Tom Collins shivered, wrapping his arms around himself against the cool, damp, October air. He was standing outside a gay nightclub that had been recommended to him by a friend, trying to convince himself to go in. Collins was no stranger to gay clubs – he'd been frequenting them from the time he came out two years ago. This club, however, was different. Here, or so his friend had told him, the dancers could be paid extra to do whatever you wanted in the back room. Collins had never paid for sex before, had never needed to, but something about this place had intrigued him, which is why he now found himself standing outside, watching other men enter as he tried to come to his own decision.
Collins shifted from one foot to the other nervously, as he watched the crowd thin out around him. The show inside had started and the bouncer by the door was starting to look at him strangely. Collins knew he needed to either go in or go away. Peering into the club as the door was held open for someone to enter, Collins looked at the men on stage. He was immediately struck by how dead they seemed. Sure, they had smiles on their faces and were moving in a way that would make any man sweat, but to Collins, there was something beneath that. Something he couldn't quite put his finger on, but that told him this was a bad idea, that he didn't want anything to do with this.
Collins quickly turned away from the door, stepping farther down the sidewalk, and pulled a joint out of his pocket, lighting it and taking a long drag. He suddenly couldn't believe what he had been contemplating: paying a man to perform sex acts on him. He'd have been no better than a common John. Worse, even, and the thought made his stomach turn. Why was he here? He didn't need to come to a place like this for sex. Taking a last drag and tossing his joint to the ground, crushing it under his foot, Collins stuffed his hands deep into his pockets and began heading for home.
Before he could even take a step, someone tapped his shoulder from behind and he jumped, startled, whirling to see who it was. He found himself facing three men, no taller than he was, but all very muscular. Collins looked at them questioningly, and the man who had tapped him, a black man with a shaved head, wearing a leather jacket and baggy jeans, smirked at him before speaking.
"Been watching you standing there," he began, in a surprisingly deep voice, "Look like you're looking for a good time."
The other two men, both white, with shaved heads and wearing similar clothes to the first, nodded at their friend's comment, leering at Collins, and his eyes darted nervously between the three.
"No," he mumbled, wanting to get away from them as fast as possible, "Was just… waiting for someone. Going… going home now." His breath hitched as he spoke and he turned away from the three men, crossing the street and moving rapidly toward his apartment, not looking back.
Collins hadn't made it two blocks when he was spun around and slammed into the wall. One of the white men, who Collins could now see had crystal clear blue eyes, now had him pinned, his forearm pressed against Collins' collarbone. The man sneered at him, and Collins' heart raced, the anxiety he had been feeling a moment earlier now replaced with panic.
"That wasn't a question," the black man growled, advancing on Collins as he spoke.
Realizing their intent, Collins lashed out, fist contacting with the black man's chin, knee finding the groin of the man holding him. When the blue-eyed man released him, doubling over in pain, Collins took his chance and ran, as fast as he could. He could hear footsteps pounding on the pavement behind him, but didn't dare look. He assumed it was the third man, and just kept moving, running even faster. His lungs were burning and he could barely breathe, but he would not stop.
Before he knew what was happening, Collins was on the ground. The man kicked him hard in the stomach, and all the air left his lungs in a rush. Unable to inhale, Collins turned onto his stomach, trying to stand, to get away, but the foot connected with his ribs, flattening him. Tears streamed down Collins' face as he tried to breathe, searing pain coming from his side, eyes squeezed shut. Rolling onto his back, he raised his arms, trying to ward off the next blow, but it never came.
Opening his eyes, Collins found himself face to face with the black man, who was now bending over him, face just inches from Collins'. He could smell the alcohol on his breath, see the trail of blood coming from his lips, and, worst of all, he could see the rage in his eyes.
"Bad idea, bitch," he said through clenched teeth, wiping the blood from his lips and smearing it onto Collins' shirt. Nodding to the two white men, he said, "Pick him up. And don't hit him no more. It's no fun if he's unconscious."
Breath coming in ragged gasps, Collins felt himself being lifted off of the ground and dragged to the far end of an alley. He struggled against the men holding him, but they were far stronger than he was and his efforts only wore him out. Collins was moved behind a dumpster, and, glancing around, he could tell that no one would be able to see him. His only chance would be to yell.
Taking a deep breath, Collins opened his mouth to cry for help, but was backhanded by the blue-eyed man before he could make a sound.
"Don't even think about it," he hissed, shoving Collins forward toward where the black man was now leaning against the wall of the building. Collins staggered, nearly falling, but managed to keep himself upright, hand immediately going to his cheek. He winced as his fingers grazed the now-forming lump there, and looked up at the man in front of him with fear in his eyes.
"Get on your knees."
Collins' eyes widened. He couldn't believe this was happening. The man in front of him looked so casual, a complete contrast to what he was about to do. Behind him, the others were effectively blocking any escape. There was no where for Collins to run. All he could do was shake his head.
