Cock-Sucker: Australian Rape

Editor's note: this story contains scenes of non-consensual or reluctant sex.

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AUSTRALIAN RAPE: TALES FROM THE BIKER BAR

by

TRISTAN TROTSKY

The Biker Bar is the kind of downtown low-life hang-out for all manner of deviant tastes. But when there's nowhere else to go, the Biker Bar is always a place of last resort.

Bikers and Truckers haul in off the freeway for cheap beer. There's a big old rusty sign outside swinging in the breeze that says 'Eats'. So they come in for that too, mostly burgers and pizza. There's a huge ancient chrome jukebox that thinks it's still in the fifties, it only plays sad Country music. In the melancholy smell of wistful ghosts and lost hopes, there are framed faded monochrome prints of baseball stars of yesteryear on the wall, as though the bar had once known better days, before sinking into neglect and disrepute. The street-whores sit in one corner, primping and preening, vying with each other to catch the attention of a potential Trick. They've got bills to pay. The guys eye them up, this one or that one? Maybe they'll make a choice and go across to negotiate a price. Maybe they'll just shrug and go back out to their trucks.

Then there are the cross-dressers, we sit at another table, bitching with each other, sipping drinks that we pretend are cocktails and telling each other outrageous giggly tales.

The toilet in the Biker Bar is best avoided, you risk your ass each time you dare visit. The wall of the cubicle is riddled with glory-holes at different levels, to suit different inclinations... and statures! I once found a young naked guy handcuffed to the wash-stand, such a pretty cock too. He seemed only mildly annoyed when I enquired 'was he alright, and was he consenting?' And he seemed even more put out by the fact that I didn't fuck him.

The street-whores are usually pretty good company, and only get jealous when you start seducing away their potential clients. There's an alley behind the Biker Bar where the street-whores take their tricks. There's a dirty mattress there that smells of piss and cum, but it protects their knees when they're sucking-off a client. Of course - the whores don't like it when faggots use the alley, giving away for free what the professional girls rely on to feed their narcotic habit or to pay their pimps. And I'm sometimes wary of using the alley because some of the guys get carried away, the pack-instinct kicks in, and instead of giving just one discreet blowjob you can find yourself with a line-up of angry cocks demanding your oral attention. And they won't take no for an answer.

The bar is near-deserted. Business is slow. I'm talking to my Gurl-friend Cheryl. 'But anyway, on this particular Saturday night, as a cross-dresser with nowhere else to take my pick-up, I'm on my knees on that mattress with his big demanding cock rammed down my gullet making me groan and slobber in cock-sucker's heaven. However - his hand starts into fumbling down the front of my crop-top as though he expects to find a pair of tits down there to play with, and it came to me... despite being dizzy and throat-fuck-drunk, with his fat balls crushed up against my chin, that he hadn't realized I was not a woman! He didn't yet know that he was face-fucking a queer! So I thought it was in my best interests to make him cum as quickly as I could before the truth dawns on him, because he might get nasty. So I start into moaning and sucking like a vacuum cleaner, squeezing his balls urging him on, he responds, holding my head firm and fucking my mouth faster and brutally hard. I was like a nerveless rag-doll by the time I felt his cock swelling and pulsing, then he's spewing spunk deep into the back of my throat, and I knew I was safe. He pulls out abruptly, spraying cum and saliva down my chin, he grunts, grips me by the throat and slides it all the way back in. He holds it there until I'm retching and choking, then draws out more slowly this time. He hesitates... then stuffs a £5 note down the front on my crop-top, zips up, turns and walks away, leaving me feeling deliciously used and confused. He'd obviously assumed I was simply a whore turning tricks. Which is quite amusing. But only £5 for a throat-fucking as intense as that? Is that all my blowjob skills are worth? What is a gurl to do...?'

'You brazen fag' says Cheryl with a rich throaty laugh, 'I'm so jealous now, do tell me more! Did you hang around in the Bar all dolled up, looking sooo sexy and available, just waiting for a stud to approach you? Did he offer to buy you a cocktail or only his cock, then take you out back to the alley? He probably thought the least he could do was pay for your smudged lipstick and the mascara running down your cheeks after he messed up your slutty face! How did you conceal the raging hard-on you had from being used so deliciously, or did you merely hope he wouldn't notice the 'tent' in your see-through panties? Some men just don't appreciate a talented cocksucker, dear, they're happy to drop their load in a willing mouth then get on with the rest of their business... but, we know that we pour our Sissy soul and passion into every blowjob we give, right?'

'Right.'

