.' Drugs helped blur the edges. Pills from a dealer outside the club—ecstasy that made every touch electric, coke that numbed the regret. After a brutal gangbang at Pulse, where five managers took turns double-penetrating my ass, stretching me to the limit as I screamed around a cock in my throat, I popped a tab. The high washed over me, turning the soreness into a hazy glow. Cum oozed from my hole as I stumbled to the stage, voice raw but soaring. The crowd roared, oblivious to the white streaks drying on my thighs.
Nights blurred. A solo with Rico turned kinky—he tied my wrists with his belt, flogging my back lightly before fucking me slow, whispering degradations. 'You're no musician, just my personal fucktoy.' I came hands-free, shame flooding me as ropes shot onto the floor. Groups got dirtier: piss play once, a manager hosing my face after dumping in my mouth, the acrid stream mixing with cum. I gagged, but swallowed, the drugs making it surreal. Emotions warred inside—disgust at the mirror's reflection, a hollow-eyed jock with bruises and smeared makeup—but also a twisted escape. On stage, under the lights, I was alive, voice cracking with truth. Offstage, I was their bottom whore, taking load after load, body a vessel for their lust.
Deep down, I knew this disaster of a dream was killing me. Family calls went unanswered; the farm felt like another life. But the music... it kept me going. One more song, one more high, one more pounding that left me empty yet sated. I was lost in the city lights, chasing echoes of what could have been, one cum-soaked night at a time.
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