The Winner: Part Twenty-One

Alley Cat’s used to have one of the biggest xxx movie arcades in the country (or so its sign proclaimed). Aisles upon aisles of video booths for dudes to spank the monkey in. Most of the booths have been removed and in their place a bunch of cheaply built particle board rooms are in their place. One aisle of booths remain, but the TV’s have all been taken out. The sign above them says “Holes of Glory”. Out of one stumbles some fortyish, balding guy wearing a halter top and shorts so high you can see tufts of ass hair growing out the sides. He wipes his thick mustache with the back of his forearm, then gives me a coy grin. I shudder in disgust.

My expression must have registered with him since he flips his wrist at me and mutters “Bitch,” at me in a voice that’s way too high and squeaky. Those shorts must be cutting off the circulation to his balls to make him talk that way.

I take one more step and my foot slides out from under me. I catch myself with my hand before I fall completely to the ground and am disgusted with how sticky the floor is. I look on the bottom of my shoe and see that I slipped on a used condom, covered in fresh semen and dark flecks that look suspiciously like fecal matter. I drop it and wipe my hands off on my pants. The floor is littered with them, and I’m careful not to step on any more as make my way across the room. Used amyl-nitrate poppers crunch under my shoes like hoarfrost. The atmosphere is a humid cauldron of hormones, lubricant, pine-cleaner, and shit. It makes me gag just a little.

I used to think fondly of this place where I must have milked a gallon of jizz out of my dick to the movies of whatever porn-star was hot at the moment. Now, this is taking me to a bad place. I think I’m suffering from PTSD. Sure, I’m unfortunately not a stranger to man-on-man sex, but that was when I was in jail. I hadn’t had sex with a woman in literally months and had to get my rocks off somehow. Plus, the experience of being turned out into a prison bitch must have been much more traumatic than I remembered.

Maybe Chad Van Hertzwelder knew that this is what life would be like after being turned out. Maybe he was right to rip through his skin, veins, and tendons with his own teeth rather than live like this. That, or maybe it was wrong for me to have turned him out in the first place. But I shunt that thought to the back of my mind. Now is no time to think of my moral culpability in my situation. I had things I needed to do.

I look around, trying to ignore the distinctly male grunting all around me with the occasional moan of “Pound my ass hard, fucker!” and look for a fire-exit. There had to be one here. All this shit going on here had to be crazy illegal. They had to have a way to escape if the cops came to raid this place. I glance around, trying not to make eye-contact with anyone and see a door with an exit sign above it. I start going as fast as I can while avoiding the used condoms on the floor at the same time.

Just then, I hear the jarring buzz of the entrance to the Man Hole being unlocked. I turn around and see the goatee guy walking inside. Our eyes meet, and this time, he doesn’t turn away. He wants me to know I’m being followed. Burke’s men are right on me today. Maybe they know about the FBI meeting? Shit! There’s gotta be some way to I can throw him off here.

I turn around and look for the first room I can duck into. None of them have doors on them though. Maybe I can pretend like I’m there to screw guys and goatee guy will go away long enough for me to slip away. I just need a little time to think of something.

“Oh hey boys, looks like we got a new playmate today…”

I turn around and there’s three other men packed into one of these small rooms. They are all dressed up like the fucking biker from the Village People. There’s a fourth, hanging naked from the ceiling from some nylon sling with a ball-gag in his mouth. His hands are chained to the straps, and smaller chains are pulling on his nipple rings so hard it looks like they are gonna be yanked out. Another cord from the ceiling is tied around his balls, yanking them upwards so hard they were turning purple from lack of circulation. Whatever these fags were into, it was some hardcore S&M shit for sure.

“Hi,” I stutter. “Can I hang out here for bit? Is that okay?”

“No one gets to watch for free,” the biggest biker dude says in his girly voice. He gets so close to me that the brim of his leather captain’s hat touches my forehead. “You gotta participate if you’re gonna be in here.”

I glance over my shoulder. Goatee guy is just outside the room, fending off some queer in a leather thong whose trying to grab at his balls. He’s positioned himself so he can see me inside the room. Dammit, it’s fight or fuck time. I look back at the biker guy.

“Umm, okay. I’ll participate.”

He give off a great big smile, showing a mouth full of chipped teeth under his thick mustache. “Terrific! You can be the gimp!”

Before I can even ask what being “the gimp” entails here, he’s got a leather S&M mask over my head. I start to spit out, “What the fuh…” when he zips the mouth hole shut, muffling my protest. He pats me on my now leather clad cheek and says, “Stay here, we’ll be back to you shortly.”