'I bashfully confess I took two spunk-loads last night' giggles Cheryl. 'You understand I'm only telling you this in absolute confidence? You... and no-one else. I was a little dizzy and confused. Two guys took me home and laid me on my back on the bed. I was a little tipsy. I thought they were merely being helpful and considerate. I wasn't even sure of their names. I was a trifle scared and unsure. They were big and rough (nice cocks, though...!). Refusal was not an option. Soon they were taking turns fucking my mouth, laughing and taunting about what a cheap fuck I was as I gurgled and slobbered. Have you ever had two eager cocks in your mouths at the same time? Then they got me to open my mouth wide as first one then the other jacked off long streaks of white cum over my face, into my mouth and over my tongue. I wasn't allowed to move, wipe myself or swallow... only lick and suck their messy cocks clean. They used their phones to take some photos of my cum-streaked face and my mouth full of jism. I managed to simper 'thank you, guys' prettily to them, before they zipped up and left, laughing to each other. Then I swallow... There were spunk-stains on my blouse...'

'OMG, that's so embarrassing Cheryl, but so hot at the same time. I mean, a good sissy is never fully dressed without a cum-moustache or a trickle of fresh spunk glistening across her slutty face... So you didn't even know them?'

I look across. 'See there, Cheryl? That's Mario. Mr Staglioni. He owns this place.'

She glances as I indicate. He's a middle-aged man who doesn't much bother to stay in shape. His grey hair thinning, more overweight than is healthy. Sweat-rings under his armpits and across his back. He wears an off-white apron smudged with food-stains. 'His wife is even more grotesque than he is, she's a dragon, if you get my meaning. She gave up on putting out when there was still black-and-white TV. So you know what he does...? He takes on effeminate young guys, Nancy-boy students or age-appropriate no-hopers as kitchen pot-boys or waiters, and coerces them into sex in the storeroom. He's been doing that a long long-awhiles. There was just one who refused to succumb to his entreaties. That was Emile, a petulant flaming fag who wore tight white Capri's and a pale-violet blouse tied across his stomach so you can see the dimple of his navel. He loved to tease and sashay between the tables, knowing he was desired, but never giving in to any of them. It just drove poor Mario crazy. He tried every devious technique that had yielded success with other boys. Accusing that he was slow, he'd dropped a plate or broken a glass - he must pay a forfeit. No, that didn't work. There's the offer of extra weekend hours, more pay... if you're nice to me? No, that didn't work either. He was drooling with frustration.

Until one of the Bikers takes him aside and tells him about this thing he calls 'Australian Rape'. No - it's not actual rape. No-one gets hurt. A little shook-up maybe, but not actual hurt. Yet it's the kind of duplicitous game that might just result in success? At first Mario is dubious. But he was desperate. Emile was so sweetly tempting. And eventually he agrees to the fee the Biker was asking.

He awaits his moment. Bides his time. Then he says, 'hey, Emile, take these two coffees to-go to the pick-up truck parked outside, will you?' Emile flounces, tosses his head, takes a coffee-beaker in each hand, and undulates through the bar, and out the door. He looks around, there's the back-road which twists up towards the freeway, there's some old warehouses and tenements across the way, but the rusted pick-up is snuck in around the corner, off the forecourt where tall sickly yellow weeds are bursting and wilting up through the cracks in the cracked concrete, pulled into the mouth of the alley. He tut-tuts his annoyance, and minces around the front of the Bar to where the truck is idling. Two sleazy-looking guys sit inside. A couple of Bikers are slouching around watching.

He gets to the pick-up, taps his heel impatiently. They lower the side-window, and indicate for him to pass the coffees through. He leans forward, his head through the window as he pushes the two coffees towards the men inside. The near-side guy laughs as he hits the control, and the window begins to raise. Startled, Emile pulls backwards, spilling the hot coffees, but they're too quick, the window rises beneath his chin, trapping his head there. He pulls and howls, but he's stuck there ludicrously with his head pinned inside the cab, and his body outside.

They're hooting their laughter as the two sleazy-looking guys climb down from the driver's side and circle around, to where the Bikers are starting to assemble, as though curious to see what's going on. Emile is wriggling and straining, but can't get free. His protests turning to sobs, entreaties and whimpers. The two men fold their arms and watch him, smirking. 'Well, what've we got here? Looks like we've hooked ourselves a faggot.'

