The Stranger: Chapter 1

The slim youngster stood confidently in the doorway of the dingy backstreet club and emptied out his pockets for the grim-faced guy in the cloakroom. A jangling bunch of keys, his iPhone, that old pigskin wallet his dad had given him - and one or two meaningless trinkets.

He stacked the items randomly in his backpack, wincing for a second at the waft of sweaty socks and underwear from yesterday's workout.

It was the same process every Friday. Finish work at nine, grab a bite to eat, hop on the tube and then take the long route from the station to the club. He'd been coming here for more than a year now.

He scrutinised the cloakroom guy’s neck as he hung the long cashmere coat and momentarily wondered how many men had gazed at it while fucking that misshapen arse. Reaching deep into his pocket for some coins he felt the familiar hard cock pushing aggressively upward. The night had already begun.

To be truthful, the cock had been hard all day. Amidst the drudgery of work all the boy could imagine were the indignities he would suffer later in the downstairs club. He knew when he finally got to unload he'd be able to knock a beer can off a fence at ten paces. Pity anyone who was in the way.

Taking hold of the dog-eared cloakroom ticket the young man pushed open the large red padded door and walked along a dark corridor. As always the sleazy old club reeked of mould and stale beer, and somewhere below his feet some sad fucking DJ was pumping unmemorable 90’s tunes through battered speakers. No matter which way he looked at it, the lad figured the place was the clubbing equivalent of Blackburn Rovers. He compared everything to football teams and right at the moment Blackburn Rovers was bottom of the pile.

“How many guys have walked along here ready for their first bit of cock” he mused. And more important, “walked back out again with their first shag.” He could almost hear the popping of young cherries over the thump of the music.

“Fuck, my head rambles too much” he muttered, descending the creaking stairs to the sound of Backstreet Boys. What a dump. Still, the place was on his way home, and a couple of hours there was healthier than watching X-Factor. Another shite weekend stuck in the bowels of Manchester.

The pumping grew louder as he entered the “dungeon”, an old storage basement roughly tarted up to look like a club. Then came the ritual. The lad wandered through the thick heat of the club, laser lights dancing off bald heads and naked torsos, desperate men sitting around conspicuously rubbing their bulges and eyeing up anything that moved.

Blackburn Rovers suddenly seemed a promising team.

Straight to the bar and avoiding eye contact with the crowd, the lad ordered his signature Southern Comfort and Cointreau. The barman, hardly any older than the boy, smiled broadly, stammered “hello James” and flashed a look that screamed “Christ I fancy the fuck out of you!”

Of course he fancied him. James was the hottest cut of meat in the club. And anyone in the place could have him, except the barman, who was stuck behind the pumps, forced to satisfy himself with a quick wank into the spill tray while he watched James getting off with other men.

The barman had moaned to his manager only the previous week about the situation.

“It’s not fair. It’s just not fucking fair” he complained. “This guy is like, perfect and I can’t get his attention. It’s driving me insane” 
The manager grinned and gently teased the barboy’s testicles.

“Poor little pup. You’ll get him one day.”

It was worse than that. The barman was obsessed. It wasn't cool to admit it, but he was probably in love.

James had that effect on people. Physically, he was short. Well, compact, as he liked to describe it, and naturally muscular. And although you could never describe him as classically beautiful, he had the sort of face that made people stop in the street. At only 19 he carried a rare air of confidence. He was polite, gently spoken, fiercely intelligent and constantly randy.

But James was an enigma. He could probably get almost anyone he wanted, yet here he was in a fifth rate pick-up joint making out with everyone and anyone.

Truth was that James enjoyed this scene. He loved the certainty of the outcome. He adored his ability to make men drool with excitement. He rarely spoke, preferring to stand almost motionless in the darkroom as the hordes of flesh feasted off him.

And the ritual - he loved the ritual. He’d been standing at the bar for ten minutes now pretending not to notice the dozen pairs of eyes that had been fixed impatiently on him all this time. With every sip those eyes became more anxious for what was to come next. The ritual was set in stone. As he took his last long mouthful the men would stream into the darkroom and take their positions, jostling for the corner spot where they knew the boy would go.

“Wish me luck” he whispered to the barman, handing back his glass. The boy stared back at him all too aware that luck was the last thing he required. Then as always, he slowly licked the rim of the glass and prepared to unload into the spill tray.

The darkroom was heaving, and heavy with sweat and testosterone. The lad passed through the crowd and felt hands wandering over his body. He positioned himself in the familiar damp corner between a half dozen men and prepared for the onslaught.

So many sensations… so many arms and hands and lips. That familiar feeling of his belt being unbuckled and his jeans pulled down. A tongue roughly pushed between his arse cheeks, two mouths on his iron-stiff cock, his balls tenderly licked while he took turns to kiss whatever face loomed close. His puppy-dog eyes closed as he went deeper into the sensation. Tongues and lips worked on every piece of his flesh – thighs, nipples, tummy. Every so often he felt a gush of warm fluid on his muscular legs.

Soon it would be time to choose. That was the best part of the ritual. Which man would be select to fuck his arse? The men knew this moment was non-negotiable, and only one would have the privilege. The decision was made on a whim: a sad look, a defiant stare, a gentle word. There was no predicting it.

He looked around the thick gloom and tried to scrutinise shapes and faces. He was peaking now and could feel his balls tightening. Time for a decision so he could unload.

Between the excited bodies he could just make out the entrance to the club and the red and blue flashing of the dance-floor beyond. Something caught his eye.  In the aperture was a silhouette in a shape he hadn’t seen here before. A tall, broad figure that stood motionless against the dancing lights.

James was fixated by this figure. Its behaviour was abnormal. 
Within a minute the shape started to move slowly toward him through the crowd, confidently pushing aside the jostling bodies until the dark face loomed close above his. It spoke in a deep commanding tone.

“Come with me. You know you can do so much better than this”. 
The shaped stared to the left and right at the disgruntled crowd. 
“Come on. It’s time”.

The man turned and moved out of the room, leaving James totally bewildered. His instinct was to finish this ritual. Get a cock to replace the tongue that was working its way deeper and deeper inside him and then shoot into the anonymous mouth that had been working on him.

But that all seemed so boring now. Who was this man? There was something about him that excited James even more than the endless tongues and the thick hot juices that were already coursing down his thighs.

It had to be done. He had to leave the darkroom and meet this stranger. But why rush. This was James' territory. He'd make the man wait a while.

After a few calculated minutes he pushed aside his masturbating fans and hitched up his jeans. “This fucking erection’s not going to go down for a week” he mused. Truth was he was terrified. He hadn’t felt like this since his first darkroom experience.

But the man was nowhere to be seen. “He was here for a few minutes then left. You just missed him” said the barboy.

James never returned to the darkroom that night, deciding instead to race up to the exit in the hope of finding the elusive stranger. No such luck. He wandered home, stopping along the way to saturate the trunk of a small tree with his cum.