Pain erupted in his legs as one of the men slammed his foot into the back of Collins' knees. He crumpled, crying out as his knees hit the ground, hands scraping against the concrete. Quickly, his hands were wrenched behind his back and he gasped as his shoulders were twisted at an awkward angle.
The black man knelt down beside him, his face dangerously close to Collins', and whispered in his ear.
"You just don't get that I'm not asking." Pulling back a little, he opened his jacket slightly, showing Collins the gun that was tucked into his pants. Collins' inhaled sharply, unable to tear his eyes off of it. "Now," the man continued, "I'm gonna take out my cock, and you're gonna suck it. Got that? And if you even try to use your teeth, I'll kill you." He put his hand on the gun for emphasis.
Collins nodded almost imperceptibly, eyes never wavering from the gun. The man stood up, removing the gun from his belt and placing it in the pocket of his jacket, and Collins could only watch as he unzipped his pants and let them fall to his ankles. The man holding his arms pushed him forward, and Collins turned his head, shuddering as his cheek rubbed against the thick, black member.
Furious, the black man pulled the gun from his pocket and aimed it a Collins. "Do it!" he yelled, grabbing Collins' head and pulling him forward again. Panicking at the sight of the gun, Collins opened his mouth and allowed the cock to be thrust in. He winced at the sour taste, choking and sputtering as it was pushed deep into his throat.
The gun was placed back into the jacket pocket, and Collins heard a moan from above him. Hands held firmly to the back of his head, keeping him immobile as the man jerked his hips forward.
"That's it, bitch," he heard the man say. Collins kept his eyes squeezed shut tightly, trying to imagine that he was anywhere else but there as his attacker quickened his pace, moving steadily toward his orgasm.
Suddenly, the man tensed, thrusting his cock hard into his mouth, holding his head against him as he exploded into the back of Collins' throat. Collins gagged, unable to breathe around the cock, choking on the hot liquid.
"Swallow it, slut," he was commanded. He tried, tried swallowing, swallowed as much as he could, fighting back the bile rising in his throat. Finally, he was released, and he fell forward, leaning on his hands as he coughed and gasped. Behind him, he could hear the sounds of belt buckles being undone and shuddered. He couldn't do that again.
Collins was soon aware that he wouldn't have to do it again, but the realization of what he would have to do was even worse. He watched in horror, unable to do anything to stop them, as the two white men began tearing off his clothes. Once he was naked, Collins suddenly snapped back to reality and tried to move away from them, but he still had nowhere to go. He backed himself up against the wall, pulling his knees to his chest and begging them to just leave him alone.
"I don't think so, boy," growled Blue-Eyes, "I ain't had my fun yet. And I ain't leaving 'til I do." With that, the men forced Collins onto his hands and knees. He tried to fight back, but was too weak, and he found himself on all fours, a white cock in front of his face, its owner standing on his hands so he couldn't move away.
He heard a movement behind him, but before he could look back, a white-hot pain seared through him as Blue-Eyes entered him. Stars swam before Collins' eyes; he couldn't cry out, couldn't make a sound. Tears streamed down his face, but the man didn't give him any time to recover. He set up a punishing pace, and soon Collins' voice came back to him, came in the form of a howl of agony that tore itself from his throat.
His cry was cut off by a long, white cock being pushed into his mouth. He gasped around it, shaking his head from side to side, but he was held in place by a hand on his head.
Collins didn't know how long it went on. All he knew was the pain. He felt a warmth spread through him as Blue-Eyes came and he sobbed around the cock in his mouth. The man in front of him came shortly after, and Collins swallowed as best he could, praying that this was the end as the man zipped his pants and moved away.
Nothing happened for what seemed like an eternity, until he heard someone speak.
"That's a nice ass, right there," was whispered, loud enough for Collins to hear, and he cringed, whimpering and trying to crawl away from the attack he knew was about to come.
Grabbing him by the hips, the black man stopped him from moving and thrust roughly into him. Collins cried out in pain. His arms gave out on him and he collapsed forward, unable to do anything but sob as he was used. Waves of pain crashed over him and he teetered on the edge of unconsciousness, wishing the blackness would overtake him.
Moments later, Collins found himself lying on his side, watching as the men walked away from him. His body was numb and his throat raw from screaming. Curling himself into a ball, arms wrapped tightly around himself, he closed his eyes and rocked. He stayed in that position, his only movement the gentle rocking, until he felt the morning sun on his face. Opening his eyes, he squinted against the light, finally uncurling his body. He winced as he moved, gently putting his scattered clothes back on.
As Collins struggled to stand, he made a decision. No one would know that this had happened. Ever. He would push it from his mind and never speak a word of it to anyone. Satisfied with his decision, he stumbled out of the alley and onto the busy New York sidewalk.