One of the two paces slow, with deliberate menace, tugs at Emile's blouse, it bunches up in his fist, the seams fraying, he pulls hard and it comes loose around his arms and shoulders, then wrenches again and it comes free like a rag. Emile gasps in surprised shock - 'No, No, please.' The other man turns his attention to the fastening on the tight white Capri's. Emile is wriggling, which only seems to amuse and arouse them more. He tugs the Capri's impatiently down to the boy's knees, ripping the fastening in his eagerness. Emile wears tight sheer panties beneath. They start whistling their appreciation, before the panties are pulled down in one swift movement, and off. Emile's bare bottom is peach-round and curvaceously smooth, his cock - more generous than might be expected, flicks and bounces free in a modestly manicured nest of coy pubic hair, whispily snug around two tight oval testicles.

'We're gonna have some fun with this little faggot' leers the Pick-up guy, running his hand down the sensual curve of Emile's bottom, his finger tracing the cleavage, down between his legs, to cup, fondle and squeeze the dangling balls, 'Yes, indeedy.' The other Pick-up guy is unfastening the belt of his pants as the Bikers move in, forming a predatory circle around the trapped victim, some of them already rubbing their crotches in lascivious anticipation. Emile is able to screw his terrified face around sufficient to watch the imminent gang-bang assemble. His pants down around his knees the first Pick-up guy hefts a large angry erection as he shuffles in behind a sobbing Emile, spitting down on it, massaging the crude lubrication up and down the full length of the menacing shaft with his fist... while roughly forcing the youth's legs apart with his knees.

It's at this moment - as prearranged, that Mario emerges from the front of the Biker Bar, brandishing his sweeping broom. 'Hey! What the hell you doing to my boy?' He bustles across the intervening space waving the broom like a weapon. 'Leave that boy alone.' The Bikers, with their flies open and cocks hung out ready, move aside warily. The Pick-up guy halts, the bloated arrowhead of his eager cock a single inch from Emile's vulnerable butt-hole, and he looks up at the intrusion. 'What the hell's it got to do with you?'

Mario takes a swing at him. The Pick-up guy ducks and backs away. For a moment there's a tense stand-off. He counts to ten inside his head. Then, with a slack goofy grin at his companion the Pick-up guy retreats, they climb back into the truck - lower the window enough for Emile to pull his head free and fall into a naked pile onto the warm flaky concrete. They rev up, the wheels screech, and they pull away onto the back road, accelerating away. The Bikers also melt away one by one. Mario stoops and helps the distressed Emile to his feet, taking off his jacket and draping it around his frail naked shoulders, then supporting him back towards the Bar. Emile broke the heel of his shoe during his frantic struggles, so his feet go pad-pad-pad as his cock bobs and sways prettily as he limps.

'Oh thank you, Mr Staglioni, thank you' he sobs as he leans in closer 'you are my hero. You saved me from those horrible men. I am so so very grateful to you.' In through the door there are whoops and wolf-whistles as Mario helps the nude Emile through to the serving hatch and then back into the storeroom to the rear. Solicitously he helps the boy to sit, massages the aching stiffness in his neck, than slumps in close beside him, a comforting arm around his shoulder. Emile nuzzles in closer. 'I feel safe with you.' 'Shhh' whispers Mario, his hand running up and down the boy's thigh reassuringly, 'take your time. I'm here.' For a moment - as Mario's fingers curl around Emile's penis, there's a startled expression on his tear-streaked face, then he relaxes in the soothing warmth of his caress and allows the older man his way. His breathing settles in rhythms to Mario's masturbatory attentions, stiffening and firming in response, the head of his cock glistening and blushing above Mario's beating fist, the single mouth winking. 'Oh, Mr Staglioni. You saved me, I'm so grateful' he whispers huskily, nuzzling into the man's neck, then up against his chest where he can hear the solid beating of the older man's heart. With his free hand Mario unzips and draws his own fat cock out as Emile's head descends into his lap, showing his gratitude in the most obvious and intimate way he knows. His lips slip moistly over the bulb of the musky cockhead and he sucks it gently into the tight wet warmth of his mouth.

Mario grunts with satisfaction as his cock hits the back of the boy's throat. That money he was paying the Pick-up guys was well-spent. Emile gasps as his cock throbs and jerks in Mario's grasp, spurting delicate jets of white spunk across his fingers. Mario smoothes the liquid around the glans of the youth's pulsing cock, as Emile's passionate cock-sucking intensifies towards his own imminent climax...'

'He never suspected it was all a set-up? And they lived happily ever after?' sniggers Cheryl.

'Yes. There was regular sex between Mario and the besotted hero-worshipping Emile after that. Emile took every opportunity to express his gratitude to the man who had so valiantly rescued him.'

'I do like a story with a happy ending...'

It's fun Cheryl...? You don't know the half!

BY TRISTAN TROTSKY