I do as he says and stay with my back against the flimsy wall of this room. I turn again and still see goatee guy outside the room. He’s talking to someone on his cell phone. He looks to be a medium build and someone who could hold his own in a fight. I might be able to knock him down if I can get a sucker punch in, and that’s exactly what I plan to do if being the gimp means I gotta get buttfucked by these leather bound, macho HIV factories.

The leather biker who stuffed the mask on my face goes back over the man swinging from the ceiling. “Did you hear that? We got a new bitch to punish you. You’ve been a bad bitch, and you’re gonna get it real bad from him.”

After issuing his ridiculous threats, the leather gets on his knees and starts licking the swinging guy’s butthole. I really wish I wasn’t watching this. In the meantime, one of his buddies comes over to me with something under his arm.

“Time for you to get greased up,” he says. He plops a big tub of Crisco into my hands. “Oh, and undo your cufflinks and do your whole arm. Bitch-boy here likes it elbow-deep.”

It takes me a second before I realize what they want me to do. I unzip the mouth hole on the mask. “You’ve gotta be kidding me. I’ve never done this before. Will it even fit?” I say, even though I’ve seen enough video-clips on the internet to know that, yes, it will fit.

“Well, you either do this or you get out. Your choice.”

Goatee guy is still watching me from outside the room with his cell phone glued to his ear. I have to go through with it or else my whole plan is blown, so I take off my Rolex, stick it in my pocket, and then start to roll up my shirtsleeve. All in all, I guess this beats being gang raped by these faggots. I peel the lid off the tub of Crisco and start slathering it all over my hand and up and down my forearm. I try not to think of when my mother used this stuff to keep cookies from sticking on the pan.

The swinging bitch-boy is moaning with pleasure through his ball-gag as the leather biker tosses his salad. Once my arm is all greased up, he looks up, and mutters, “Now yer gonna get it. This is what ya really want, ain’t it?” He gets up and looks over at me. “On yer knees gimp. Give it to him.”

I get positioned so I’m almost eye level with bitch-boy’s hairy butthole. I take my Crisco slicked hand, make it into a fist and give him a good punch in the ass. My hand doesn’t go in. Instead, bitch-boy grunts through his gag as the momentum tugs at the chains on his nipples and around his balls.

“Dammit, gimp! That’s not how you do it!”

“Give me a fucking break! I told you, I’ve never fisted anyone before.”

The guy who gave me the Crisco comes over. “Look, just stick one finger at a time in there. Once they’re all inside, then your hand will naturally curl up into a fist.”

I sigh. “Okay, take two…” I stick my index finger in bitch-boy’s butt, then my middle and so forth. One finger at a time, it all seems to go in quite easily. This may be my first time fisting, but this obviously wasn’t bitch-boy’s first time being fisted. His distended butt hole spread open quite easily. Before I know it, my whole hand up to my wrist has been swallowed up this guy’s sphincter.

“Now go slow. Move your arm back and forth and slowly go deeper.”

It feels disgustingly mushy in there. I slowly start to go deeper in there. My knuckles rub up against the ring shaped muscle that leads into the lower intestine, but it quickly loosens and my hand slides farther in. The side of my hand is rubbing against something hard, probably his pelvic bone. I’m glad I have this mask on, so the leather bikers can’t see the disgusted grimace I have in my face.

“You like that bitch, don’t’cha? Don’t’cha?” the first leather man coos in bitch-boy’s ear. He lets off an anguished grunt of agreement through the gag. “Give him some more, gimp! Don’t stop till yer up to your armpit!”

I’m already close to vomiting and my arm is only mid-forearm deep into this sicko’s anus. I keep pressing and feel something soft streaming over my fingers as I go deeper. I get even sicker when I realize it’s bitch-boy’s undigested shit I’m packing into the back on his lower intestine. Jesus Christ, how can doing this not completely fuck up a person’s digestive tract for life?

Bitch-boy is squirming all around and I can’t tell if he’s in massive pain or if he’s getting off on this (I suspect it’s a little of both). “Deeper…deeper…” the leathermen chant as I work my arm up his ass. I hit a knot which must be the point where bitch-boy’s large intestine ends and his small intestine begins. My elbow gets swallowed up by his anus without too much pressure. Goddamn, this guys butthole must be more stretched out than the fucking Goatse man’s.

My arm is so deep in there I can’t keep my balance anymore. I stumble forward before I can get a knee under me and bitch-boy grunts in surprise I slide further inside him. His butthole is tightens around my bicep in twitches. It’s almost like I’ve got my arm in one of those blood pressure cuffs they have at the drugstore.

“Yeah bitch,” the leathermen lisp. “You like it deep like that, dontcha?”

Though I’m sure this has to hurt worse for him, I can’t say that fisting is particularly pleasant for me either. Fuck…it’s creepy to have your arm up another man’s guts. Even if I wanted to go deeper I couldn’t since the angle my arm is at, bitch-boy’s pelvic bone is blocking my elbow from going any further. The shit smell is horrible and I turn my face away in disgust. From the way my head is turned, I can get a look at the door. Goatee guy is still watching, but his expression has turned from cool and disinterested to visibly disgusted. If it looks that bad watching, just think what it’s like actually doing this shit…

Bitch-boy is flailing his head in ecstacy. I can’t fathom how this can feel good to anyone. One of the leathermen comes behind me and touches my shoulder. “Alright gimp, that’s enough. Time to give another one of us a chance to mine in this sweet little ass.”

Thank god! I start the process of trying to extricate my arm from this guy’s butt. It’s not coming though. Oh shit. I’m stuck. My elbow is caught up on some ridge of pelvic bone. This is a rather embarrassing way for my plans to all go to shit. God help me if they have to call a doctor to get my arm removed.

“I’m stuck,” I say. The leathermen don’t hear me, so I repeat. Finally one hears me and kneels down to instruct me.

“Just keep working it out. Just be sure not to go too fast. There’s no rush.”

Great advice you sick fucking homo. I keep doing as he says, but my arm hasn’t slid out even an inch. I try wiggling my fingers, but that does nothing to loosen things up. I get off my knees and get my feet under me so I’m squatting. I start to pivot my shoulders and I can feel my arm coming out little by little. There must be a ton of suction up in there. There’s a horrible splorting noise just to get about four inches of arm out.

Goatee guy is still watching, disgusted. This is great. I go through all this disgusting weird sex acts and I couldn’t even shake my tail. I guess I’m gonna have to go with plan B and try and get the jump on him…

“Come on, nice and easy does it.” The leatherman comes behind me and grips my bicep, trying to help me wiggle my arm out of bitch-boy’s ass. Unfortunately, this has the effect of throwing off my balance. I almost catch myself, but my shoe lands in a dab of Crisco that’s on the floor and fall backwards all the way onto my butt, hitting my head against the bed with rubber sheets that’s been bolted to the corner. I black out for a moment, but shake off the stars soon enough. The leathermen are in a frenzy, mincing around the small bathhouse room in a panic.

“Ohmygod, Sean…. SOMEBODY CALL AND AMBULANCE NOW!”

The good news is my arm is now free of bitch-boy’s guts. The bad news is that his rectum prolapsed in the process and about three feet of his lower intestine are now hanging out of him, all still attached to my arm like a sock. Bitch-boy is flailing all around in his leather swing in great pain. There’s a ploink as one of the chains attached to his nipple rings pulls free from his chest, a little chunk of pink meat still attached.

“WE NEED A DOCTOR! OH PLEASE SOMEBODY CALL A DOCTOR NOW!”

I start to panic when I see the length of prolapsed intestine hanging on my arm. The purple veins on it are beginning to break and blood is seeping out and turning bright red when it hits the air. With my free hand, I start to peel it off, inside-out. It feels like a fucking sausage casing. I finally remove it completely. My arm is covered in a slime of shit, blood, and Crisco.

The leathermen are so wrapped up in their panic over their “bitch” that they forget me for a moment. The other people in the bathhouse are coming to the door to see what the commotion is. Through them, I see my goateed surveillance finally start to lose his lunch. He cups his mouth trying to hold it in and rushes off. Through all the yelling, I think I hear the buzzing and clicking of the latch of the bathhouse being opened. That’s probably him. Thank providence, here’s my chance to get away…

I stand up and almost pass out again from a rush of blood to the head. Once I’ve finally get my senses back, I turn and head towards the door of the room. One of the leathermen grabs my shoulder roughly, trying to stop me.

“Where do you think you’re…”

I stick my blood and shit slimed hand in his face and rub the mixture all over. This makes him gag and loosen his grip on my shoulder. I push my way through the crowd of concerned faggots congregating there. I look around quickly and don’t see goatee guy there at all. With any luck he’s doing exactly what I think he’s doing and blowing chunks all over the sidewalk out front.

I spot the fire exit door in the back and literally charge it. I bust out into the alleyway and sunlight and fresh air and almost trip over some wino sprawled out next to a dumpster. There’s no time to even be traumatized by all that has just happened. I only have thirty minutes to get across town to meet with the FBI.